Seadrift

By Kristy Tate

Laguna Beach, a place of perpetual blue summer skies, artist enclaves, and lazy sandy shores, has another side fused with scandal, the counterculture and something called Orange Sunshine.
Life is looking up for Maisie Trent. Since the exciting, handsome, and wealthy Paul Leon wandered into her aunt's antique shop and swept her off her feet, she is taking her life off hold. No more marking time while dabbling in the history she's writing about Laguna Beach. 

But when Maisie tries to help a local homeless man, she uncovers a deadly string of events hidden beneath Laguna Beach's cheerful surface. And someone will kill to keep those secrets buried in the sand.
Fans of Susanna Kearsley and Lauren Willig who love mystery and history tied up with a dollop of clean and wholesome romance will love this new adult novel by USA Today bestselling author, Kristy Tate.
For a trip to the sunny beaches of Southern California and a sneak peek at the underbelly of one of the nation's most exclusive zip-codes, buy Seadrift today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristy Tate
• Release date: Apr 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386356660

Kristy Tate

Dr. Seuss was my first love. When my mom left me in the children’s section of the library I’d find Horton and the Cat. My mom hated the good doctor and refused to checkout his books. He was my secret, guilty pleasure. Eventually, I read about Narnia, Oz and Green Gables.When my mom grew too sick to visit the library, a friend brought her a stash of romances which she kept in a big box beside her bed. Weekly, this good friend replenished the box. My mom didn’t know I read her books; it was like the Seuss affair, only sexier. Reading became my escape from a horrific and scary situation. Immersed in a story, I didn’t have to think about the life and death drama taking place on the other side of my bedroom wall. Books were my hallucinogenic drug of choice. In college, I studied literature and fell in love with Elliot, Willa and too many others to mention. (This had no similarity to my dating life.)I’m no longer a child living with a grieving father and a dying mother, nor am I the co-ed in search of something or someone real, nonfictional. I’m an adult blessed with an abundance of love. I love my Heavenly Father and His son, my husband and family, my dog, my friends, my neighbors, my writing group, the birds outside my window.Because I’m a writer, I also love my characters. I adore their pluck, courage and mettle. I admire the way they face and overcome hardships. But, as in any romance, I sometimes I get angry with them and think that they are too stupid to live. At those times, I have to remind myself that they live only in my imagination, unless I share. Writing for me is all about sharing--giving back to the world that has so generously shared with me-- because I learned a long time ago that the world is full of life and death dramas. Sometimes we need a story to help us escape.And we need as much love as we can find. That’s why I write romance.I have won awards and contests, but since one disgruntled critic once told me, "If you're as good a writer as you think you are, you should show us, not tell us," I no longer trot out my winnings. In the world of storytelling, they don't really matter.

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MIC DOVE INTO THE POOL and lingered below the surface, contemplating his ability to drown. He watched blue bubbles swirl as he sank further from the white morning sun. Knowing he hadn’t the nerve or will, he let his lungs pull him upward, and he floated before breaking surface. Gasping, he filled his lungs with air before swimming without noise, his clean strokes a reminder of what his bovine body had once been.

Mic reached the edge of the pool and hung on the ledge. Beyond the neighboring orange grove he saw the long blue stretch of the Pacific. Squinting, he imagined the bobbing black heads of surfers. Closing his eyes, he felt the tide’s push and pull, the stinging salt water, the call of gulls, and the beckoning waves. He thought of the Brotherhood, recalling their wiry brown bodies, salt-crusted hair, and red eyes. Most, if not all, had long since died.

Mic pushed away from the wall, rolled onto his back and looked up at the dark windows of the neoclassical monstrosity he called home. He wondered if Ginny was watching from an upper window and in a small fit of rebellion he pushed his distended belly a little higher as he did the backstroke. He knew he looked like Humpty Dumpty with spaghetti arms and legs laced with purple veins. He had no illusions about his Einstein hair and ZZ Top beard. But what had happened to her? Who had replaced the girl in the tie-dyed skirt with daisies tucked in her braids? The girl who tasted of homemade blackberry wine? Where had she gone? Was she happier in the mansion than in the shack with longboards lining the walls, towels draped over the scavenged furniture, chinks of daylight shining through the haze?

