The market had looked unimpressive from the outside but inside it was filled with unusual Italian delicacies. One case was filled with sausage, much of it homemade. She read a few labels: veal and Parmesan; pork, oregano, and mozzarella; sweet sausage with dill. She pushed her cart toward another glass-fronted display case filled with delicatessen goodies: meats and cheeses of all kinds, homemade salads, and antipasti. This small, seemingly unassuming market would put even the high-priced Korean grocery around the corner from her apartment to shame.
She spent almost an hour filling her shopping cart with things she’d need for at least a couple of days. Since she seldom ate at home she kept little in her Manhattan apartment. Buying food was an adventure. She poked around, lifting cans and reading ingredients and nutritional information, selecting those with low saturated fat, sugar, and calories. Then, with a little thrill and a shrug, she threw several fattening, totally bad for her items in her cart. Grinning over a jar of chunky peanut butter and a can of pork and beans, another of ravioli, and a third of deviled ham, she headed for the checkout counter. She’d have to investigate the goodies in the cases another day. She considered that she might actually try cooking somewhere along the line but for now she’d just open cans. Cooking. That was a good idea. Something different and totally out of character for her. Maybe she’d prowl the Net and find recipes she could attempt. According to the agent, the house came with a completely equipped kitchen. Cooking. What a concept.
As she unloaded her purchases she actually felt herself unwind further. With a deep sigh, she watched a portly, middle-aged man check prices on cans and boxes and ring up the items on an old-fashioned cash register. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” he said, his voice light and cheery, with a slight New England twang. After her equally cheerful thanks, he continued, “You’re new here. Going to be here for awhile?”
“I’m here until Labor Day and I am really looking forward to it.”
“Where are you staying?” he asked as he rang up her jar of peanut butter.
“Someplace called the Rogers Cottage. It’s part of the Atlantic Beach Hotel.”
The man put the jar down and reached out a large, beefy hand. “We’ll be neighbors,” he said. “My wife, the kids, and I live just across the street. I’m Joe Martinelli and my wife’s Marie. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Well, this certainly wasn’t New York City. “I’m Leslie Morgan.” She took his hand and enjoyed his firm grip. It was novel for a man to be friendly around her without wanting any part of her body. Leslie knew she was attractive, and she’d been told that she seemed to exude an air of sensuality from every pore. This “friendly thing” was really wonderful. “Nice to meet you.”
“Listen,” Joe said, picking up a loaf of whole-grain bread and checking the price, “we have a cookout the first Friday evening of every month right beside the beach. It will be kind of in your side yard. I want you to be sure to come. It’s tomorrow evening around six, and bring your appetite.”
Tomorrow evening. It was a temptation. Being around real people, just because. No one to impress. But…“Thanks for the invitation, but I couldn’t impose.”
“It’s no imposition. Marie loves to cook; we always have lots of folks from the houses around, so one more person won’t even make a dent.” He winked. “Actually, the hotel foots part of the bill and lots of their guests come, too. And, of course, you’ll get to meet all the neighbors.” He chuckled. “You’ll have already met Suze. She makes sure to get all the dope on all the new folks, quickly and efficiently.”
“Suze?”
“It’s really Susan Murdock but no one’s called her Susan in forever. It’s just Suze. She’s the mayor of Sound’s End and she feels that she has to know everything about everyone. She’s up for reelection in the fall this year and now she campaigns all the time. Although you won’t be here to vote, of course, you might have the opportunity to influence someone who does, so she’ll be all over you.” He sighed. “She means well, though. Anyway, we’d love to have you. The hotel will pay for your attendance, but, if it would make you feel better, you can bring something to eat, or put a little money in the coffee can on the grill. I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
It sounded so comfortable that Leslie knew she wouldn’t be able to resist and making a contribution would make it feel less like an imposition. “I’d love to.”
Joe grabbed a paper chart from beside the register. “You’ll need a tide table. Lots of what goes on here depends on the tides.” He stuffed it into one of her plastic bags. “Did you get plenty of sunblock?” he added.
“I’ve got a tube of number 45 in my car.”
“Good, use it. Sorry. There I go sounding like your father.”
Leslie winked. “You’re not nearly old enough to be my father, and anyway, my father never treated me this well.”
“Okay, older brother.”
Her grin widening still further, she winked and said, “Agreed, bro.”
Leslie paid for her groceries, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. She hadn’t even seen her cottage and already she’d made a friend in the neighborhood. She hadn’t realized how uneasy this trip had made her. It had seemed like such a good idea when she made her plans, but she was a city girl at heart. What would she find to do for a month in a small beach community with rural people and no subways? Now she felt a bit better. This would be just what she needed. Anyway, she could always go back to her apartment.
Chapter 2
In the hot parking lot, Leslie put her grocery bags into the trunk of her rental car and reflexively checked the directions. About five hundred yards down the main street she took the turn onto Atlantic Beach Road and headed toward the ocean She drove carefully since she so seldom got behind the wheel. Taxis and limousines were her usual method of transportation but she quickly found that she enjoyed the freedom of being in control of her own car.
The road wound southward, toward the water, between small, older homes with large yards and hundred-year-old trees. The sounds of children playing were everywhere. Wading pools and swing sets dotted the lawns and gravel driveways led up to flower-covered front porches. Dogs of all sizes and colors roamed at will. Families obviously flourished here.
As she headed toward the water, Leslie wondered what she was going to do all day, every day for a month. She hadn’t had this much time for herself in many years. Time for herself. Amazing. She’d probably spend some time in the sun and the rest of her days as she usually did. A confirmed couch potato, she could certainly be content with cable TV, video rentals, and her computer, linked to the Internet. She also had a number of novels she’d wanted to read and a few relatives and friends to whom she would send e-mails. Friends. She had a few, women she’d become close to through her business. Certainly Jenna and Marcy, the twin owners of Club Fantasy, both now involved with their new babies. And Rock and Chloe, of course, “entertaining” and loving it. But real friends?
She thought back over the past few years. She’d had no time to make friends and no place. Where could she meet people who wanted to become friends with a thousand-dollar-an-hour prostitute? Well here no one would know who she was or what she did for a living.
She followed Atlantic Beach Road as it traveled south, then turned east paralleling the water. She’d been told that her cottage was the last one between the water and the roadway. She spotted it, similar to the houses around it, with well-weathered,