Page 15 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

SHANE’S IN TROUBLE NOW.

He knows it, too. Knows it when he wakes up purposeless the next morning.

He has nothing to do.

The Barlow stairs are done.

There’s no lobstering to be had—yet.

So all he has is idle time.

Which spells trouble.

Open blank time will let his mind wander. And think. And imagine that in two days? He’ll be leaving this all behind—pretty much for good.

Which makes him want to be a part of Celia’s day even more. Partly because they have precious few minutes left together. Partly because of all that never came to be with Heather.

But—he can’t really see Celia.

So, sitting up in his bed early Thursday, Shane reaches to the nightstand and rustles around in its small drawer. Somewhere in there, he’d seen paper and a few old ballpoint pens.

And here it is.

He pulls out a dog-eared memo pad with a pen stuck in the wire spiral.

Opening to a blank page, he puts pen to paper.

Since he can’t really safely see Celia, he’ll write her a note and slide it beneath her door.

Sitting there in a tee and his flannel pajama bottoms, he writes something, rips out the paper and crumples it, thinks, looks to the window where the sun’s just edging the shade, and…

gets it. He knows just what to write—and does so.

His pen briefly scratches along the paper.

Done.

After showering and changing into a forest-green cardigan hanging open over his jeans and untucked flannel shirt, he has only a quick coffee out on the back porch.

Beyond, Long Island Sound is blue as blue can be beneath the rising sun.

Oh, the fleeting views are the sweetest. So with each swallow of coffee, he ingrains that vast sight to memory.

Finally, he leaves for Scoop Shop, grabs a breakfast—egg sandwich, tater tots and another coffee.

He downs it all at one of their inside tables.

Makes small talk with the clerk, Paisley.

Looks at a newspaper. Tosses out his wrappings and heads out.

Before a stop at the hardware store, he’ll slip Celia’s note beneath her door.

***

Ah, but the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

Sometimes, in the best way possible .

Shane sees that now after leaving Scoop Shop. Sees it right after turning in beneath the trestle and passing the Stony Point Beach Association trailer.

Also known as Cliff’s digs around these parts.

And there it is.

The sight that sets his plan awry.

Shane squints through the rays of rising sun to be sure. Yes. Elsa’s car is parked outside the trailer. So after she and Cliff left The Sand Bar last night, she spent the night here.

And is still inside.

Bingo .

It’s safe for Shane to not only deliver his note to Celia, but to see her at her cottage—if only for a few short minutes.

***

Cliff fusses with his uniform: long-sleeve black polo shirt over khaki pants.

The patch pocket on the chest is inscribed with gold stitching spelling out Commissioner .

His black work boots are laced. He just needs his official black cap hanging on a wall peg in his closet behind the four-panel room divider.

But first? Breakfast.

After adjusting the pulp setting and squeezing fresh oranges in his handy-dandy mini juicer, he pours two frothy glasses. Fusses with the red-and-white tablecloth on his bistro table. Sets out napkins and flatware. Puts the orange juice glasses there, too.

All the while, he hears Elsa getting dressed on the other side of that room divider.

Hears her brushing her hair. Opening nightstand drawers, rummaging through the over-the-door shoe bag he uses as a medicine cabinet in the tiny bathroom.

The shoe pockets hold his razor, shaving cream, deodorant, toothpaste and what have you.

“I really have to leave soon,” her voice calls out now. “We both have busy days.”

“We do, Mrs. DeLuca. And the food’s ready.” Using an oven mitt, Cliff pulls a tray of Elsa’s leftover cinnamon fruit biscuits topped with strawberry preserves from his countertop toaster oven. Carefully, he sets the biscuits on a plate—which he brings to the bistro table.

Nothing from Elsa, though. Just silence.

“I’m pouring the coffee now,” Cliff nudges in a sing-song voice while lifting the decanter and filling two mugs also at the table. “Biscuits are all warmed.”

“Just a minute,” her distracted voice reaches around the four-panel room divider.

“What are you doing back there, woman?” Cliff asks, setting the coffeepot back on the counter.

Elsa blusters out from behind the divider and heads to the kitchenette now.

She’s wearing the same fitted gray denim dress she wore yesterday.

Her thick brown hair is down and tucked behind an ear.

All her jewelry is on—studs in both ear piercings, a silver mesh bracelet.

Her black ankle boots clip-clip across the trailer floor.

“Where is it?” she asks, pulling out her folding café chair and sitting at the table.

“Breakfast?” Cliff asks while getting creamer from his mini fridge. “Right in front of you.”

“No, not that. Where’s that velvet box of yours? The one with my beautiful engagement ring in it. ”

Cliff sets down the cream, sits across from her and puts a folded napkin on his lap. “I hid it.”

“What?”

“I hid it,” he says about the black velvet box once bursting with his every hope and dream.

“Why?”

“Well, that ring’s very valuable, Elsa. And it wasn’t really in a safe spot here.” Cliff lifts a fruity biscuit and takes a bite.

