Before the Storm Page 2

  “No.”

  “Well, she was. And it really is time you started living again.” Her pretty, still-unlined face held concern. “If not for your sake, for Emily’s. You’re only thirty-three. You still have your whole life ahead of you.”

  When he failed to respond, she laid her hand on his shoulder, then tucked the handbag under her arm and exited the dining room, passing a young couple whom Mark knew to be on their honeymoon. He watched the man pull out a chair for his new wife, clearly doting on her. He couldn’t help but think of how in love he and Shelley had been.

  He’d been a widower for over two years now, and he supposed the passage of time had lessened his grief. At least made it less raw. But Mark found himself grateful for the distraction of the sweeping antebellum-style hotel. It had fallen under his keeping when his father, Harrison, had died from a heart attack four years earlier on the seventeenth hole of the Rarity Cove Country Club golf course. Its management kept him more than occupied. The property the resort was on had been in his family for countless generations—first as a working Sea Island cotton plantation and then later, as a premier vacation destination on the Atlantic seacoast, some forty minutes outside of Charleston. The century-old hotel was built around the remains of the actual plantation home, the building a much larger replica of what had once stood there. The St. Clair was one of the few remaining independent top-rated hotels in the Southeastern United States and was also on the National Register of Historic Places.

  “Mom’s trademark drink, I see. She must’ve come by to warn you about Carter.”

  Mark looked up as his sister slipped into the chair Olivia had vacated. Mercer St. Clair picked up the crystal flute and polished off the last of the champagne and orange juice. “Should we prepare for the paparazzi?”

  “Soap actors have paparazzi?”

  “If they don’t, knowing Carter he’ll go out and hire some.”

  Mercer’s sardonic grin pulled Mark from his melancholy, and he was glad for her appearance. A graduate of the private Truesdale Women’s College in Atlanta, she’d returned home and fallen into the role of marketing director at the St. Clair. Mercer was a blessing to him—not only because of her help with the family business, but also because she’d become something of a surrogate mother to Emily.

  “Have you talked to Carter recently?” she asked.

  “A few weeks ago. He was purchasing a penthouse apartment in Manhattan and wanted the hotel to advance him part of the down payment.” Knowing how he sounded, Mark added, “And I know—it’s well within his rights. He is a co-owner, as Mom just reminded me. I gave him the money. But with the economy still recovering and renovations on the east wing, we haven’t been nearly as profitable over the past year.”

  “I’ve seen the books. We’re doing just fine. You worry too much, Mark.”

  “Maybe I have a lot to worry about.”

  She sighed in quiet acknowledgment, fiddling with the table’s fine silverware. “So how did Emily’s appointment with the new neurologist in Charleston go?”

  “He basically said the same thing the others have. Physically, there’s nothing wrong with her. We’re starting with a new child therapist next week.” He attempted a smile but couldn’t quite pull it off, thinking back to when his daughter’s voice had been a daily, welcome sound. A time before his wife had died. “This one works with puppets.”

  Mark saw sympathy reflected in Mercer’s eyes. It isn’t your fault, her gaze seemed to say. But most of the time, whose fault it was didn’t really seem to matter. Shelley was gone, and his daughter’s life had been profoundly altered because of it. He stared briefly at the crystal chandelier that hung from the dining room’s high ceiling and grasped for a change of subject.

  “Have you heard of a new restaurant in town?” he asked. “They had a booth at the Founder’s Day celebration. It’s called Café Bella.”

  “The eight-thousand-calorie cupcakes? Those created quite a buzz,” Mercer commented. Although now curvaceously in shape, she’d had a bit of a weight problem in her teen years, something she now kept under control through diligent exercise and healthful eating. “I didn’t have one, but I heard they taste like pure heaven.”

  “They do. I’ve got to admit they put the hotel pastries to shame.”

  “Café Bella’s a great idea, if you ask me. Gourmet takeout aimed mostly at the daytime tourist crowd. The owner’s a graduate of the New York Culinary Institute. Her name’s Samantha Marsh.” Mercer leaned forward and added conspiratorially, “She’s new in town and a real looker, too. More than a few ladies had their claws out at the parade yesterday. Their husbands were making too many excuses to walk past the booth.”

