Moon Dance Page 5

  Georgia felt hopeful and almost whole, and, coming on the heels of Ivan's humiliating tirade, hopeful and almost whole were nothing to sneeze at.

  She took a deep breath of cool sea air and leaned her face up to catch the light. The sun was well up now, and the first of the scavenger seabirds had joined her on the beach. Tiny birds chased the tide and pecked frenetically at the sand, searching for breakfast that hid just below the surface, while the larger birds—gulls, Georgia assumed—fought over larger prizes plucked from the surf. Just as Georgia pitched the remains of her coffee onto the sand, a voice from behind called, "Wait! Don't!"

  Startled, she turned to face a silver-haired gentleman who wore a dark green corduroy jacket and a horrified expression.

  "Was that coffee you just tossed away so casually?" he asked.

  Georgia laughed. "It was. But it was cold…"

  "Even cold coffee has its place on a day like this. I was about to offer to buy it from you." He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. "You wouldn't know where I could purchase some of my own, would you?"

  "The Bishop's Inn serves breakfast." She smiled back, then hesitated. "At least, they do for guests. I don't know for sure if the dining room is open to the public, though."

  Georgia shook the sand from the sleeping bag, struggling to hold on to it as the wind whipped up underneath the fabric, causing it to flap loudly.

  "Here, let me help you." The gentleman reached for the escaping end of the bag and returned it to Georgia to fold into a puffy rectangle.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He stood several feet from her, and nodded out toward the ocean. "I trust you enjoyed the sunrise."

  "Yes."

  "Spectacular, wasn't it?"

  "It was. I didn't see you on the beach, though."

  He turned and pointed down the beach to their left. "I was watching from the dune. I try never to miss a sunrise over the ocean—when I'm in the neighborhood, that is."

  "I didn't know that anyone else was as crazy as Laura."

  "Laura?"

  "My sister. She talked me into coming down to watch the sun come up."

  "But you're glad that she did."

  "Eternally grateful. I won't soon forget it."

  "Well, I'll let you in on a little secret." He lowered his voice: "If you come back tomorrow, you'll get to see it again."

  "I just might do that."

  Georgia bundled the sleeping bag to her chest and leaned over to lift the thermos from the sand, then shook it to see if it was empty. "I thought I might have a little coffee left to offer you, but it appears I've polished it off." She shrugged apologetically.

  "That's very thoughtful of you, all the same. Perhaps when I've finished my walk I'll stop at the… what did you say the name of the inn was?"

  "The Bishop's Inn. It's on the corner of Sea View and Bay Boulevard."

  "A big, rambling old Victorian place with a mile or so of porch wrapped around it?"

  Georgia nodded. "That's it."

  "Well, then, perhaps I'll see you there before too long. It's been my pleasure, miss." He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat and nodded before walking off toward the far end of the beach, where the stone jetty reached into the Atlantic.

  He walked close to the shoreline, carrying himself straight as a soldier across the sand. A pleasant enough fellow, she mused. Must be close to Mother's age, maybe a bit older, but only by a few years, I'd guess.

  Georgia trudged through the soft sand to the wooden steps that led up to the sidewalk beyond. Pausing at the top, she looked back. Her mystery man had climbed onto the rocks and stood at the end of the jetty, his hands shielding his eyes from the reflection of the sun off the ocean, as if searching for something. Dolphins, maybe, unless it's too cold for them, too, she thought as she turned back toward the path that would take her to the inn. It occurred to her then that if she hurried, she might make it back to the inn in time to have breakfast with her niece, Ally— Laura's daughter—a lively and wonderful five-going-on-six. She quickened her pace, leaving the beach and the stranger behind.

  three

  "Ummm… something smells wonderful."

  Georgia stood in the kitchen doorway and sniffed appreciatively. Felled by a cold two days after her early morning visit to the beach, she had been living on chicken soup and herb tea for three days thereafter.

  "I thought you might be ready for something a little more substantial now that you're finally venturing beyond your sickbed." Laura lifted the pot of steaming pasta from the stove and turned to the sink, where she dumped the contents into a waiting colander. "Jody made a fabulous pasta primavera for the inn's guests tonight, and there appears to be just enough left over for Ally, you, and me."

