Page 29 of Beach Reads and Deadly Deeds

“There will be a few times in your life when all your instincts will tell you to do something, something that defies logic,

upsets your plans, and may seem crazy to others. When that happens, you do it. Listen to your instincts and ignore everything

else. Ignore logic, ignore the odds, ignore the complications, and just go for it.”

—Judith McNaught, Remember When

I don’t know why I was so nervous.

I was an (almost) thirty-year-old professional woman who is smart, pretty, and a good conversationalist. I was mature enough

to make my own decisions, flirt with handsome men, and even have a one-night-stand.

I had never had a one-night stand in my life.

But my gut told me to let go with Jason, because he was exactly what I needed. This was my first and last fling before being

chained to a desk for the rest of my life.

Then I reminded myself that I hadn’t actually accepted the promotion. I didn’t have to accept it. I could continue doing what I was doing for the company, handling my current accounts, not taking on bigger

accounts or more responsibility.

Who was I fooling, though? I’d seen the masthead.

Of course I would accept it. I’d earned the promotion.

It would be not only out of character to turn it down, but short-sighted.

When would I get another opportunity like this?

Never. I would be a full partner with all the prestige and recognition and stature that went with my name not only on the door, but on the masthead. At the age of thirty .

I had earned it, I reminded myself again. I’d worked my ass off for five years not just because I liked my job—which I did—but because

I wanted to work myself up into this exact position . Cohn and McMann were in their fifties. They would retire in the next ten years, and I would be running the entire company,

bringing in junior partners the way Stuart Cohn had brought me in five years ago.

Would I be married? Would I have a baby? Would I be forced to live vicariously through Amanda and Jane because I had no time

to date, fall in love, and have a life outside work?

All these thoughts ran through my head once more as I sat on the edge of the lagoon, letting the water roll up and tickle

my feet. I considered that I might be melancholy because in thirteen minutes, I would be thirty.

I didn’t feel thirty. Sometimes I felt like I was twenty-one and trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, and

sometimes I felt forty, set in my ways and wanting to tell everyone to get off my lawn.

I had a dream, but I rarely thought about it and never discussed it with anyone. It was a foolish idea, completely irresponsible,

impracticable, impossible. Not a dream for a fiscally frugal financial planner whom wealthy people trusted with their money.

The moon slowly came into view through the opening above the lagoon. The gentle waves glittered. For a split second, I felt

wholly at peace. Very odd, since I was in the middle of a major life decision and had found a dead body last night.

This place was more magical than any place I’d ever been. The open cavern, soothing water, and especially the breathtaking

beauty of the lagoon under moonlight.

This was exactly where I was supposed to be at this moment. Here, I felt like I could actually acknowledge my dream—a dream that could never become reality. I almost wanted to toss a quarter in the water and make a wish. But I didn’t know what my wish would be.

Instead, I picked up a shell—an unusually beautiful pink shell, about three inches long, wide and open on one end, spiraling

to a point on the other. It was unique and imperfect. Staring at the shell, I pictured what I wanted—my wild dream that I

would never, could never, pursue. Reluctantly, I tossed the shell, and the dream, into the water.

I let them go. I knew who I was and what I should do with my life.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

I screamed and jumped up, tripped, then fell on my ass.

Jason looked sheepish, but he fought a smile. “I’m sorry. I thought you heard me walk up.”

My adrenaline hit the roof. “Damn you!” I said, barely getting the words out because I hadn’t quite caught my breath.

Now he laughed, reached down, and pulled me up.

He didn’t let go of my hands. “I am sorry,” he said softly. “You looked so beautiful sitting here under the moonlight, it took my breath away.”

“Apology accepted,” I said, my heart still racing, though no longer from being startled.

He reached into the picnic basket at his feet and brought out a cupcake. “Happy birthday.”

I stared at it, blinking back tears. The last thing I expected was a birthday celebration. He pulled a small candle from his

pocket, pushed it into the cupcake, then lit it.

“It’s five after midnight. Make a wish,” he said.

I didn’t know what to wish for. I had just let my dream go in the ocean, but maybe.

.. I could wish to forget about the outside world for the rest of the week.

Maybe I could forget about Diana Harden and the people who might have killed her, forget about the drama with Sherry Morrison, forget about what was going on with all these people I would never see again.

