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Chapter 16
The ocean waters glittered with morning sunlight. Boats glided away from the harbor toward the open expanse of the Pacific, sails unfurled to catch the wind.
Brooke pulled open the door of the Java Works coffee-house. After placing her order, she walked to the pick-up counter to wait.
Two days after her and Sam’s return from their snowbound adventure, she still felt as if she were an astronaut struggling with reentry. The cabin owner, Felix Milford, had apologized profusely, refunded Aria and Hunter the full cost of the rental, and offered them a free stay for a future booking.
He’d also offered Brooke another ten-day stay at no charge. Despite the fact that the snowstorm had been no one’s fault, Aria felt guilty about Brooke’s shortened visit and promised her a springtime spa retreat.
Brooke hadn’t told her friend that she needed a retreat from her retreat.
Thankfully, Aria’s rumor-suppressing strategy appeared to have worked—aside from a few questions from people about the storm and “glad you’re okay” remarks, no one interrogated her about anything to do with Sam.
“Here you go.” The Java Works barista set a tray loaded with six coffees on the counter.
“Thanks, Janie.” Brooke took the tray and headed back outside to Starfish Avenue.
Balancing the coffee tray, she greeted several acquaintances as she continued walking. Shopkeepers opened their doors and pulled up window shades. People strode up and down the street with a purpose, whether it was work, shopping, coffee, or breakfast.
She turned onto Poppy Lane and entered the old stone building that housedThe Bliss Cove Gazette. The room bustled with noise and conversation—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, printers churning out stories. Since Brooke’s departure, the staff consisted of three staff reporters, the sports writer/editor, ad sales manager, and the formidable editor-in-chief.
Senior reporter Frank Ferguson, who had been with the paper for twenty-five years, lifted a hand to her in greeting as he spoke into his phone. Brooke set his coffee on the desk and distributed the others before walking to the editor’s office. A pane of smoky glass perforated the door and was etched with the words:Charlie Castle, Editor-In-Chief.
Brooke knocked, pushing the door open at her grandfather’s gruff, “What?”
“Morning, Gramp…er, Charlie.” Brooke set his black-coffee-better-be-strong-don’t-even-think-of-putting-sugar-in-it on the desk. “Got your coffee.”
“You don’t need to be bringing us coffee, girl.”
“I don’t mind.” For the two years she’d been a reporter on staff, she’d brought everyone their morning coffee. No reason to stop now.
She rounded the desk to give her grandfather a quick hug. She also stopped by a few times a week to chat with him, both because she liked to and to let him know that she bore no resentment over his attempt to keep her gainfully employed.
Though it still upset her to think he’d spent his own money onher salary, she understood why he’d done it. He’d never been demonstrative, and she’d never actually heard him express love, but he would do anything to take care of his family.
With a grunt, Charlie tolerated her embrace before turning back to his computer.
Brooke sat in one of the chairs opposite his desk and sipped her mocha with whip. “What’s the latest news?”
“Got Ferguson covering the trial over in Glendale. Looks like it could go either way.”
Snapping his heavy eyebrows together, he studied the spreadsheet on the computer. Though he wasn’t particularly tall or big, Charlie had always radiated a powerful, determined energy that made him seem larger than life. He’d had an extraordinary career covering everything from political rallies to wars, and he had the battle scars to prove his dedication.
He’d been threatened, stood in the line of fire, watched people get killed, and suffered an IED injury that left him with a prosthetic leg. Brooke had been sixteen when he’d returned and purchasedThe Gazette, and the return of her reporter-hero grandfather had ignited her own passion for journalism. She’d wanted to be like him.
But she hadn’t lasted more than three years in the big leagues before she’d crashed and burned.
She slid her gaze to the photo of Charlie and Ruth that rested on his desk. Charlie had had an incredible, memoir-worthy career, but it was also true that he and Ruth had a beautiful love story in their own right. With their model of love and devotion, Brooke’s mother had settled for no less than her own true romance.
“Gramps, who do you have covering the Valentine’s Day Festival this year?”
“Rogers. You’re chair of the festival again, aren’t you? Didn’t she call you for an interview?”
“Not yet. Have you ever considered running some profiles on Bliss Cove’s longtime marriages? You know, the divorce rate in his country is half or something like that, so it might be nice to showcase some lifelong romances around Valentine’s Day.”
He frowned, which meant he was processing the idea.
“You could start with your own,” Brooke added.
