Secrets of Summerland Read online

  Secrets of Summerland

  THE COMPLETE SUMMERLAND STORIES

  KATHRYN MOON

  Copyright for Secrets of Summerland © 2022 by Kathryn Moon

  First publication as Summerland Stories, copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Moon

  Proofreading by Bookish Dreams Editing

  Cover art by Covers By Combs

  Formatting by Kathryn Moon

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kathryn Moon

  [email protected]

  Kathrynmoon.com

  Created with Vellum

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in, or encourage, the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Pumpkin Spice and Everything Nice

  29. 1. Pumpkin Whoopie Pies

  30. 2. Fruit Cakes

  31. 3. Chili Cocoa Mug Brownies

  32. 4. Gingersnaps

  33. 5. Beltane Cake

  Also by Kathryn Moon

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  “You see, Ms. Carson, I’m afraid we only host couples here,” the stunning redhead said. She was wearing an expression that seemed equal parts sympathetic and determined.

  I had no idea what my expression was because I really couldn’t feel my face.

  “Of course, you will be fully refunded,” she said, brightening as if a refund made up for being refused my room at the hotel I’d booked based on being recently single.

  A wounded animal’s sound squeaked out of my throat and I snapped my lips shut, swallowing hard and blinking fast. I was one massive, walking, human-shaped bruise, but I was not going to cry in front of someone so beautiful. It would be like baring my throat to a predator and asking them to put me out of my misery. Especially when I was coming off a red-eye flight and a two hour drive from the airport. After a day of tears and shouting and calling off ‘the happiest day of my life’ at the last possible minute, airport security had nearly set me over the edge.

  It was enough to be a scruffy looking Jilted Bride in front of this woman. I didn’t need to be crying too.

  But all that was easier said than done. I turned away from the front desk, sucking in a breath through my teeth and flicking tears out of the corner of my eyes.

  The Sweetheart Bed and Breakfast was exactly as advertised. Rose trellis gates surrounded private beachside cottages with gardens full of romantic nooks and crannies to tuck away in. And Ms. Amy Sweet—that had to be a fake name—was every bit the picture of perfection she presented on the website. Even the little lobby of the main house was a simple, stylish kind of romantic, with lush bouquets and warm, dark colors. My eyes landed on a painting, in a cherry wood frame, of two figures embracing. It was just on the safe-for-public-consumption side of racy. The perfect influence for a honeymoon.

  A honeymoon I would not be having.

  “My fia- my ex,” I said, turning back to Ms. Sweet, who was waiting behind her massive desk with that same ‘Sorry about your shitty life’ smile on her face. “He’s the one who paid for the reservation. But we agreed I would come here to… to take some time and figure out what I’m going to do next. I can’t afford a different hotel for two weeks.”

  Because it was his house I’d been living in. And his cafe I’d been baking for. And his friends I’d been hanging out with. And his family I’d been celebrating holidays with.

  It was his decision not to get married too.

  Something like anger flickered over the woman’s porcelain face and I thought I was about to be chewed out. Instead, Amy Sweet’s professional tone softened.

  “I’ll tell you what. There’s a coffee shop across the street. Leave your bags here and go get yourself a coffee on my tab—Felix will take care of it. Give me fifteen minutes to sort something out for you,” she said. Her smile softened, “We’ll take care of you here in Summerland, Lucy.”

  I escaped into the gardens, relieved to have made it out without falling apart into tears…again. The grounds of the Sweetheart were fragrant with the flowers bursting into bloom. There was a couple picnicking in a screened gazebo closer to the beach, and I turned away as they leaned in for a kiss. Maybe it would be a good thing if I couldn’t stay here. I wanted to see happy couples about as much as they wanted to see a broken-hearted me. I ducked underneath the archway that practically dripped with wisteria and stepped out onto the cobblestone street.

  Summerland was the kind of pretty coastal town that belonged on postcards. One of Greg’s friends mentioned passing through it on a road trip, calling it ‘one of those little American utopias.’ The only thing that turned up in the google search was The Sweetheart B&B, and as soon as I saw it, I knew it was where I wanted Greg and I to spend our honeymoon. He had been about as enthusiastic as he had for any of the wedding plans…so, not at all. I blamed it on the stress of opening a second cafe location. But I blamed a lot of Greg’s moods on stress.

  I should have just called him an asshole and washed my hands of him years ago. Before the engagement.

  A shimmering, gold lowrider rolled slowly past me on the street, a dark arm hanging over the window and a bright white smile glittering at me from underneath reflective sunglasses. I stared back blankly while the car and its stupidly hot driver turned the corner of the block, cruising away at a leisurely pace. It was enough to clear my head.