Mic returned to the pool’s edge and heaved out of the pool. He shivered in the morning cold, shook the water out of his hair and beard and retrieved his water bottle. Pulling off the stopper, he drank fast, letting the liquid slide down his throat. The water, at first innocuous, turned to stinging tin and burned his mouth, tongue, and gut.

The bottle slipped from his fingers, splashed to the ground and rolled at his feet. Mic staggered, reached for the back of a lawn chair, and tripped on the plastic bottle. His head hit the tile with a thud. Lead filled his limbs. A weight settled on his chest making his breathing laborious and painful. He lay on the cement, his eyes fixed on the sun, his body inert, unable to move, flinch or cry out when a foot wedged beneath his torso and kicked him into the pool.

Is this it then? Mic wondered, his thoughts as clear as the water filling his nose and lungs. After everything, crystal blue? Letting go of his will, Mic sank beneath the surface and watched the sun fade.

CHAPTER 1

Maisie dropped her pencil when the Thor-look-alike entered the cafe. The pencil rolled across the floor and bumped against a Victorian curio cabinet. Maisie scrambled after it, trying to collect her scattered thoughts while the man chose a table beside wrought-iron shelves overflowing with an eclectic collection of china pieces, antique books, etchings, and prints.

He didn’t belong in the fussy shop. He looked like a misplaced Viking surrounded by Rococo and Baroque decorative art. Thor had a friend, also attractive in a swarthy-pirate-like way. But his beauty didn’t make Maisie rethink her life plans.

Brushing dust off her skirt, Maisie put on her may-I-help-you smile and approached their table. Did you guys see the menu board with today’s special?

While she took their order, for the first time, she was grateful for writer’s block. She would much rather be in the company of handsome men than sitting in a library trying to finish her book. And why write about Laguna’s history when she could write breakfast food? Who needed a book contract in Laguna, home to perpetual sunshine?

Maisie dished the men’s orders and inhaled the heady scents of fresh-baked bread, cheese, and coffee. After adding a couple of extra strawberries to their plates she willed herself not to stare.

I don’t know, Maisie. Mrs. Henderson, one of their most valued customers, called for Maisie’s attention. Tapping her size six shoe, she held up a swatch of blue and white tulle and cocked her head. It’s just such an important decision... Her voice trailed away and her eyes flicked toward the pastry counter.

Maybe an éclair would make the decision easier, Maisie said, wiping her hands on her apron.

Oh, I really couldn’t. Ralph, my trainer, he’s a calorie cop. Mrs. Henderson began to twist the tulle between her ring-laden fingers, giggling. But the cream in an éclair is low carb.

While Mrs. Henderson tangled with decisions, Maisie watched the men lounging at a table between a display of antique hatpins and a Victorian gilded mirror. If she stood just so, she could see the one who reminded her of Thor reflected in the mirror. He seemed to fill the room. In reality, he held a fork, but in her mind he held the magic hammer, Mjolnir, capable of throwing lightning bolts to her heart. His companion, the pirate, held a napkin. Maisie shifted from one foot to the other, wearing a pleasant face that hopefully didn’t reveal Norse-deity-worshipping thoughts.

While Maisie waited for Mrs. Henderson’s choice, she wondered if the woman had felt the same rush of pleasure for her husband when she first saw him. Maisie had never met Mr. Henderson, but she’d heard from Mim that he’d recently died, suddenly, tragically. And yet days later, here was Mrs. Henderson debating over decorating decisions.

