Page 33 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

JASON’S BACK AT IT.

Monday morning, he wastes no time. At the big L-shaped office desk in his barn studio, he first opens mail piled up from the weekend.

A bill; a magazine and catalog; an invitation to speak at an architecture conference.

Everything gets logged, paid, or tossed.

The wheels of his chair roll over the wide-planked barnwood floors.

The padded seat creaks as he reaches for this; opens a drawer for that; straightens his framed Yale degree hanging on the wall beside him.

He also logs on to his desktop computer to check for any work emails.

Shakes his head at the full inbox, then logs off.

He’s got more pressing matters right now.

Yes, he promised Maris he’d write their Christmas card message. And he had been working on it over the weekend—but hated every variation.

Problem is, Maris has been busy cropping a few photographs and wants to put in their holiday card order.

So he tries crafting a decent holiday message again now.

It’s early morning and he’s well rested.

This barn space, with its ever-present scent of wood dust and tools left over from his father’s masonry days, inspires creativity, too.

It has Jason pick up his pen and pull a sheet of paper from his desk drawer.

Putting that pen to paper, he gets to it. Jots a few lines.

As the year draws to a close … Which his pen scratches out.

During this season of joy … Which his pen draws a straight line through .

It’s been a year of memories. And our lives are richer for you being a part of them. His pen hovers over that one.

“Aargh,” Jason finally says. “No, no, no.” Sitting back in his creaking chair, he lifts his paper and rereads the pathetic lines.

Scrutinizes them while sliding his father’s Vietnam War dog tags along the chain on his neck.

Does something else then, too. He utterly crumples the paper and tosses it with several others in the trash.

Now he’s got another problem. He’s out of time.

Gauging from the morning sunlight shining down through the barn’s skylights, he’s been ruminating on his holiday message an hour already.

And his schedule is jam-packed today. So he stands, puts on a faded denim jacket over his long-sleeve black pocket tee.

Grabs his work duffel, too. Walks past the wall of massive framed photos exhibiting his redesigned beach homes.

Picks up a fallen sheet of graph paper and drops it on his drafting table.

Stopping at the barn’s double slider, he also texts Maris in the house.

Plucks out a message telling her that he’s leaving now, then drops the phone in the cargo pocket of his dark khakis, locks the door behind him and heads out.

***

As he cruises the beach roads toward the trestle, Jason drives past Shane’s empty cottage rental. It’s a stone’s throw from Long Island Sound—and looks it. The shingles are weathered from the salt air. The cream trim paint is peeling. Scrubby beach grass grows alongside the cottage.

But it’s a pot of golden mums that gets Jason to pull in the driveway.

The flowerpot is tipped over on the front porch.

So he gets out and rights the pot. He also walks down the boardwalk-planked path to the back porch to be sure things are in order there.

Dried beach grasses brush against his cargo pants. His work boots thud on the wood planks.

And it’s just what he expected as he turns the corner and climbs the seven porch steps.

Beneath the sloped roof extending from the rear of the cottage?

Everything’s been stripped, cleaned, put away.

No décor is left behind. No harvest lights.

No pumpkins. Just a few tarnished lanterns clustered near the screen door; some beach grasses spilling from a rusted milk can; patchwork quilts folded into a large basket near the bench; mismatched chairs pushed in tight to the faded white table.

Standing there in the still morning now, Jason moves to the half-wall and looks out through the open-air space where windows should be.

He draws a hand down the scar on his whiskered jaw.

Small waves break past the backyard at the tiny beach below.

The gentle waves splash onto the sand and hiss in retreat. Like they always do.

There’s no trace of Shane Bradford, though.

None.

Hell, it’s like he was never even here.

***

The thought spooks Jason all the way to the Dockside Diner. How with the snap of your fingers, or the turn of the calendar, or the ticking of a clock’s minute hand—someone’s just gone.

So he’s glad to pull into the busy diner parking lot.

When he walks in the front door, it’s obvious Kyle is still in full autumn-harvest mode.

Orange twinkle lights frame the glass-domed dessert case, the doorway, and are even looped around the vintage buoys hanging like pendant lights from the ceiling.

A cornstalk tied in rust-colored ribbon leans against the diner’s Specials board.

And small pumpkins line the counter—which is right where Jason’s headed.

He makes his way past folks eating scrambled eggs and bacon, or a short stack of pancakes.

A few regulars nod at him or give a wave.

Jason claps the shoulder of an older fellow finishing up an omelet. “Smithy, great to see you,” he says.

“You too, Jason. Everything good?”

“Now it is.” As he says it, Jason sits at his reserved stool next to Smithy. Kyle’s apparently on top of things today. A warmed cinnamon cruller is laid out on Jason’s plate. A napkin and flatware are beside it.