  Sacred Grounds was across the street in a wide, red-brick building with large windows that were partially shuttered against the mid-morning sun. I caught sight of myself in their reflection, clothes rumpled and eyes red. My hair was still vividly purple and pink, twisted into a drooping updo left over from my pre-wedding pampering at the salon. I yanked my eyes away from the sight, staring at the sidewalk where I stood, feeling strangely anxious about walking into the cafe.

  But I swear to God, if Greg was going to ruin coffee shops for me too, I might as well have throw in the towel.

  I crossed the street with an angry determination and swung open the front door. There were no bells ringing as I entered and no music playing and no bustle of activity. Just the rich, almost chocolatey, flavor of coffee brewing in the air. There was a pastry case at th
e front counter, empty and with its lights turned off, and I wondered if the shop was just opening or business was so slow they gave up on selling food.

  A man was sitting cross legged on one of the back counters, body bent forward over a black notebook he was scribbling in. A lock of black hair fell forward over olive-y tan skin.

  “What can I get for you?” he asked, glancing up. His eyebrows went up in surprise as he caught sight of me and I blinked, gazing back. He was the kind of dark and handsome that struck me straight in the gut, with large brown eyes and black stubble around a perfect, square jaw.

  “Uhh… americano,” I said, trying to gather all my brain cells together while they wanted to flee in the face of him. I remembered Amy Sweet’s offer of putting it on her tab but didn’t say anything. I had enough money saved for a little espresso.

  It was the prospect of two months rent up-front on an apartment, and a job search looming over me, that had me pinching pennies. But as Greg had pointed out, I hadn’t paid rent or bills for a long time. “You should have plenty saved,” he said. I didn’t tell him about the things I’d splurged on for the wedding. Things he’d said were a waste of money. And they were now. If I’d known he was going to call it off, I wouldn’t have shelled out the extra five-hundred for the better photographer.

  “You got it,” the barista said. Felix, Amy had called him.

  I looked around the shop for something to do with myself while I waited but the decor was sparse. Bright white walls and plain black tables and chairs. There were a few black and white photographs hanging on the walls, scenes from the town like the lighthouse and the beach and the woods I had driven past on my way in.

  I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my shorts and opened my email, almost like a reflex. But the only unopened emails were confirmations of yesterday’s cancellations. I had checked my email about 120,909,234 times since leaving Providence yesterday, and I knew what I was waiting for. The email from Greg saying “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I lost my goddamn mind.”

  And as many times as I checked, I knew that email wasn’t coming.

  I stuffed my phone away into my pocket again. My coffee slid to me across the counter and Felix half-smiled, one corner of his mouth rising in something sweeter than a smirk.

  “How long have you been open here?” I asked. I had minutes to burn before going back to The Sweetheart, and I had yet to see the kind of trinket shop that towns like these always had, perfect for wasting time.

  “Oh…a long time,” he said, shrugging and leaning forward with his elbows on the counter. “Decades or so.”

  The surprise had to be plain on my face. The place looked like it had barely been open a month. “I take it you already had your morning rush?” I asked.

  He grinned. “No one in Summerland rushes. But yeah, regulars have been in and out. Are you driving through?”

  “I’m here for… for a vacation,” I said, because I couldn’t call it my honeymoon if I was on my own.

  “You’re staying at The Sweetheart,” he said and it wasn’t a question.

  “I’m not, apparently,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee to hide my anxious swallow. “But Amy Sweet is working something out for me now.”

  Felix stared at me with eyes that touched my skin, almost tangibly. He was seeing too much of me somehow. But it wasn’t a judgmental stare and when I fidgeted he dropped his gaze to the counter, breaking the tension.

  “If Amy is helping you out, you’ll have a good stay,” he said. He looked up again. “Lemme know if you need anything. The Sweetheart and I are the only joints in town with wi-fi so…”

  “You’ll be seeing a lot of me then,” I said.

  He smirked again, and I blushed. Maybe it was just me that heard the innuendo in the words. Or maybe not.

  “Good,” he said.

  I nodded, awkward and aimless, and made to escape out the door. I stopped at the front counter.

  “Is your baker out of town?” I asked.

  “Ah.” He winced. “Yeah. I have a full kitchen and everything but… no baker, yet.”

  Yet? Hadn’t the place been open for decades? I ‘hmmed’ in acknowledgment. But I didn’t mention being a baker. The coffee was delicious, but there was something a little bit weird about the dead silence of the shop. Maybe the business was going under or maybe eleven was just a slow time of day. Either way it didn’t bode well for pastry sales. And I wasn’t so sure I wanted to get back into that kind of arrangement after the last one.

  “What’s your name for the next time I see you?” he asked.

  “Lucy.”

