Summer at Seaside Cove (8 page)

“You were looking at my crotch. I took a gamble that your superpower wasn't the ability to see through cotton, so I figured I'd tell you what you wanted to know. I'm fully buttoned and zipped.”

While Jamie had always hated the fact that her chest and neck turned blotchy whenever she was embarrassed, she'd never hated it more than this very instant as she felt prickling heat flush her skin. God. She'd never met a more irritating, arrogant man in her entire life! The fact that he was sinfully good-looking only added to her irritation. The fact that he was so sinfully good-looking without putting forth even a lick of effort made her want to smack him with the ugly stick.

“I most certainly was
not
looking at your crotch,” she said, inwardly wincing at her prim tone. Just another thing she hated about being embarrassed—she always ended up sounding like an uptight, three-hundred-year-old, virginal spinster. And she wasn't lying about looking—she'd merely stolen a
peek
. That was
so
not the same thing as looking.

A slow smile that could have melted an icicle during a snow storm curved his lips. “Whatever you say, princess.”

For several seconds Jamie's lungs forgot how to work. Holy. Crap. That slightly lopsided smile was potent with a capital Po. She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “I told you—I'm not a princess. And what's this nonsense about me having a superpower?”

“Everybody's got at least one—it's the thing that sets you apart from everyone else. Like Superman's ability to fly, and The Flash's superhuman reflexes.”

Jamie instantly wondered what his superpower was. Probably the ability to stupefy with a single smile women who were pissed off at him. Or maybe it had something to do with other things that sinful-looking mouth could do. Her gaze flicked to his lips and her entire body tensed with awareness.

He shifted the truck into reverse, stretched his arm along the top of the leather seat, and sizzled a few more of her brain cells with another grin. “Relax, princess. It was a joke. Jeez. And I thought
I
needed coffee.”

Since that damn grin of his had again stolen her ability to speak, she didn't reply. He backed down the driveway made of crushed shells, then headed toward the south end of the island. She cleared her throat and found her voice. “Isn't the bridge that leads to Route 4 in the opposite direction?”

“Yes. We're making a stop first.”

“Where?”

“For breakfast. I need coffee and something to eat. I'm figuring you need the same. I know for damn sure you need some coffee, Miss Cranky Pants.”

She shot him a glare that would have curdled milk. “Cranky pants? What are you, in third grade?”

“You're just proving my point. Not much of a morning person, are you?”

“And you are?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Who I'm with. And what happened the night before.”

Before she could reply, he pulled the truck into a gravel parking lot and stopped in a space in front of a small building painted tropical green with bright yellow trim. A lighted sign in neon pink script that ran nearly the entire length of the building flashed the words—

“Oy Vey Mama Mia,” Jamie read, peering out the windshield. “What is this place?”

“The best restaurant on the island—and the fact that it's the only one open for breakfast has nothing to do with it being the best. Believe me, you've never been anywhere like this.”

They exited the truck and Jamie followed Nick up the short pathway leading to the entrance. To her surprise he actually held the door open for her, something she might have remarked upon, but every thought was driven from her head by the heavenly scent of coffee and bacon that instantly bombarded her.

In spite of the fact that the parking lot was nearly empty, there were at least two dozen tables filled with diners, and every spot at the counter was taken. Clearly folks renting out homes on the island liked to walk to breakfast, and really, why not, as everywhere on Seaside Cove was within walking distance.

The interior resembled a retro diner meets coastal beach town, combining a glossy, stainless steel counter with round, turquoise-vinyl stools. The walls were painted a soft Caribbean blue and decorated with hanging surf boards of every imaginable size, interspersed with seashells. A stone fireplace occupied the corner, its mantel decorated with sand dollars. Two tall glass revolving display cases showed off an array of delicious-looking desserts, and mini juke boxes that resembled 1950s automobiles sat at each booth and table. Jamie's restaurant-trained eye skimmed over the open stainless steel kitchen where three cooks toiled, one working the cooking area, one working the small prep area chopping onions like a pro, and the other plating dishes. The aroma of good food being prepared in such a fun atmosphere had her exhaling a sigh of happiness.