  “Where’s the place located?”

  “Honestly, Mark. The hotel really does keep you busy.” Pushing back her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair, Mercer opened her ever-present red leather organizer, which also held her smartphone. She handed him a business card for Café Bella. “It’s been open for weeks now. Recognize the address?”

  A member of the wait staff called her over, and she left the table. Mark stared at the card’s elegant typeface and Café Bella logo in gold foil print. Sea Breeze Centre, Suite Three. The white brick building with wrought-iron accents was newly renovated and just a block off the Rarity Cove town square. It was also in the portfolio of commercial properties the St. Clair family owned.

  Samantha Marsh—the woman with the to-die-for cupcakes and soft-brown eyes—was one of his tenants.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I loaded up the Hobart, Sam.” Luther Banda wiped his large hands on his apron as he lumbered into the Café Bella storefront from the kitchen. “If it’s all right, I’d like to get on over to the BI-LO now.”

  “Would you mind running by the farmer’s market in Mount Pleasant, too?” Samantha walked to the butcher-block counter, retrieving a list of seasonal fruits and vegetables she’d put together, and handed it to him. “After you’ve dropped the groceries off, go ahead and call it a day.”

  “You sure? I mean, I don’t mind—”

  She waved off his protest. “I’ve already sent the rest of the lunch help home. We close at six today. I can manage by myself for the last few hours.”

  Luther cleared his throat and studied the floor. He was a hulking man in his late forties with rich cocoa skin, a shaved head and sad, timeworn features that looked as though he’d already lived several lifetimes. A faded vertical scar ran from just under his left eye down to his jaw. “I want you to know how much I appreciate the job, Sam.”

  She gave him a soft smile. Luther had been working with her for the last couple of months as she readied the café to open for business. “I should be thanking you, Luther. Getting this place up and running has been a challenge, and you’re doing excellent work. Besides, who else other than you and me is willing to get here so early every morning to make red-skinned potato salad?”

  “I can roast potatoes with the best of ’em.” Grinning, he removed his apron and hung it on a peg behind the counter. Luther went out through the front door, nearly brushing shoulders with a customer entering at the same time. “Afternoon, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Samantha glanced up from where she knelt on the hardwood floor, placing jars of Café Bella pesto and olive tapenade on the shop’s bottom shelves. Rising, she brushed off the knees of her jeans and was surprised to find herself face-to-face with the man from the Founder’s Day parade last weekend. The man with the pretty little daughter who didn’t speak. Luther had called him Mr. St. Clair, and Samantha only now realized who he must be.

  St. Clair, as in the posh seaside resort on the other side of town. As in owner of this very building, among sundry other properties around Rarity Cove. In fact, the Founder’s Day celebration had been in honor of Thaddeus St. Clair, the town’s first mayor.

  “I’m afraid we didn’t meet formally the other day,” he said. “I’m Mark St. Clair.”

  “You’re my landlord. I recognize your name from the contract I
signed at the Realtor’s office.”

  He extended his hand to her. “You’ve been dealing with Jim Drummond, my commercial properties manager.”

  Mark St. Clair had soft-blue eyes and brown hair light enough that it neared a dark blond. He was even-featured and square-jawed, and he looked as comfortable in the crisp white button-down and khakis he wore now as the casual clothes she’d seen him in previously. He seemed rather young to be so successful, but Samantha figured his lineage had a lot to do with that.

  Once he released her fingers, he placed his hands in his pockets and looked around. Samantha followed his gaze to the brick walls with shelving bearing Café Bella condiments and food gifts. A chest-high counter and refrigerated display case held cold salads and pre-made items and, of course, a variety of pastries and desserts. The place was small—only a half-dozen dining tables inside and a few more out on the sidewalk shaded by market umbrellas—but it was a good start. If she discounted the sizable bank loan and her rent payments for the building space, Café Bella was all hers. It had been a longtime dream.

