Sea Glass Cottage Read online

  But Henry was in her past. The divorced Isabella Rialto could look forward to the future again, to waking up in the mornings to possibilities. She’d take that any day over being told what to do and when to do it.

  From the front door of the keeper’s cottage, she had a view to die for. The address where she got her mail, officially read 14 Lighthouse Lane.

  Standing in the doorway, she looked out over the glistening water and the plush carpet of velvety grass that led to the cliff. Logan, her landlord, had added a porch that ran the length of the house. She liked to sit outside in the evenings and stare out over the bay and the ocean beyond.

  To her right she gazed at the step-stone pathway Logan had carved out that led to the massive lighthouse, the lighthouse that kept her feeling safe and secure, especially during the long nights she spent here with herself for company.

  The cottage she rented from Logan had been around since 1935. It had undergone major renovations—from a one-thousand-square-foot WPA work project under Franklin Roosevelt—it had doubled in size with a modern design throughout. It had brand-new electrical wiring, new windows, new doors, and a new roof. Cherry hardwood floors had replaced the old, worn-out planks.

  Despite all the improvements, she knew from the rumors floating among the townspeople that during the remodeling the workers had found a body in a walled-up space in what used to be the kitchen. When she’d asked Logan about it, he’d admitted that at one time a serial killer had used the grounds and the surrounding woods to conceal victims. Even though Logan had downplayed the dangerous element, Isabella had known for years about the disappearance of his sister, Megan. She’d been sad to learn the young girl’s fate.

  Besides her father, Javier Rialto, Isabella had been one of the few close friends Logan had confided in about Megan’s disappearance. The fact that Isabella now lived in close proximity to where the remains had turned up was cause for alarm. She’d be lying to deny that it didn’t bother her at times, especially during a bad Pacific storm when the wind swirled and whistled between the keeper’s cottage and the lighthouse.

  On those spooky nights she tried to focus on why she’d made the journey here. Logan’s loyalty to her father had been one reason. But once she’d made the decision to leave Henry, Logan had supported every step she’d taken to cut ties with the man. Logan’s friendship went a long way to making her feel like she could accomplish that goal.

  With Javier’s passing, Logan had stepped up to fill her father’s shoes, to encourage, to support, to be there. For the last three years the two friends had become more like family, not by blood, but because they’d shared mutual heartache. Logan had lost his sister. Isabella had lost her father. They had a history that brought them closer, like a bond between siblings that couldn’t be broken.

  Logan had been the one to suggest that moving to the West Coast might be the very thing she needed for a new beginning. That’s one reason she’d picked up the threads of her life to try out the place Logan couldn’t seem to shut up about. After all, she no longer had ties to keep her back East in New York. Without her father there, she had no reason to keep up the estate in Oyster Bay or keep ties to any other business dealings.

  So if there was a problem living in Sea Glass Cottage, if it made her feel uneasy at times at three in the morning, Isabella knew Logan and Kinsey were a simple phone call away if she needed them.

  Not only that, there was something comforting in knowing Logan had finally found the love of his life, someone kind and wonderful, someone like Kinsey who seemed to be the missing piece he needed in his life. It made her feel better knowing other people had a chance at happiness, at finding a soul mate.

  Even if she did feel somewhat isolated living in the keeper’s cottage, she also felt at home here, more so than any other place she’d ever lived. No doubt the cottage had a past with spirits that roamed through the grounds day or night.

  If only the spook factor ended at the edge of the woods. She’d seen a man she knew wasn’t real. The town had named Phillips Park after him. Scott Phillips had a habit of walking the land, broad daylight or dark of night, it made no difference. Scott was like a sentry guarding his domain. She didn’t resent the intrusion. In fact, she’d accepted his presence with a knowledge that few could understand. There was nothing to fear in a ghost that seemed more protective than menacing. It was others—those who were flesh and blood—she needed to be on guard against.

  Which is why after months of living here, Isabella was still settling in. She’d made the move without a car. She hadn’t yet decided to buy one. Even without four wheels she managed to get around town just fine without one. So far she’d been able to get where she wanted to go by riding the bicycle she’d bought used from Paul Bonner. Paul had tacked up a note on the bulletin board at Murphy’s Market. She’d been the first one, or maybe the only one, who’d been willing to plunk down seventy-five bucks for it.

  Whenever she headed into town, like today, she could walk the bright red bike down the steep, paved hill before jumping on to level ground. It was a lot easier that way, especially since she’d been out of practice for so long. Not since she’d been ten had she gone everywhere she wanted to go on two wheels.

  As she pedaled her cruiser down Ocean Street to the grocery store, she looked around the little town. Lately she’d noticed there were days it seemed like she’d gone back in time. The old shops along Main Street looked ancient. But there was new life on the horizon. Like herself, she could see the town rising, coming out of years of despair.

  Since her arrival the town had already made significant changes. The old elementary school had reopened and was now a state-of-the-art educational center for grades kindergarten through sixth grade. Brent Cody, the town cop, had a new police station. A little hobby shop had opened its doors, along with a boatyard. This summer the town had turned a wasted, weeded lot into a park where families could picnic and kids could run wild for a couple of hours.