I wanted to just let myself go and have fun until I landed back in reality next Tuesday.

I blew out the candle.

He kissed me.

A light, promising kiss. And then another. I smiled when he stepped back, and I wasn’t blushing. I knew what I wanted.

Jason spread a blanket on the sand, then unpacked the basket. He patted a spot for me to sit.

“Eat,” he said, and motioned to my cupcake. He brought out a second cupcake and took a big bite.

You’d think after all the food I’d consumed at the luau that I wouldn’t have room for a cupcake, but I did. It was a rich

chocolate with a hint of rum and cherry.

“This is amazing,” I said with my mouth full.

“I bribed the baker.”

Somehow, that made me happy. That Jason, the bartender, would bribe a coworker to bake me a birthday cupcake.

“There’s ten more in my apartment,” he said. “They’re yours for the taking.”

My stomach danced with butterflies. I knew exactly what he meant. At least, I hoped I knew what he meant.

He poured two glasses of champagne and then clinked his glass to mine. “Happy birthday, Mia Crawford.”

I sipped, warm and giddy and excited.

“So, what were you thinking about under the moonlight with such a wistful expression on your face?”

“It’s not important.”

“You looked sad. No one should be sad on St. Claire.”

“I was offered a partnership. I’m a financial planner, you know, and it’s a great opportunity.”

“And that makes you sad? Because your company recognized your talent and wants to reward you?”

“No. Of course not. It’s what I’ve wanted since I started. I like the partners, the other people who work there. It’s a great

business. I’m good at it. Really good.”

“But?” he prompted.

I stared out at the water and thought of the shell I’d tossed back, a farewell to my dreams.

“Have you ever wanted something so much, but knew it was impractical and irresponsible to even try because it would never

work?”

“You’re confusing me, so you must be confused yourself.”

“I can’t explain it. You probably wouldn’t think twice—just like you jumped off the cliff.”

“Glided off,” he corrected me. “Jumping would be dangerous. There are rocks below.”

He was trying to lighten my mood, but I didn’t smile.

“Get it off your chest,” he said. “Maybe that will help you make peace with whatever is bothering you.”

“Being here has helped,” I said. I didn’t want to tell Jason or anyone. Except... Jason was the safest person to tell. After this week, I would never see him again. “This is a magical place.”

“Abracadabra.” He touched my lips with two fingers. “Tell me your dream. It’ll be our secret.”

I didn’t plan to say a word, but then lots of words came out, surprising me.

“I want to own a bookstore.” Now that the words were free, I couldn’t take them back. “I’ve loved books my entire life. My

earliest memory is of my dad reading to me. I spent hours in the library, and I spent all my birthday money on books, at this

little bookstore in Connecticut where I grew up. I love talking about books, sharing my favorite stories with anyone who will

listen. I belong to two book clubs and record video book reviews, and when I’m not working, I’m reading.

“But small businesses fail at a very high rate,” I continued. “Bookstores are more difficult than most. Rent alone is prohibitive

because the profit margin is low—or nonexistent. Most new businesses fail in three years. I would lose my savings, have debt,

and everything would be gone. I’d never recover.” I shrugged. “So it’s just a dream.”

“Nothing is just a dream,” Jason said. “Tell me what your store would look like. Where is it?”

“New York is too expensive, but that’s the ideal place,” I said.

I hadn’t meant to elaborate, but Jason seemed so interested in what I was saying that I couldn’t help myself.

“I’d want to own the building, maybe live upstairs.

I want the feeling of Tribeca or Greenwich Village, the quaint buildings and storefronts, the neighborhood feel.

But not such an expensive neighborhood. When you first walk in, you’d see books people want to read—nothing stuffy, no political books, no air of superiority.

I want fun books, mysteries and romances and feel-good biographies.

I want cookbooks and adventures and uplifting self-help books.

And a huge children’s section with bean bag chairs for the kids, where parents would feel comfortable leaving their little ones so they can browse.

A story hour once a week, maybe with a children’s author coming in to read her favorite book.

A café where friends can chat over coffee, a private room that looks and feels like an in-home library where book clubs can meet, or a writers’ group.

I want...” I stopped suddenly, just then realizing how long I’d been talking.