Shell Beach

Book 7: Miramar Bay

by Davis Bunn

Genres: Christian Romance; Women's Fiction; Religious & Inspirational

Synopsis

A rapturous story of second chances, self-discovery, and long-held dreams that just won’t let go, from the international bestselling author of the California-set Miramar Bay novels.
A man adrift …
Noah Hearst is leaving a life he’s spent twelve years building. Professionally, a losing battle for his job after a hostile takeover. Personally, signing away his marriage in a split that was a long time coming. Now, the difficult part: deciding who he is, what he wants, and where to go next. Maybe it’s time to realize a
dream that’s carried him through hard times: owning a boat. Traveling the ocean, exploring new ports, embracing the endless horizon. Blissful. Impractical.
Impossible? For now, the dream alone gives Noah the strength to move forward …
An unexpected lifeline …
Jenna Greaves is an end-of-life nurse, devoted till her charges’ final breath. She’s been called a confidante, a surrogate daughter, and a best friend. She is all those to Dino Vicenza, a secretive millionaire who refuses to even speak with his greedy and impatient family. Gradually Jenna becomes Dino’s only confidante,
and something far more out of the ordinary; she shares the old man’s passion for sailing the open seas. With his passing comes an unexpected bequest: a luxury yacht that invites Jenna to break free of old chains, if only she might find someone to help steer her toward new horizons.
One twist of fate and Noah and Jenna are brought together in the most unexpected way to navigate their future—and discover more about life, each other, and themselves than they ever imagined.

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Around four that morning, Noah Hearst decided he’d tossed and turned long enough. He ate a final breakfast at the rental apartment’s kitchen sink, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. Took his last bag down to the Ford double cab. Stood there in the quiet and the dark for a long moment. Wondering if he would ever make it back to Los Angeles. And if so, why.

Then he headed north.

Clearing out his former office had gone more smoothly than he’d expected. Eight and a half years of sweat and tears and very hard days had been reduced to one truckload of boxes and records and plans and models. He should probably have thrown it all away, but just then found it hard enough to watch the movers shift his life into two self-storage units and then lock the metal doors.

Clearing out what was now his ex-wife’s home had been far easier. Three and a half years of temporary separations and endless counseling sessions meant he had already shifted most things into a series of rentals. That final day, his wife safely removed from the scene, Noah had only half-a-pickup’s worth of items still to pack. When he was done, Noah gave his former home the sort of look that could only come from an emotional distance. The pale marble floors, the carefully chosen furniture, the drapes over the rear windows that had cost him almost twenty thousand dollars. It had always been Elaine’s place, somewhere Noah visited between gigs.

That previous afternoon, Noah had found himself taking a slow tour of the artwork, pausing long enough to recall the nasty arguments they’d had over some of the items. The prices, sure, they had been good for some yells. But really it had mostly come down to the art itself. Noah had thought them aimless and angry. Now, he suspected Elaine’s intention was to cover their walls with colorful indictments that he would never give her what she needed from their relationship.

Nine years in Los Angeles and Noah had never been farther north than Santa Barbara. When he needed a break and had the time, he had done what Elaine wanted. The islands were top of her wish list, Kauai in particular. Noah had disliked feeling so cut off from his work and all the problems he worried over leaving behind. Elaine, in turn, had despised how he couldn’t just release and let go. Such arguments always came down to him reminding his wife that these worries were how he paid for the five-star hotel, and her response had been to . . .

With a start, Noah realized he had driven all the way to Long Beach, accompanied by the circular tirade that had dominated his homelife for far too long. Which was good for a bitter smile. Driving north, the remnants of his previous existence packed in boxes that filled his pickup. Arguing with a woman who was doing her best to put him firmly in the past. Which was what he should be doing as well.

The sun rose as he passed Santa Barbara’s northernmost exit and entered new terrain. Amos, his sort-of half brother, had been pressing him to make this trip for six years. Ever since they had finally broken the commands of two sets of parents and connected. But by the time they were communicating, Noah’s world did not permit such excursions. Thankfully, Amos liked coming down to Los Angeles, despite the fact that he and Noah’s ex were definitely oil and water. Amos was the sheriff whose territory contained the farmlands and small communities between Miramar and San Luis Obispo. He was tall, rangy, soft-spoken, and half Black.

When Noah was two, his mother had fallen in love with an African American dentist and left her former life behind. A fact Noah’s father did not divulge until his only son was in his teens. And even then, his father failed to mention the reason for the swift departure was that she was already pregnant with Amos.

Noah had been raised in Phoenix by a good dad and a great mom. He never revealed to them that he and Amos had met and discovered that despite the fact they had virtually nothing in common, they had bonded. From that very first moment.

After the two failed attempts to make peace between Elaine and Amos, the brothers started meeting in Santa Barbara, where Amos had friends with a boat. A number of the boats moored in Santa Barbara’s harbor were owned by collectives. One of these groups had members who owed Amos for situations he refused to divulge. Amos never discussed his work. He loved hearing Noah talk about Hollywood and the stress of meeting one deadline after another. The stars who scarcely knew Noah existed. The tyrants called directors. Penny-pinching producers. Network chiefs. All the people Noah was now leaving behind. Amos relished the hours spent listening to Noah. He said it was like being introduced to a tribe of Martians. But in their six years of meeting up, Amos had never once spoken about his own work.

The boat was no great shakes, a thirty-six-foot Hatteras that had seen better days. It was poorly maintained by owners who preferred to leave a good cleaning to the next person. Amos had found it mildly hilarious how Noah had to be ordered not to clean up after men he had never met.

What neither man had expected, certainly not Noah, was how much he loved being on the sea.