  On top of all that, businesses had changed hands. Tucker Ferguson had taken over the reins of the hardware store from his father. There were rumblings that someone had bought the building at the corner of Main and Pacific. Plans were in the works for a pizza joint. Isabella hoped it would come to pass. There were nights she craved the taste of a New York-style Italian pie.

  Which is one reason it hadn’t taken long for her to realize the little town had a rhythm to it. After spending years catering to her abusive ex-husband’s every whim, after moving from one coast to the other, she desperately wanted to fit in here, to become a part of the town’s ebb and flow.

  Deep in those thoughts and distracted, she’d just turned the corner from Ocean Street onto Crescent when she looked up to see a 1982 tan Range Rover barreling its way into her path. She didn’t have time to react other than to dive for the curb to get out of its way. Avoiding the careless driver, she tumbled off her bike and into the street in a heap.

  Harrison Thane Delacourt turned the steering wheel just in time to miss the idiot woman riding a bicycle without a care in the world down the middle of the damned road. But just barely. He almost nicked the fender on the front of her strawberry red bicycle.

  Slamming on the brakes, he pulled to a stop, nearly skidding up on the curb. Rattled, he threw open the door and darted over to see if the woman was injured.

  He glanced at the female sprawled on the pavement. Irresponsible woman wasn’t even wearing a safety helmet on her stupid head. But his mood tempered somewhat the minute he looked into her soulful green eyes. Her full, pouty mouth caught his attention and had him settling on the striking face and its olive complexion. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through all that silky golden brown hair of hers that had tumbled out of its clip in the fall. Instead he barked, “Are you okay? What the hell were you doing riding down the middle of the street?”

  Any other time, Isabella might have retreated at the tone. But not today. If not now, when? Today was for showing the world she’d regained her moxie, her
spunk, her courage. She’d start with this overgrown jerk that sported a mass of blond hair tied back in a thick ponytail along with a pair of sharp, indigo blue eyes.

  Adjusting her anger so she could get out the words the way she once had in the past, she sucked in a breath. “If you hadn’t been such an idiot and if you’d been paying more attention in the first place, you’d know the speed limit in town isn’t anywhere near the fifty miles an hour you were doing. For God’s sakes, this is a neighborhood with kids not the damn freeway. Watch where you’re going next time, will you?”

  “Me? I wasn’t the one pedaling down the middle of Crescent with my head in the clouds without a mind to vehicles that weigh several thousand pounds.”

  When she started to get up he reached out to help her to her feet. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you hit your head?” He automatically took her chin, checked her eyes for glassiness. “Concussions can be tricky and hard to detect.”

  A little unsteady on her feet, she slapped away his hand, challenged his assessment, even though he towered over her by at least a foot. “I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine. Just so you know, around here we aren’t in the habit of running over people, especially those we consider neighbors, which is pretty much everyone.”

  “And I wouldn’t have come anywhere near you if you’d been riding closer to the curb with traffic instead of what you were doing—coming right at me. Have you ever heard of staying as far to the right as possible, unless you’re making a turn, which in this case you clearly were not doing.” He glanced up and down the street. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the middle of the block here. Need I remind you, bicyclists are subject to the same rules of the road as vehicles?”

  Fed up with his self-righteous attitude and refusing to admit she’d been daydreaming, she snapped out, “Oh, pipe down. I’m not going to sue you or anything like that if that’s what you’re so worried about, although I should.”

  “Sue me? Of all the brazen…”

  “I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

  He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, blew out a pent-up breath. “As long as you have no injuries, I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you were doing.” He turned to go and then stopped, faced her again. “A little advice though. Stay out from in front of cars. In the future, try to pay closer attention to your surroundings. And for chrissakes, if you plan on riding that thing, buy a helmet for your hard head.”

  Before he could get back into his SUV, she blurted out, “There’s not one reason for you to be so snotty and rude to me. Not one!”

  When that didn’t get a reaction she threw out the only bit of detail she had left in her arsenal. “From where I live on the cliff, I’ve seen you surfing south of town, off Turtle Point with your little boy. Surprisingly, you don’t suck at it.”

  She noted the glower on his face and took pride that she’d put it there. Pleased with herself, she went on, “But then Logan says your name is Thane Delacourt and you used to play in the NFL. If that’s true I guess you’d have a modicum of athletic ability in you.”

  He bristled at the reminder and the insult. “The optimum phrase there is ‘used to.’ I’ve moved on. I wish everyone else would as well. And you are? Ah, wait. You’d be the mystery ballerina in the keeper’s cottage everyone’s been wondering about.” He cracked up laughing and looked her up and down in a seductive perusal and then added, “Ballerina my ass, more like exotic dancer.”

  “I’m sure you’d know a lot more about exotic dancers than I would know,” she huffed out. She wasn’t certain how the ballerina rumor had taken flight in the first place. All she knew for sure was that some people believed it. But when the accusation she’d been a stripper began to fully sink in her blood did a slow rolling boil. “The name is Isabella Rialto. People I consider my friends call me Izzy. You, however, can stick to Isabella. It’s always awkward when you learn firsthand that one of your neighbors is a real asshole, which you definitely are. I’ll take your advice and head to the market now and leave you to infect others with your special ‘misery and woe’ persona.”