  “Felix,” he said. “Have a good one, Lucy.”

  “You too,” I said, heading to the door. I was back on the street, halfway to the The Sweetheart, when I realized he hadn’t charged me. Maybe Amy had called ahead for me, or that was just the arrangement between the shop and the B&B.

  Amy was waiting for me with a smile. “I’ve found you somewhere to live,” she said.

  I tripped over my own feet, wondering when I had exposed that part of my stay, before realizing what she meant.

  “There’s a cottage down by the lighthouse. Dylan Waters, he’s the keeper, he just stays up in the lighthouse himself so it’s available. I’ve rented it out for you,” Amy explained. “And the good news is that his rent is much lower than my reservations. You can have it for six weeks.”

  “That’s…” I was going to say ‘too long’ but was it really? Did I want to go back to Providence in two weeks? I didn’t even know if I wanted to go back to Providence at all. “That sounds great,” I said.

  Amy slid a piece of paper across the counter to me, hand drawn lines and arrows with curling letters spelling street names. “The GPS tends to act a little funny around here,” she said.

  “Thanks.” There was even a little car parked on the page right where I had left the rental. I looked up at the woman across from me, her blue eyes sparkling while mine were probably bloodshot and puffy from crying. “Thank you. For all the help.”

  Despite not letting me stay in your hotel cause I got dumped, I thought. Maybe this would end up better. At least I would have more time to get back on my feet.

  “It’s what I do,” she said, smiling widely.

  She looked a little smug, but I probably would have too if I looked like her, so I smiled back and grabbed my things from the side of the desk.

  “Good luck, Lucy,” Amy said. “Call me if you need anything, even just lunch and chat.”

  I thanked her again, shouldering my bags and heading back out through the garden.

  The drive through Summerland was quick and a little surreal. Every sign in a window read Open, but the streets were empty. It was the beginning of June and a sweet little town like this should have had tourist traffic, at least passing through. But there was a hardware store and a grocers and a florist shop and a bookstore and a pharmacist and a butcher shop… and no one seemed to be in need of them. I made it out of the main drag, swinging past the long stretch of sandy beach up to where it turned rocky and curvy. I took the car up a hill and the lighthouse was at the top, a dusty yellow cottage on the opposite side of the street.

  I pulled into the gravel driveway, lined with gated vegetable gardens on either side. The cottage was one-story, raised up with a porch stretched across the front and a little wicker loveseat. It had gray-blue shutters, the yellow color painted over brick. The roof was peaked and the blue screen door swung open as a man walked out, arms loaded with white sheets. I parked and he stopped at the top step, squinting down at my car.

  Apparently they grew them pretty in Summerland. I had yet to see someone even remotely unappealing and this guy, clearly the lighthouse keeper in his bright yellow raincoat, was no exception. I’d expected some grandfatherly bearded gentleman with a wooden pipe and leathery, weathered skin. Dylan Waters had a beard but it was short and dark, matching the deep brown sweep of his hair. He was tall and slim with an almost boyish handsomeness. Boyish meets smoldering un
derwear model, maybe.

  “Lucy Carson?” he asked, voice low and dry as I stepped out of my rental.

  “Hi,” I said, wishing I’d been able to change or least splash some water on my face before I kept seeing all these drop-dead gorgeous men. “Thanks for… for the cottage and everything.”

  He shrugged, stuffing his hands into jean pockets and looked down as he took the steps down off the porch. “Amy likes to set these kinds of things up,” he said dismissively. “Better just to let her have her way.”

  My mouth hung open while my brain scrambled for something friendly to say in response.

  “Help yourself to anything in the garden,” he said, and somehow he made the offer sound cursory too. “Made sure there was coffee and tea and some basics in the kitchen for you. House is probably stuffy from sitting empty so long.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I… I really appreciate you doing this.”

  He grunted in answer, passing me. I made a face at the cottage. Had Amy Sweet blackmailed him into renting to me?

  “I’ve got a spare key up at the lighthouse if you run into trouble and…” he shuffled in place on the gravel and twisted to take another look at me. “Just come up if you need anything.” Then he rolled his eyes and walked away, jogging across the road to the catwalk up to the lighthouse.

  “I’ll try not to,” I said to myself.

  I grabbed my bags from the backseat and juggled them at the front door, swinging it open with my foot and stepping inside. It may have been a little stuffy, but either Dylan took careful care of it or he’d done some kind of magic to clean it up as I was heading over. There was a kitchen on my left and a door into a small living room on my right. I dropped my bags and went straight for the kitchen. There was a small table set against the hall wall, big enough to seat three at most and a deep porcelain sink and long wooden counter along the far wall. Across from me sat a small stove, old fashioned but in good enough condition for use.