They were greeted by a pretty teenage girl with ebony hair that matched her soulful eyes. “ 'Morning, Nick,” she said with a smile that included Jamie. “Two for breakfast?”

“Yeah, thanks, Rachel. This is Jamie Newman. She's renting Paradise Lost for the summer.”

Rachel's smile widened. “Welcome to the island. You're going to love it here.” She snagged two menus. “Inside table or the patio?” Before Nick could answer, Rachel leaned forward and whispered, “Grandma's working outside this morning.”

Nick grinned. “Then definitely the patio.”

Rachel laughed, then said, “Follow me.”

They wove their way through a maze of brightly colored tables and booths filled with couples and families and a few lone diners, then through sliding doors that led outside. The patio overlooked the beach, offering a great view of the white sand and sun-dappled water. A red boat cruised beyond the breakers, a bright spot of crimson in the relentless blue. Rachel stopped next to an oval glass-topped wicker table and set down the menus. “Enjoy your breakfast. Nice meeting you,” she added to Jamie.

She had barely settled herself on the beige-cushioned seat when a petite beaming woman Jamie judged to be in her midsixties approached their table bearing two canary yellow ceramic mugs and a carafe. “
Buongiorno
, Nico!” the woman said, setting the cups on the table. A bright scarlet dress with a beautiful embroidered design around the neckline encased her curvaceous frame, and her lipstick perfectly matched her outfit. Warm espresso-colored eyes dancing with laughter and curiosity shifted to Jamie as she poured fragrant coffee into both cups. “I see you bring us a friend this morning, Nico,” she said in a lyrical voice that bore an unmistakable Italian accent.

“Maria, this is Jamie Newman,” said Nick. “She rented Paradise Lost for the summer. Jamie, this is Maria Rigoletti-Silverman—the Mama Mia half of the restaurant.”

“Nice to meet you, Maria,” Jamie said, extending her hand and smiling.

“
Grazie
. Nice to meet you as well.” She slid her gaze toward Nick. “I told you some crusty old fisherman wasn't going to rent the place. Ha!” She returned her attention to Jamie and gave her a speculative look, then jerked her head toward Nick. “So you'll be living next door to this one all summer, eh?” A hearty laugh escaped her. “
Bene,
” she said, nodding. “It will be good for him. And for you, too.” She leaned closer and tapped her temple. “I
know
these things. I
see
these things.”

“Oy vey, Maria, stop with the crazy talk,
knowing
and
seeing
,” came a deep voice filled with laughter. “They'll think you're meshuga.”

Jamie looked around Maria. A rotund balding man with friendly hazel eyes that appeared magnified behind his oversized black-rimmed glasses approached them, wiping his hands on his apron emblazoned with the words “Reservations, Schmeservations—Eat at Oy Vey Mama Mia and Fuggetaboutit !” Jamie recognized him as the cook who'd been plating the meals. He slid his arms around Maria's waist and planted a loud smooch on her cheek. “Nice to see you back, Nick,” he said, then he smiled at Jamie. “Good morning, Nick's friend.”

Jamie smiled and extended her hand. “Jamie Newman. New to the island. Renting Paradise Lost for the summer.”

“Nice to meet you, Jamie. I'm Ira Silverman, the Oy Vey half of the restaurant.”

“As if gefilte fish is a food,” Maria said with an exaggerated sniff.

“ As if pasta and cheese were the only two food groups,” Ira replied with a grin.

“The only two that count,” Maria said, winking at Nick and Jamie.

“I hate to steal away my bride,” said Ira, “but she's needed in the kitchen. Trouble with the cacciatore that's today's lunch special.”

Maria tossed her free hand in the air. “Whatsa matta for those boys in there, eh? If they've ruined my cacciatore, I'ma gonna whack them upside their heads!”

She hurried away, followed by a chuckling Ira.