  That hit a little too close to the mark to suit Thane. He puffed out another sigh, left the driver’s side door long enough to go over and reach out his hand in friendly introduction.

  On his approach, she refused to take it and took a step back instead. She watched as he recovered from the slight and gathered up her bicycle from the roadway. Why should she be nice to this ass? “Don’t do me any favors. I’ve got this.”

  “Yeah?” At the realization they’d gotten off to a really bad start, Thane simply added, “Look, I apologize for yelling at you. But you scared the crap out of me. I thought you’d fallen and hit your head. I thought you were seriously hurt. It shook me up.”

  “Such concern is touching and appropriate since you were driving like a crazy person.”

  “That is so not true.”

  “Oh really? I’m the one on the pavement and you’re the one shouting at me. You have a booming voice. It must unnerve a lot of people.”

  “Sorry,” he said again as he inspected the bike for damage. “My mother used to say the same thing.”

  “One reason I’m sure you were so successful playing sports—you’re used to bullying people.”

  “Men. I bullied men on the field wearing an opposing jersey, which they paid me to do. Not women, never women. Huge difference.” Finding the bike frame intact, he held it out to her and tagged on, “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, Isabella Rialto? Looks like you’re good to go now.”

  She took hold of the handlebars to hop back on. “Out of curiosity what position did you play exactly?”

  “Linebacker.”

  “Figures, I bet you were the head bully of the team. Logan says you gave it up because you suffered an injury.”

  “Then maybe it would be easier if you had this discussion with Logan and asked him all these stupid questions and left out the middleman.”

  She snickered. “But then I wouldn’t get to irritate you so much up close and personal. It’s so much more appealing this way.”

  That got a grin out of him, the smile spread wide across his face, showing off a set of deep dimples.

  “You should do that more often.”

  “What?”

  “Show those dimples to the world. It makes you look almost human.” As she climbed on and took off, over her shoulder she tossed out, “See you around town, Thane Delacourt. In the meantime, try to keep your road rage in-check. You don’t want a rep in a small town like this when you know how people tend to talk.”

  Thane shook his head as he watched her peddle down the block. Once he settled behind the wheel, he reminded himself that he no longer cared what some stubborn female thought of him. Come to think of it, he didn’t much care what the entire town thought of him either. Nor did he care what the tabloids wrote about him anymore. Those days were long gone when he got upset reading about himself online. Thane knew when you were no longer playing, no longer making headlines for some stupid stunt you’d pulled the night before, the public rarely gave you two thoughts.

  That was fine by him.

  For all he cared, every last journalist could go take a flying jump into Smuggler’s Bay. It was true when he’d lived his life in the fast lane he’d often made an ass out of himself, sometimes to the point of exhaustion, most times with a measure of embarrassment. Eventually after burning himself out, he’d found the limelight greatly overrated. He was no longer that person who blitzed quarterbacks for a living. Did he sometimes miss making those QBs pay for bad decisions? Sure he did. Did he miss closing up gaps with his body and taking down speedy running backs? He did. While he might miss the game itself—those glorious hours he’d spent on Sunday afternoons knocking heads with other people—he definitely relished his time spent calling plays for the defense and putting an end to offensive drives. There was a time he’d lived for fourth downs.

  What he didn’t miss though were the reporters and
cameramen taking note of his every move on the field and off. He hadn’t bargained for living out his life with people following him around all the time waiting for him to screw up. Most days, he’d done his best not to disappoint them. He’d made headlines, giving the reporters the stories they’d craved to fill up their news blogs. His antics had taken up airtime. Anchors had spent their time questioning his latest falls from grace or discussing the path he’d chosen for his messy life. At one time he’d been incredibly hard on each nemesis who’d written ugly things about him.

  Even in high school he’d possessed an undefinable spirit, never quite fitting squarely into anyone’s peg. He took that quirky attitude to UCLA where it morphed into bold and daring. Like most young people on their own for the first time, once at college, he’d discovered his distinctive, individual style made him the quintessential leader. In his sophomore year, his teammates responded and elected him team captain.

  A rebel at heart, he always wore his hair longer than any other player and resisted coaches who suggested that he conform to other people’s standards. That original thinking often got him in trouble. But more than that, it was his talent on the field that made him a standout to other players, other schools, other coaches. The attention magnified an outspoken nature that no one could muzzle, not even when he reached the NFL.

  Maybe that’s one reason he’d thrived.

  At six-four and two-forty, it hadn’t taken long to catch the attention of football coaches from Florida State to Washington. They’d discovered Thane’s willingness to put in the hours necessary to get better and improve. He lifted weights, was never late to practice, and worked on his form and timing. If he could develop his raw gift and turn it into major league talent at a school like UCLA, his size alone might afford him notice on the college level. At the time, getting that full ride to a four-year university had meant everything to him, his one and only goal. By his junior year that had changed when NFL scouts came knocking. Despite the buzz to turn pro, he’d stayed around for his senior year to graduate because his working-class parents wanted one member of the family to have a college degree.