“I see.” Elsa lifts her own biscuit and digs in.

They’re quiet for a few moments—Cliff, calm; Elsa doing her best to feign nonchalance. The tiny kitchen is cozy with the aroma of the warmed biscuits and fresh coffee. Outside the kitchen sliding window, the morning sun shines on red leaves falling from a tall tree beside the beach storage shed.

“Any particular reason you were searching for that ring?” Cliff asks.

“Not really,” blasé Elsa answers. “I just like looking at it.”

“Ah yes,” Cliff says. “Especially in that… casual way that you do. Every time you’re here.”

“ Basta , Cliff—”

“No.” Cliff takes a swallow of fresh orange juice. His tone is very serious then. “The next time you see that ring—soon, or weeks from now, or in years to come—it’ll be to make a pivotal decision.”

“Clifton! That’s just… ridiculous!” Elsa glares at him, then finishes her strawberry-fruit biscuit. She carefully watches him, too, while silently chewing. “I just liked looking at it,” she insists again, patting her napkin to her mouth .

“That wasn’t the point of the ring.” Cliff lifts another pastry and dunks it in his coffee. “To just look at it,” he quietly adds.

Elsa? Oh, she employs her usual huff then. She takes a quick breath in that pretty denim dress, waves him off and breaks a second biscuit in half.

But that’s not all she’s doing.

Cliff sees it. As he lifts his coffee-dripping biscuit and bites in, he can’t miss it.

As they sip juice and coffee and talk about the day ahead, he notices.

Notices Elsa’s dark eyes discreetly scanning for that black velvet box.

Her gaze stops everywhere it can behind the accordion door separating his cramped living quarters from his business office.

She glances at his personal closet door.

At a cabinet. Even at the tiny cutlery drawer in his trailer kitchenette.

***

Shane parks curbside at Celia’s guest cottage and trots across her leaf-strewn front yard.

A pumpkin sits on her stoop; her overall-clad, straw-stuffed scarecrow is tied to a porch post; Aria’s white-bearded gnome with a felt hat and plaid jacket sits plump on the small table between two wicker porch rockers.

And what it all is, is this: It’s all Celia, all her life that he can picture. That he wants to fully be in.

So when he crosses the porch, he stops right there at her front door.

He won’t just slip the small envelope holding his note beneath it, though .

Because, he can be in her life—right here, right now. Even for two minutes.

So he knocks on the door.

And when Celia opens it, and he says her name and lightly kisses her, he also lets on that he only has a little time. That he saw Elsa’s car still at Cliff’s trailer.

“Do you want to come in?” Celia cautiously asks.

“No. I can keep an eye out from here.” As he says it, Shane throws a glance down the street. The coast is clear. “Like I told you last night, Celia, I’m going to take any possible minute with you that I can—before I leave.”

Celia’s front door is ajar as she steps out onto the porch. She wears a boxy V-neck sweater over her jeans and bootie moccasin slippers.

“Aria’s up?” Shane asks.

Celia nods. “She’s in her playpen. I put it in the sunlight, in the living room.” She glances back at her baby inside. “And how about you? What are you up to so bright and early?” she asks then, turning to Shane.

“You don’t want to know.”

“What? Why not?”

“ Ah, Celia . I’ll be packing up my whole cottage today and feeling like absolute shit. Especially after having my feet in two places for months now.”

“Here and Maine.”

“And now those feet are leaving here.” Shane steps back and glances down the street once more. “But my lease is up next week. Got to vacate.”

“And I’m really going to miss that little beach bungalow, Shane. Can’t even think about you not being there anymore. ”

“Which is why I considered leaving this ,” he says, pulling her note from his back pocket, “ under your door—and not hand-delivering it. So I wouldn’t have to tell you about my crappy day.” With that, he gives her the note.

“So why’d you change your mind?” she asks, taking the sealed envelope.

Shane gives a short laugh. “Because I’m a selfish son of a bitch and wanted to do this, too.

” After another glance to the street, he leans forward, cradles Celia’s neck and deeply kisses her.

Kisses her like it’s necessary, like she’s the air he needs to live.

A few moments later, still kissing her, he takes a step back, then another—while still holding on to that kiss.

Finally, he breaks away, leaves an open hand on her face for a mere second, then jogs across the front lawn toward his parked pickup.

“I can stop by your place later this morning,” he hears Celia call when he’s halfway across her yard. He slows and turns to her.

“Me and the baby,” she says, moving to the stoop. “Before I run some errands.”

“No, you’re busy,” Shane tells her, backing away again.

“I heard Aria inside. And it’s Thursday.

You have your first staging class tonight.

” He waves, trots to his truck and turns back right before climbing in.

“Open that note when you have some spare time later,” he quietly calls, then gets behind the wheel and cruises away.

He exhales a relieved breath, too, when he looks in the rearview mirror and sees Celia back inside and closing the door behind her.

As though no one had ever been there.

On her stoop.

Kissing her good morning.

Loving her.

Not wanting to let go.