  "Sounds wonderful. And I think my cold has pretty much run its course. How annoying to get sick on the first vacation I've had in years. I've done nothing but sleep and read and sleep and drink tea and sleep since my second day here."

  "Must have been all that cold beach air the other morning."

  "I think it's more likely the result of stress; lowers your defenses. I'm in great shape physically, you know. I get tons of exercise, I eat only very healthy food—don't drink, except for an occasional glass of wine, never smoked—but stress will bring me down every time." Georgia paused to ask, "Where are we eating tonight?"

  "I think the sunroom." Laura's dark hair slid forward onto her forehead as she nodded to the doorway on her left.

  "Good choice." Georgia stepped into the small cheerful room off the kitchen and turned on the light. "Would you like me to start a fire in the fireplace after I set the table?"

  "If you like." Laura moved aside a potted plant that sat in the middle of the small round table and replaced it with the bowl of pasta. "Think you'll feel well enough to take a drive tomorrow?"

  "Sure." Georgia took her place at the table between Ally and Laura. "Where are we going?"

  "I need to drive up to Pumpkin Hill to—" Laura began, and was interrupted by a cheery "Yay!" from her young daughter.

  "Pumpkin Hill!" Ally jumped excitedly out of her chair. "Pumpkin Hill! I want to go to Pumpkin Hill!"

  "Sweetie, you'll be in school," Laura reminded her, and the child's face eased into a frown.

  "But Mommy…"

  "Next time. I promise I will take you next time." Laura leaned over and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

  "But I love Pumpkin Hill! It's my favorite place in the whole entire world. Next to the beach." Ally had not yet run the gamut of her protests.

  "What's Pumpkin Hill?" asked Georgia.

  "It's an old farm that's been in my mother's family forever—since well before the Civil War. My mother was born there. Her sister, Hope, lived there until she passed away last year. The farm passed to Mother when Aunt Hope died, and I try to get up there every few weeks or so to make sure that the local kids haven't turned the old chicken coop into a clubhouse, or burned down one of the barns."

  "Mommy, why would somebody want to burn down the barn?" Ally frowned at the thought of one of her favorite haunts catching fire.

  "I don't know that anyone would want to, not on purpose, anyway. But sometimes people get careless."

  "Like throwing away cigarettes? We saw a film on careless smoking in school. A lady in a car threw a cigarette out of her car window and it started a forest fire," Ally related. "The trees burned, and so did some of the animals. You must be very careful with fire,"—she pointed a finger at Georgia—"or very bad things can happen."

  "You're absolutely right." Georgia bit her lip to keep from smiling. Ally had an earnest streak a mile wide.

  "And it's best not to smoke at all." The child finished her lecture and focused her attention on her dinner plate, where she moved a piece of broccoli out of the way in search of a carrot.

  "Right again," Georgia replied, nodding. "And a ride sounds great. I'm afraid I have a touch of cabin fever. A change of scenery would be nice—not that I don't love the inn
," she hastened to add. "But I am beginning to feel like a bit of a slug. I've barely left my room since Tuesday."

  "Ugh!" Ally groaned. "Slugs are so yucky."

  "And that's why I don't like feeling like one. I'm used to a higher level of physical activity than I've had over the past few days. It makes me feel a little restless to be so sedentary." Georgia speared a wedge of zucchini. "What time would you like to leave?"

  "After we get Ally off to school."

  "Would I have time for an early morning run?"

  "I'm sure you would, if you think that's wise after having been sick for three days."

  "I promise I'll make it a short run, and I'll only go if the weather is decent." Georgia smiled, touched by Laura's concern.

  "I heard the weather report: sunny skies and temperatures in the fifties."

  "That sounds like a heat wave after the cold we've had. A short, early morning rim and a trip to Pumpkin Hill sounds great."

  "Aunt Georgia, I bet I can beat you at Candyland." Ally tugged on the sleeve of Georgia's dark blue sweater.

  "Oh, you think so, do you?" Georgia narrowed her eyes and tried to appear to be seriously sizing up the competition.