Maisie raised her eyebrows, smiled and tried not to look at Mrs. Henderson’s neck, one of the few physical signs of the widow’s age. Mrs. Henderson had a forty-year-old face, high, pointy teenage breasts, and a geriatric neck. Maisie allowed herself another sneak peek at Thor’s biceps, swallowed and said, Actually, I just made the éclairs this morning. They’re mostly eggs and protein rich.

Mrs. Henderson’s glance flitted between an early Staffordshire, a Majolica teapot, and the alluring éclair. Maisie looked out the window at the marine layer billowing off Laguna’s shore. Even though the traditional school year had started a few weeks ago, as the sun rose the sidewalks and beach would fill with tourists in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts. Maisie’s gaze returned to Thor’s thick, tanned forearms and Rolex watch. No wedding ring. The pirate looked as if his shoulders and chest were about to burst his polo shirt.

Maisie turned her attention to Mrs. Henderson and noticed the woman’s tired eyes and the soft sagging skin beneath her chin. Maisie wanted to offer sympathy for Mrs. Henderson’s loss, but she didn’t know how, so instead she said, Maybe just a nice cup of tea or a glass of juice?

Mrs. Henderson sniffed. When does Mim get back? She’s always very good with these decisions.

Considering her aunt’s swollen face and swatches of bandages, Maisie gave the rehearsed response. About a month, I think. A month of pain endured for the sake of vanity.

Mrs. Henderson threw up her hands. Oh what the hay! You’ve convinced me! I’ll get the Staffordshire and an éclair!

Maisie took a step backward. Hmm, great. I’ll wrap up the teapot. It’s a lovely piece.

Mrs. Henderson, content with her purchase, said, I remember when Mim brought it home from the Lake District.

Maisie stopped listening; she remembered Mim finding the piece on eBay. She carefully removed the pot from its place among the Bardollos and McCoys and slipped into the back room. It’ll take me just a sec to wrap this up, she called over her shoulder.

She passed Whistler, a wiry Jack Russell terrier, sitting on his bed near the doorway. He let out a small grunt and rooted around for his ball. Maisie had let him into the shop because she’d felt both guilty and sorry for him. Uncle Les had tired of him and had put him in his kennel in the alley where he’d spent the morning crying. He’d stopped barking, but he didn’t seem any less crotchety on his bed. He licked his wounded paw and worried the bandage around his foreleg. He reminded Maisie of the rattlesnake adage, the smaller the snake the meaner the bite.

The back room could have been on a different planet from the front showroom, which had been decorated by Uncle Les, an artist with fussy flair. The back room of the shop was all Auntie Mim. Antiques, whatnots and whatevers had been piled into towers that blocked the meager light streaming from high, dusty windows. The kitchen grill, sink and cutting board were usually overrun with Mim’s latest acquisitions. Only the stove-oven combo remained safe from clutter. Chairs, tables, and a grandfather clock hung from the pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling. Whenever Maisie had to spend any time in the back room, she tried not to think about earthquakes.

Maisie twirled the pot in bubble wrap, sealed it with a Mim’s Mercantile sticker and placed it in one of the signature pink paisley bags. She emerged from the dark, dusty back into the bright, sunny shop while Thor and the pirate fumbled in their pockets and counted change. Whistler, who seemed to sneak out of nowhere, snagged what remained of their croissant and bolted out the door.

What the– the pirate began.

Thor burst into a laugh.

Maisie groaned.

Thor took note of her distress. I’ll get him.

The pirate stopped laughing. No, I’ll get him.

Please, don’t bother– Maisie began, watching Whistler streak down the sidewalk, his bandage waving in the air like a flag of victory.

Thor and the pirate looked at each other momentarily and then as if telepathing a silent go, they bolted. For a moment they wrestled in the doorway, then Pirate gave Thor a good-natured shove back into the store and tore up the sidewalk. Thor overtook him by the intersection.