And there’s Kyle—right on schedule—in full chef getup: white apron over black tee and slacks. Most importantly, he’s picking up the coffee decanter and pouring Jason a steaming mug of java.

As he does, Jason cuffs his denim jacket sleeves, then pulls a tiny spiral notepad and pen from his cargo pants pocket.

He sets it all in front of him, thinking you never know when inspiration might strike.

Maybe he’ll be moved to write that holiday message right here.

Around him, voices chatter; silverware clinks on plates; folks turn newspaper pages.

Beyond the counter, stoves sizzle in the kitchen. It’s all so… casual. Easy.

Yeah, this change of scenery could be good.

“Yo, Barlow,” Kyle says, setting down the coffee near his cruller plate. “You’re finally here on a Monday. In your absence the past couple of weeks, I’ve been chowing down your crullers.”

“Yeah, well. Not today, guy. I really need the energy boost this morning.” Jason lifts that warm, sweet cruller and takes a bite.

“Really? What’s going on?” Kyle pours himself a cup of coffee and asks over his shoulder, “Busy day?”

“Busy week , actually. At the shotgun project over at White Sands? New outdoor shower’s been framed. Front porch, too. So the new roof and siding’s going up on the whole place this week.”

“No kidding. What’d they go with on that charmer?”

“Vertical board-and-batten.” Jason dunks his cruller in his hot coffee. “Navy. With wide white trim.”

“Ah, nice. Real coastal look.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty dope. And at my new Stony Point project?”

“The one you’re building up rather than out?” Kyle asks as he straightens a newspaper left askew on the counter.

Jason nods. “Borrowing features from a lighthouse,” he says, biting into his coffee-soaked cruller.

“Lots of work happening in my barn studio on that one. Drawing up the preliminary budget. Formalizing initial designs for the client. Considering zoning constraints. So you can find me at my drafting table much of the week. When I’m not at Mitch’s place—filming for Castaway Cottage . ”

Kyle sips from his coffee. “And what do you got there?” he asks, nodding at Jason’s spiral notepad. “Notes to keep it all in order?”

“Oh, I’ve got notes, all right.” Jason flips open the tiny pad and flashes Kyle the pages filled with nearly illegible handwriting. “I’m trying to write this Christmas card message that Maris wants.”

“What?” Kyle leans closer and squints at the pages.

“Yeah. For our custom holiday card I told you about.”

“Wait. Hold up there, dude.” Now Kyle leans against a countertop behind him and crosses his arms. “Those cards need a message , too?”

“Sure do.” Jason takes a big bite of his cinnamon cruller. “We took our photos, and now this is next,” he says around a mouthful.

“Not like the good ol’ days, is it?” Smithy muses. “Crack open a box of cards and… easy as that,” he adds, tipping up his mug for the last of his coffee.

“You got it,” Jason agrees.

“So that’s why I saw your Christmas tree in the window this weekend?” Kyle asks. “For your photo shoot? Already ?”

“Already—and done. Maris put up the tree last week and we got the shot. She’s designing the actual card now. I’ve got to lock down the message.” Jason takes a long swallow of coffee. “If I could only think of something to say.”

“Eh. I faced the same thing when I wrote your best man speech. Writer’s block,” Kyle lets on. “I remember Elsa giving me some good advice when I was stumped.”

“And what was that?” Jason asks.

“Write from the heart , man. Always write from the heart.” As he says it, Kyle pats his chest. “And you’ll get there.”

“Been trying.” Jason holds up his scratch pad.

“The real question, sir,” Smithy pipes in as he grabs his check and stands to leave, “is do you have a heart?”

Jason’s got to laugh with that one. “Guess we’ll find out should the words ever flow.”

“Well, good luck to you,” Smithy says now, leaving Kyle’s tab and tip on the counter. “Holidays start earlier and earlier these days.”

“And how!” Kyle agrees, giving a wave to Smithy. “But seriously, Barlow. Your tree’s still up and twinkling. It’s only October. You didn’t take it down for now?”

“Nah.” Jason soaks what’s left of his cruller in his coffee. “We’re leaving it up for the season.”

“Little early, no?” Kyle asks.

“Kind of. But we actually hung out by that tree a lot this weekend. After raking up the yard Saturday, we killed a few hours near it. Turned the lights on and just chilled. Last night, too. Had some wine. Hell, we’re enjoying it more now than during the crazy-busy holidays.”

“I hear you.” Kyle sips his coffee. “Problem is…” He fr ets a little now.

Sets down his empty coffee cup and picks up a rag to wipe the counter.

“Once Lauren catches sight of that twinklin’ tree at your place?

She’ll be after me to get our Christmas box out of the attic. To plan our photo session. The works.”

“Hey. Go with it, man.” Jason stands and pockets his pad and pen. He also pulls out his wallet and leaves a few bills on the counter. “It’s really not so bad.”