  "Yup, I do. I can beat anyone at Candyland." Ally popped out of her chair and hopped to the built-in shelves that ran under the windows. She hunted for the white box that held her favorite game, then brought it back to the table and announced proudly, "I even beat Corri Devlin."

  "Well, then, you must surely be a force to be reckoned with," Georgia told her, recalling that Corri—her brother Nick's stepdaughter, almost seven— took her games very seriously. "Let's just clean up these dinner dishes, and then we'll see who the Candyland champ of this family really is."

  Ally giggled as she set about the task of beating both her aunt and her mother three times out of four, before an untimely roll of the dice sent her back to the swamp and allowed Laura to reach the castle first, winning one game and costing Ally a "sweep."

  "One more game?" Ally had begged, causing both Laura and Georgia to collapse, groaning, across the game board.

  "It's almost your bedtime," Laura reminded Ally.

  "And I have to get up early," Georgia told her.

  "You guys are afraid I'll beat you again, that's all." Ally grinned. "I beat Mr. Chandler seven times today after school."

  "Seven times? You made poor Mr. Chandler play seven games of Candyland?" Laura chuckled. "My, he is a good sport, isn't he?"

  "Mr. Chandler is neat." Ally turned to Georgia and asked, "Do you know what Mr. Chandler does?" Without waiting for her aunt's reply, Ally said, "He finds old ships that are under the ocean and goes down in the water to bring up all the neat stuff that is still on the ship."

  "This Mr. Chandler sounds like an interesting man, Ally." Georgia tossed the game pieces into the box.

  "Oh, he is." Ally nodded enthusiastically.

  Laura slid the lid onto the box and handed it to her daughter. "You can put this back on the shelf on your way out of the room to get ready for bed."

  "Who will tell me a story tonight?" Ally solemnly studied the two women, her hands resting on her hips.

  "I believe it would be my turn tonight." Georgia nodded. "You pick out a book and I'll come read it to you when you're ready for bed."

  "Okay."

  "Who is this Mr. Chandler, whose interests run from Candyland to sunken ships?" Georgia asked after Ally had skipped from the room.

  "He's a guest here, checked in on Tuesday afternoon. And oh, is he ever charming. Late fifties, well built, muscular, handsome, laughing eyes…" Laura grinned.

  "Does he have silver hair?" Georgia asked.

  "Yup."

  "Slightly long, pulled back in a bit of a pony tail?"

  "That's the one." Laura nodded. "You may have seen him around the inn."

  "No, I've hardly moved from my bed these past two days. But I did see him on the beach, the morning we went down to watch the sun rise."

  "Ah, then you must have been the 'lovely young woman who so highly recommended the inn' to him."

  "I believe I did suggest he stop by for the coffee…"

  "Well, I thank you for doing so. It's an honor to have someone like Gordon Chandler as a guest."

  "Gordon Chandler?" Georgia frowned. "Why is that name familiar?"

  "He's been in the news on and off over the past few years. He's a salvager; finds sunken ships, just as Ally said, then recovers the cargo. He's written a book about a Spanish galleon he found off the coast of Florida about three years ago. He's been on CNN a lot recently."

  "Wait—he's the one who's challenging the laws governing ownership of recovered loot, or whatever you call it."

  "Right."

  "Well, how about that?" Georgia mused. "Wonder what he's doing in Bishop's Cove?"

  "Oh, he's looking for the True Wind," Laura told her.

  "What's the True Wind?"

  "A pirate ship that sank off the coast here in the late seventeen hundreds. It had traditionally been thought that the ship sank farther down the coast, closer to Assateague Island. But Mr. Chandler thinks it went down closer to Bishop's Cove."

  "Really? How exciting." Georgia's eyes gleamed. "A real live pirate-seeker. I'll bet Mom would love to talk to him. She has always been fascinated by the whole pirate mystique, and I'll bet your Mr. Chandler knows lots of good stories. She might be interested in meeting him."

  Laura guided Georgia by the arm out of the room and to the foot of the steps. "I'll give her a call in the morning. Why don't you go on up and get Ally into bed, then turn in early yourself. You want to feel well enough to make that trip to Pumpkin Hill with me in the morning."

  "I do," Georgia agreed, "and maybe I'll run into the intriguing Mr. Chandler on the way up."