Maisie thought about hustling Mrs. Henderson out the door, closing the shop, and chasing Thor, Pirate, and Whistler, but a man dressed in a dark blazer, sturdy brown shoes and sunglasses stood in front of the gaping front door, watching the men and dog weave up the sidewalk. After some hesitation, he entered the shop, making two customers Maisie would need to shoo. He fiddled with the rims of his glasses but left them on.

Mrs. Henderson nodded at a dog’s toy in the corner. Maisie gave the man another look before trying to nonchalantly kick the squeaky mouse behind the counter. Sighing, she knew that chasing Whistler would only encourage him. Left alone, the dog would come home when he was hungry, and he was always hungry, but if someone gave chase, he could be gone all day. He wouldn’t completely disappear, but he’d toy with his followers, tease them with near captures and taunt them with close encounters.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat. She stood, drumming her long French manicured nails on the glass of the pastry counter. She dipped her head again at the man standing in front of the hatpin collection with an unreadable expression on his face.

He didn’t seem the hatpin sort; in fact, Maisie wouldn’t have marked him as a collector. He was too large and masculine for Mim’s shop, like a Scottish highlander crashing a ladies’ tea. Maisie followed Mrs. Henderson’s pointed gaze toward the man’s waistband and saw a leather holster and a flash of metal. Her heart quickened and she relabeled the Scottish highlander into a highwayman.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat again and raised her eyebrows at Whistler’s abandoned rawhide bone lying beneath the bistro table.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Henderson, Maisie said, hurrying to get the éclair while using her foot to scoot the dog chew behind a potted fichus. She opened the pastry case and pulled out a brownie. Fumbling with a Mim’s Mercantile bag, she licked her fingers and tried to open the bag. She could feel the man watching while she gave Mrs. Henderson an apologetic smile and shook the bag open.

I wanted an éclair, Mrs. Henderson said. She cast the man another glance, but he kept his sunglasses trained on Maisie. Mrs. Henderson turned her back to him. FBI, she mouthed.

Whistler hardly seemed worth an undercover agent, but Maisie’s cheeks flushed. She’d been irresponsible and thoughtless to allow the dog in the shop. Flustered, she set the brownie aside and fought the urge to lick the frosting off her fingers. She’d forgotten the plastic gloves, a testament to her nervousness; finger licking and food serving shouldn’t be standard café practice. Under the shelter of the counter she slipped the plastic gloves over messy fingers and pulled an éclair out of the case. She took a deep breath or two, trying to relax. Was this really easier than her job at LA Literary? She’d left the magazine to devote her time to writing, not selling pastries and chasing dogs. When Maisie glanced up, the man had turned toward a pair of Uncle Les’s photographs of Avalon Bay.

You shouldn’t have invited Monster to the store, Mrs. Henderson whispered.

Maisie nodded. She considered defending herself, but knew Mrs. Henderson was right. Even though the Jack Russell whined and cried when left alone, he should have stayed with Mim where he could chew and destroy, but not threaten the shop.

Maisie looked out the window and watched the dog and men dance down the sidewalk, dodging tourists, bumping into a man on rollerblades, interrupting a skateboarder. Whistler’s tail darted across the street, causing a BMW to brake quickly and skitter toward a parked van. A Hyundai bleeped as Thor and Pirate lunged for the dog. Safely out of traffic, Whistler’s white rump disappeared into a hedge. Thor leaped over the plant while the Pirate crouched on the sidewalk.

Then Thor took off his shirt.

Mrs. Henderson cleared her throat again. I said, Mrs. Henderson raised her voice an octave, that I’d like another éclair.

Maisie reluctantly tore her gaze off Thor’s muscular back. Really?

Mrs. Henderson twisted her lips into a sheepish, unnatural grin and gave the armed man a lowered eyelid appraisal. If you’re going to go to hell, you might as well go in a limo.

Or in the back of a dog catcher van, Maisie thought. Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. I hope we’ll see you again soon, she said, wondering how to rescue Whistler while a man with a concealed weapon considered a 1910 edition of Huckleberry Finn.