  “The structural changes are in accordance with the contract,” Samantha assured him. “I have a copy of it in back, if we need to go over anything.”

  “Everything looks great, actually. It smells pretty good, too.”

  “Oh…I have a cheesecake in the convection oven.”

  Mark strolled to a display of bell-shaped jars filled with marinated peppers. Next to it, jars of preserved lemons bore the Café Bella logo. He picked up an elegant gift box of chocolate-dipped biscotti.

  “I’ve contracted with a commercial food manufacturer in Greenville,” Samantha told him. “Everything is made according to my recipes in small batches, and I go up there to supervise the preparation. Right now, I’m selling online and here in the store, but I hope to extend to upscale groceries and gift shops, eventually.”

  “My sister tells me you’re a graduate of the New York Culinary Institute?”

  Samantha nodded. She recalled meeting Mercer St. Clair at one of the Founder’s Day events. She’d liked her immediately. “I worked at restaurants and bars in Manhattan while I was putting myself through cooking school, but decided to strike out on my own. I like doing things my way.”

  His eyes held curiosity. “And you chose Rarity Cove of all places?”

  “New York’s an expensive place to start a business, and I had fond memories about coming here once as a child,” she admitted. “My mother brought me on vacation. It seemed so peaceful. It was the first time I saw the ocean.”

  “Did you stay at the St. Clair?”

  Samantha shook her head, a bittersweet nostalgia filling her. “The St. Clair wasn’t exactly in our budget. We stayed at a little fleabag motel a good six blocks from the water, but it was a wonderful time just the same. I remember burning my feet on the asphalt walking to the beach in the mornings. I searched for the place when I first moved to town, but I don’t think it’s here anymore.”

  Snapping herself from wistful memories, she asked, “So what can I do for you, Mr. St. Clair?”

  “Please, call me Mark. My daughter’s birthday is this Saturday. We’re having a few of her playmates over, nothing lavish, and I was going to have the hotel chef make her a cake. But she got such a kick out of your cupcakes that I was thinking maybe I could order some?”

  Samantha retrieved her notepad. “How many?”

  “A dozen, maybe? Will I need to take out a mortgage on the St. Clair?”

  She glanced up at him, saw the disarming levity in his blue eyes and felt her stomach flutter. But she reminded herself of the gold band she’d noticed on his left ring finger. Not that she was in the market for any man—even a charming, aristocratic one like Mark St. Clair.

  “Do you and your wife have a theme for the party?” she inquired. “Something I should keep in mind when I design the cupcakes?”

  “Oh. I’m not…” He looked down, his fingers absently grazing his wedding band. “My wife…she died. I’m a widower.”

  Samantha’s throat tightened in sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

  Mark simply nodded. He clasped the back of his neck. “As far as the cupcakes go, I’ll let you decide. Emily loved the ones with the flowers, though. She’s been drawing pictures of them for the past two days. She even picked some buds out of the hotel planters and put them on one of the cakes in our kitchen before anyone caught her. Our cook staff had to throw it out since the flowers weren’t edible like yours.”

  Samantha tapped her ballpoint pen against her lips in thought. “I have an idea. If you can spare me an oven in the hotel kitchen, I think I can come up with something Emily and her guests will love.”

  “An oven?”

  “What would you think about the party guests making their own cupcakes?” Samantha asked tentatively. She’d read about the concept in an entrepreneurial magazine. Cooking parties were all the rage, including ones geared toward children. It could be a profitable sideline. “If you’re interested, I can provide the supervision and decorating supplies. Of course, if you have other activities planned or you’d rather not deal with the mess…”

  “It sounds great,” he said, looking pleased. “You can use our overflow kitchen. I’ll pay you for your time.”

  She smiled. “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Marsh.”

  “It’s Samantha.” Their gazes held until the chime on the café’s front door rang. A family of vacationers, judging by their flip-flops and sunburned faces, entered and sat down at one of the tables.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Samantha called over to them.

  “It was the Sand Dollar.”

  She again looked into Mark’s eyes, a tingling in the pit of her stomach as he leaned his head closer to hers. “That was the motel’s name. It was off the beach and away from the other places. They had these big fishing nets filled with seashells hanging from the lobby’s ceiling. The swimming pool floor had a mermaid painted on it.”