  "I doubt that you will tonight. He mentioned this afternoon that he was going to be having dinner with Derrick Hubble."

  "Who's that?"

  "Captain Hubble is a local fisherman—an old seafarer from way back. Mr. Chandler wanted to pick his brain about local lore as well as water depths, currents—that sort of thing."

  "You don't think he's planning on diving in the ocean in this frigid water, do you?" Georgia shivered at the mere thought of it.

  "No. He said it takes him a while to gather his data and decide whether or not to pursue a certain vessel."

  "Well, I'll be pleased to see him again." Georgia turned toward the steps. "Are you sure there's nothing else I can help you with before I go up to read to Ally?"

  "That's more than enough. Thank you."

  "Don't thank me—" Georgia grinned—"I'm getting the opportunity to read books I haven't even thought about since I was a child. And I'm loving every minute of getting to know my niece."

  Georgia gave Laura a casual peck on the cheek and headed up the back stairs to the family quarters on the second floor.

  The inn fell quiet as Georgia's footsteps trailed off down the hallway above, and Laura smiled. What a wonderful gift she had been given that day when Delia Enright had arrived at the local historical society to speak to the members. Long a fan of the popular mystery writer, Laura had been thrilled at the prospect of meeting her favorite author, and hearing how she often used organizations just like the Bishop's Cove group when she researched her books. Never in her wildest dreams could Laura have expected that that day would change her life forever. Had she not attended that meeting, she might never have discovered that Delia Enright—internationally acclaimed best-selling author—and Cordelia Hampton—the faceless name on Laura's birth certificate—were one and the same person. The truth had come as both shock and salvation.

  At first Laura had been certain she had not heard the speaker correctly. But as the words passed from the authors lips—"My maiden name is Hampton. Cordelia Hampton."—Laura's head had popped up in surprise to meet Delia's eyes across the crowd, and in that moment Laura knew that Delia not only knew, but had planned this meeting to seek out the daughter she had relinquished thirty-five yea
rs earlier. It had been all Laura could do to keep from passing out. At the end of the program, Laura had approached the speaker's podium nervously and introduced herself.

  "My name is Laura Bishop," she had said.

  "Yes," Delia had answered very softly, "I know."

  The two women had stood for an achingly long time before Laura broke the silence by saying, "Would you like to stop at the Bishop's Inn for tea before you leave this afternoon?"

  "I would very much like that." Delia's eyes had visibly misted and her hands were shaking as she touched Laura's arm hesitantly.

  Delia had stopped at the inn that day, and had ended up staying for the rest of the week. There had been so much to talk about, so much to learn about each other, so many feelings to explore, tears to shed, so much of their past lives to share. While life with the Bishops had been wonderful, finding the woman who had given birth to her—finally understanding why she had been placed for adoption, that it had been Delia's parents who had arranged for the baby to be turned over to adoptive parents immediately after her birth, that the seventeen-year-old Delia had been whisked away to college as if the child had never been born—had only served to add another dimension to Laura's life. Learning that she had two half sisters and a half brother had been an added bonus. She had found much common ground with each of the Enright girls—Zoey, whom she so resembled, and Georgia—and had found staunch allies in her half brother, Nick, and his wife, India. With the exception of one episode, life for Laura had been mostly sweet. Discovering this whole new family had made it only sweeter.

  If only Matt weren't such a stubborn cuss where the Enrights are concerned. Laura sighed as she rinsed out the pasta pot.

  In all fairness, she thought she understood—even though he obviously did not—that he felt threatened by the growing presence of this other, new, family in Laura's life. As a young boy whose nights had been haunted by ugly dreams—the sad aftermath of years of neglect and pain—Matt had found a redemption in the Bishop home that perhaps even Laura could not fully fathom. Laura had been but days old when Tom and Charity Bishop had brought her home. She had never known other parents; another life. Matt's early years had left scare that even now, Laura acknowledged, might not be fully healed. That Tom Bishop had died, and that one never knew for certain what or whom Charity remembered from one day to the next, were an endless source of grief for both their children, but maybe, in some ways, just slightly more so for Matt, who had so fiercely loved the couple who had taken him in and saved his life—and his soul— in so many ways.