CHAPTER 2

After Mrs. Henderson slipped out the door, the man turned toward Maisie, his lips a straight line and his eyes still hidden behind his dark glasses. Everything about him seemed nondescript; he reminded Maisie of Ken, Barbie’s plastic-haired boyfriend.

Is there anything I can help you find? Maisie kept her gaze on his face, his chiseled, razor-smooth jaw, his disproportionate ears and high forehead. She didn’t look at the bulge beneath his jacket.

Do you carry Wedgwood? he asked.

Not at the moment. Maisie exhaled the words in relief, grateful he’d asked a question with an answer that didn’t involve dogs, food serving licenses, or how much money was in the till.

What is Wedgwood, exactly? he asked, staring at the shelves of china. I always seem to confuse it with flow blue.

Why would an armed man discuss Wedgwood and flow blue? Maisie backed away from the cash register and edged closer to the door.

He answered her unspoken question. "My grandmother and great aunt collect Wedgwood, not flow blue. Flow blue is considered inferior, although I mistakenly thought the nineteenth-century serving platter charming." He chuckled and the tension in Maisie’s back loosened slightly.

He continued. They’re competitive collectors. The sister with the most Wedgwood gift-bearing posterity wins.

Maisie smiled in return, although still not at ease. Keeping her eye on the shirtless Thor and the rustling hedge, she launched into a detailed history of Josiah Wedgwood, an eighteenth-century pox-stricken potter left unable to turn a pottery wheel who’d devoted his art to modeling and glazing. She imagined the man’s eyes glazing with boredom beneath the dark glasses–her grad students had worn the same expression. The pale blue stoneware and white relief designs are quite distinctive, Maisie added lamely. I’d be happy to order some pieces your grandmother might enjoy showing her sister.

He smiled again. That’d be wonderful, Miss–

Trent. Maisie Trent. She went behind the computer to take down his contact information.

After he left, Maisie read his card. Byron Singer, Operational Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation. And Wedgwood collector and loving grandson, she mentally added. Why had she told him her name? Why had he wanted to know? Maybe investigation was second nature for him. Maisie desperately wanted him to disappear so she could retrieve Whistler and chat with Thor, but Byron Singer stood on the sidewalk watching a beach volleyball game. He looked hot, overdressed and out of place, like a funeral director at the circus.

In the opposite direction, Thor dove under a bench for Whistler.

Maisie opened up the bag she’d left on the counter and considered the brownie she’d made at four that morning. Sinking onto the stool behind the counter, she pulled off the plastic gloves, ate the brownie, and then licked her fingers and lips. Sometime in between the brownie and an éclair, she lost sight of Whistler. Singer crossed the street to stand in front of Lolly’s Lingerie, and Maisie wondered which of his relatives enjoyed tart-wear.

SHORTLY AFTER WHISTLER’S and then Singer’s disappearance, Billy and Sam shuffled into the shop. Sam wore military fatigues and the dark fuzz on her upper lip gave her a unisex look. Billy wore a pair of brown flip-flops, but the straps so closely matched the color of his callused feet he appeared barefoot. The army bag he had draped over his shoulder wrestled for freedom.

Maisie smiled at them, letting out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. What you got for me, Billy? she asked, even though she had a pretty good idea.

He returned the smile, exposing his black and brown teeth. Slinging the bag onto the table, he paused his hand over the zipper. You sure you want him, Miss Maisie?

Whistler, hearing Maisie’s voice, began to whine. The bag churned like agitated jelly.

Maisie laughed. I’m sure I don’t.

Behind his bushy beard and overgrown eyebrows, Billy’s face scrunched with concern. I can’t keep him, missy. I got no room or food for someone other than me and Sam.

Sam sat down heavily on a wrought-iron chair and stuck out her feet. Her large toe with a jagged yellow nail had poked a hole in her Ked sneaker.

I’m just joking, Maisie said. She watched the crowded sidewalks and saw mothers and children, surfers with longboards, shoppers with bags, but not the armed man with plastic hair. She laid her hand on Billy’s weathered, bony arm. We’d better let him out.