  Samantha nodded. She could almost see her mother sitting by the pool with a beer and a magazine she’d bought at the drugstore. Her heart constricted at the memory. “That’s right.”

  “It was on Clearwater Street, but it was razed a few years ago. The place was in pretty bad shape. The new library’s there now.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then? Things are starting at six o’clock. I know it’s a little late for a kids’ party, but Emily’s grandmother has another engagement that afternoon and she wants to be there.”

  Once she agreed, he said good-bye and left the café. As his broad shoulders disappeared from view, Samantha thought of Emily. She wondered if losing her mother had anything to do with why the sweet little girl didn’t talk. Samantha knew what it was like to lose your mother at a young age. She was grateful at least that Emily had a daddy who seemed to care for her deeply. Samantha had never even known her own father’s identity.

  “Miss?” A woman in the group waved at her, a fussy toddler straddling her lap.

  Samantha grabbed the paper menus next to the cash register and went to take the family’s order. Once they’d finished their meal and left, she began sweeping the floor where the toddler had dropped bits of cookie and pasta salad. A postcard lay under the table. She bent to pick it up, a jolt sweeping through her as she realized what was on its front.

  It was a photo of Graceland Mansion, accompanied by the words Greetings from Memphis in bold, red letters.

  The cheerful salutation cut off her breath. Trying to ignore the tremor in her hands, she slowly turned it over. Blank. There was no message or address scrawled on its back, no stamp or postmark. In all likelihood, it had fallen out of a tourist’s purse or backpack. Some vacationers exploring the Southeastern United States had probably gone through Tennessee before making their way to South Carolina and the Atlantic shoreline.

  It wasn’t a threat, she chided herself—just a simple, harmless coincidence and certainly no cause for alarm. She dropped the postcard into the
pocket of her apron.

  Still, Samantha realized her mouth had gone dry, and her heart was beating too hard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Samantha sat on the concrete stoop outside her apartment, drinking a diet soda and watching kamikaze bugs incinerate themselves on the streetlight. But her thoughts were still with the Memphis postcard, which she had ended up tearing in two and throwing into the trash at the café.

  If only her memories could be that easily discarded. Six years had gone by, but even now the slightest reminder of her past could still throw her into a tailspin.

  In her nightmares, Devin Leary was coming for her, and he was going to make her pay.

  But that’s all they were—nightmares. Devin couldn’t hurt her anymore. And Trina Grissom no longer existed.

  My name is Samantha Marsh. Closing her eyes, she repeated the statement in her head like some desperate mantra, trying to erase her unease. She had taken careful steps to create a brand new identity, a new life for herself. She had to learn to relax and trust that she’d covered her tracks well. That no one would ever find her.

  Samantha thought of the documents she’d paid ten thousand dollars for when she had first arrived in New York. It had taken nearly everything she’d managed to save to obtain a new name, driver’s license and social security number, pilfered from the deceased. The idea of it had disgusted her, but there hadn’t been another choice. Her life had been on the line.

  A full moon glowed in the dark night overhead, and the peace was broken by a pack of boisterous young men headed in the direction of the beach with coolers in hand. The boldest of them gave a wolf whistle and asked if she wanted to come along and have a cold beer. Samantha ignored them¸ just as she ignored most men, rising from her seat on the stoop and going back inside to the air conditioning.

  The small apartment held only the essentials—a secondhand couch and television set, a single chair at the snack bar. It was almost completely bereft of personal items, partly because Samantha had pretty much invested her last dime in Café Bella, but also because she took comfort in the anonymity. No framed photos placed around the room or hanging on walls, no personal mementos. Nothing that told a life story, not that she had one worth telling. Her one prized possession was the high-end cookware she had bought after graduating from culinary school, copper pieces that now hung from a pot rack in the narrow galley-style kitchen. That one part of her background was genuine, at least, even if the high school diploma that had been a prerequisite for enrollment belonged to someone else. Cooking meant something to her.