“They've been married forty-two years,” Nick said, handing Jamie a menu. “They met the summer before Ira graduated from Yale. His parents wanted him to spend a few weeks on a kibbutz in Israel, but he went backpacking in Italy instead. Stopped in a little café and took one look at Maria, who was working there, and in Ira's words, ‘that was all she wrote.' He went back the following summer, they got married, and returned to the states.”

He took a deep drink of his coffee, let out a satisfied
ahhhh
, then continued, “They used to come to Seaside Cove for a week every summer with their kids. Ira retired three years ago but within weeks was bored out of his mind. He and Maria came back to Seaside Cove for a visit that summer and never left. They bought a house on the island and decided to follow a lifelong pipe dream and open the restaurant. Their kids visit during the summer, and the grandkids work here during their visits.”

“Nice story,” Jamie remarked. “Very romantic. So how do you know so much about Ira and Maria?”

He looked at her as if she were nuts. “I learned their entire history the first time I ate here. I've lived on Seaside Cove for three months—that's like a lifetime in island time as far as getting to know the locals. Doesn't take long to find out everything about everyone who lives here full-time.”

Jamie shook her head. “I've lived in the same apartment for four years and don't know the names of more than half a dozen people who reside in my building.”

“That's the way big cities are. New York?” he guessed.

She nodded. “How'd you know?”

“You sound like a Noo Yawka.”

She didn't think she had an accent at all, but whatever. “Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

Her brows rose. “This is a long way from home.”

“This is home now.” The finality in his tone hinted that he'd left behind a less than perfect situation—something she could certainly sympathize with. Not that she had any intention of sympathizing with him. Heck no. She was only sitting here because she desperately needed a ride to the Piggly Wiggly, and well, she wasn't about to complain about getting some breakfast. Especially at such an interesting, eclectic restaurant.

After several sips of the excellent coffee left her feeling quasi-human, she perused the menu. “Bagels and lox parmigiana with a schmear? Eggs Florentine with a schtickle of mascarpone?” Her gaze skipped to the lunch menu. “Pastrami with provolone on your choice of challah or semolina bread?” She couldn't help but laugh. “Those are some pretty creative food and cultural combinations.”

“No doubt about it—some of them sound . . . well, not really kosher,” Nick said.

“You mean like the matzo balls marinara?” Jamie asked.

“Exactly. But I've tried just about everything on the menu and haven't been disappointed once. As Ira would say, the food is ‘to die for.' ”

“Hmmm. No offense, but you look like the type of guy who would eat stale corn chips from under the sofa cushion and think you'd had a gourmet meal.”

“Now why would I take offense at that?” he asked in a dust-dry tone.

Another pretty dark-haired teenager stopped at the table. Nick introduced her as Ira and Maria's granddaughter Elizabeth. After she took their order, Nick refilled their cups from the carafe Maria had left on the table and asked, “You claim you're not a Photoshopper, so what do you do—besides pound on doors at the crack of dawn?”

“Ha, ha. As far as I'm concerned, you're lucky I didn't pound on your head. With your bag of dead clams.”

“Ha, ha. My killer watch dog would have stopped you long before you ever got close to me.”

“Yeah—she's obviously a real threat. About as much of a menace as Cupcake.”

“Who—or what—is Cupcake?”

“My cat.”

“Your cat's name is
Cupcake
?”

“I like cupcakes. You got a problem with that?” she asked, mimicking his question to her when he'd announced he'd named his dog Godiva.

“No—but I'm guessing Cupcake lies awake at night plotting your death for that name. I hope at least Cupcake is a girl cat.”

“Yes. And she likes her name.”

“I'm sure she'd tell you otherwise if she could talk. So—you never said—what do you do? I'm guessing teacher.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Two reasons. First, you're bossy. And second, you have the summer off.”

“Well, you're wrong,” she said, unable to keep all traces of smugness out of her voice. Thought he was so smart. Ha! “I manage a restaurant.”

“You get fired?”

“Why would you ask that?”