Whistler barked in rapid fire. Billy’s hand shook as he tried the zipper. Having an animal is like caring for a child, he said. They need water and food, just like people. He put an exaggerated emphasis on the last phrase.

Of course. Maisie nodded, taking the hint. I’ve a lovely chicken salad on toasted raisin bread, Billy. Would you like that? How about you, Sam?

Sam sighed and spread a napkin on the table to fashion a placemat. Silence is acceptance, Maisie thought, wondering if anyone knew Sam’s real name or story. Maisie called her Sam because Billy did, but it was possible that he called her that because it was the name written above the breast pocket of her military jacket. Maisie had never heard Sam utter actual words, and yet Sam communicated rather well. Given her responses, Maisie knew Sam wasn’t deaf, although she didn’t know if Sam couldn’t or wouldn’t speak. Maisie felt oddly disadvantaged with Sam.

Billy let go of the zipper and Whistler stopped barking and began to whimper.

Sam pointed at the bowls stacked on the shelf on the back wall and Billy interpreted for her. What’s your soup today?

Avocado and cucumber.

With sprouts?

Maisie nodded, before retrieving the sandwiches. She added wedges of watermelon and large dill pickles and set the plates on the table beside the bag.

Billy eyed it. Sam and me don’t much like sprouts.

Maisie dished up soup without sprouts.

Billy sat beside Sam and tucked into his lunch. Sam slipped a napkin into the neck of her jacket to make a bib before spooning herself a bit of soup with her baby finger extended, ladylike.

Hefting the duffle bag onto her shoulder, stooping under the unexpected weight, Maisie lugged the bag to the back room. The dirt-crusted bag smelled of urine and cigarettes. Inside, Whistler scrambled, whined and whimpered. After depositing the bag on the counter, Maisie kicked Whistler’s bed into the corner before setting up the baby gate in the doorway so that Whistler would know where he belonged. She unzipped the bag and Whistler escaped without looking at her. Maisie lunged for him. She wanted to shake and scold him and wring his scrawny neck, but the front bell rang, announcing customers.

With a silent curse and a double-fingered hex, Maisie left Whistler on his bed. He circled three times before settling down for a good licking bath.

Thor stood in the doorway, breathing heavily. He’d put his shirt back on and the damp cotton clung to his chest and back. No shirt, mandatory service, Maisie thought, watching the sweat trickle down his neck and imagining its course between his shoulder blades, along his spine.

He ran his hand through his thick wavy blond hair and nodded at Billy. He beat me.

Billy didn’t look up from his meal, but ate rapidly, his fingers flicking food into his mouth. Sam poised her sandwich midair and cast Thor a withering look before refocusing on her lunch. Maisie wondered what Thor had done to warrant Sam’s scorn; she thought him perfect.

You didn’t have to chase him. He would have come home eventually, Maisie said, offering the god a tall glass of lemonade.

As he took the glass their fingers brushed. Aw, the consolation prize, he murmured. Thor stared over the rim of the glass and took a drink, his smile holding Maisie captive. They both swallowed at the same time.

No, that’s not a prize, Maisie said. Let me get you lunch. What would you like? She motioned to the chalkboard where she’d printed up the day’s menu.

Tempting, he said without glancing at the menu. His eyes didn’t leave her face, but she felt as if they had. It was as if he saw all of her, even though he never broke her gaze. How about dinner?

We don’t do dinner. Maisie’s blood warmed her cheeks. She moved behind the pastry counter to break eye contact.

He came over and leaned against the counter. I could take you to dinner.

Maisie fiddled with the napkin holder, solid brass, hand tooled, an art nouveau tulip motif stamped on the front center panel. I should take you to dinner.

I’ll take you to the Ritz Carlton.

Maisie opened her mouth and then closed it, like a gulping fish. She’d driven by the Ritz Carlton many times as