He had never owned a boat. Never been on a cruise. The brothers went out only when the sea was utterly flat. The roll of even medium-size swells had Amos leaning over the side. Noah was bitterly disappointed when weather or waves kept them in port. He loved the open vista. For weeks after each outing, he dreamed of sparkling waters, of dolphins who accompanied them out into the endless blue.

On the nearly perfect days, they cruised the Channel Islands, choosing a lonely cove, anchoring for a meal, swimming in the frigid waters, motoring home sunburnt and salty.

Just loving it.

In the hard, lonely months, Noah found great solace in recalling those moments. Sitting in court, dealing with lawyers, watching his corporate dreams turn to dust as well, his only real comfort came from knowing another boat ride was beckoning.

The dream of having his own boat, going wherever he wished, often seemed more real than the disaster his life had become. Such yearnings became a healing balm, a silent plea for better days once the nightmares were over and done.

As he passed the Santa Barbara exits, Noah resisted the urge to drive down to the harbor and have a second breakfast at his favorite diner, watching the boats sparkle and beckon in the sunrise. But Amos was waiting for him, so he followed his almost-brother’s directions north, past Lompoc and San Luis Obispo, taking the smaller state road through the farmlands and the valleys, into the gathering light of a brand-new day.

Amos and his wife lived in a country-style collective of homes eleven miles south of the Miramar town limits. The development had been started by the children of a rancher. Together with a local contractor, they built homes for people like themselves. Families who loved the country but had no interest in working the land. The lots were generous, the homes low-slung, the owners mostly blue collar and quietly proud of their way of life.

Amos greeted Noah as he always did, solemnly shaking hands, asking about his trip. The house was empty, his two daughters in school, his wife at work. Amos wore his sheriff’s uniform, minus the hat and heavy belt and gear. On his feet were scruffy house slippers. “Frittatas and biscuits work for you?”

“Sounds great.” Two places were set at the battered kitchen table. “Sorry I haven’t made it up here until now.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Those were the last words spoken until both finished eating. That was another thing Noah shared with the man. How Amos clearly disliked casual chatter. If they had something important to say, well, out with it. Otherwise the quiet worked just fine.

Amos set their empty plates in the sink, recharged their mugs, and led Noah to the backyard. When they had settled into a pair of rickety lawn chairs, and Noah had given a few grateful moments to the rising wind off the unseen Pacific and the birdsong, Noah said, “You saw this coming.”

“I was afraid it might, sure enough.”

“You never cared for Elaine.”

“I didn’t need to. She wasn’t my wife.” Amos sipped from his mug, set it on the grass. “In my job, you see a few people at their best, and a lot more at their very worst. You learn to read a situation fast, especially if there’s danger involved. Watching for the unseen blade, the gun hiding behind the smile.”

Noah stared at the angular gentleman seated next to him. All the time they had spent together, these were the first words Amos had ever spoken about his life on the road.

Amos went on. “You’re wrong, what I thought of Elaine. I knew she didn’t approve of me. So I took a giant step back. All the same, I saw how things weren’t getting better between you two, the emotional bruises you carried most times we met. I’ve been concerned she was going to break your heart. That she’d feel like it was her right to hit you at your lowest point. Like you deserved to be crushed. So no, I didn’t dislike her then. But I sure do now.”

“Maybe I did deserve it.”

“And maybe your job in life isn’t to be perfect, but to do your best. Did you?”

“I tried. Given the circumstances. Hard as I could. I tried.”

“Elaine is a lady who wants her man to treat her like she’s the center of her universe. That’s what would keep her happy.”

Noah thought of Elaine’s parents, the way her father had doted on both his girls. Right to his last breath. “I guess I knew that all along.”

“That’s not your nature. It never has been. You’ve got dreams of your own. Goals that had nothing to do with what Elaine wanted. She was jealous of your dreams. She saw them as competition.”

Noah rubbed the spot over his aching heart and watched the cottonwood trees weave scripts in the rising wind. “I loved her. So much.”

“I know you did.”

“Truth be told, I still do.”

Amos waved a hand, like he was swatting at passing shadows. “You want my opinion, it’s time to move on.”

“Elaine would probably agree with you.”

“See, it’s not about her anymore. Which is what I want to talk with you about. When you’re ready to listen.”

Noah heard the sharp tone. The sort of edge a father might use on a son who was leaning toward that wrong and fateful step. He wanted to shout at the man, challenge Amos’s right to talk down like that. Treat his hurt as trivial. Or whatever.

Noah rose from his chair and took a slow circuit around the yard. The family’s massive mixed-breed came over and gave him a careful sniff, then drifted away. He knew his rage had little to do with Amos and his words. It was all about someone finally telling him what he needed to hear. Noah could almost hear the links to his past being broken. The life he wanted to claim. The worlds he wanted to conquer. Gone. Whether he liked it or not.

When he was ready, Noah returned to his chair. Not liking what the man had said, nor his manner. Barking like a cop. Not liking it one bit.

But that didn’t mean Noah wasn’t in need of just that sort of message.

Amos took Noah’s return as his time to ask, “What are you planning on doing now?”

Noah replied, “You know what I’ve been hoping.”

“A boat. A trip. Come back when you’re good and ready. I know.”

“Between giving Elaine half of everything, and not getting nearly what I deserve for the company, that dream is just another thing I’ve left in my rearview mirror.”

“You sure about that, are you?”

“Pretty certain, yeah.” He leaned over and retrieved his mug. “Buying a boat is only the start of what it costs. And the kind of seagoing vessel I was after . . .”

“Expensive.”

“Out of reach.”

“Not to mention how you’ll need a place to live. When you decide to spend a night on steady ground. Where folks are meant to be.”

Noah had the distinct impression Amos had tucked a smile firmly out of sight. “Where are you going with this?”

He rose to his feet. “What say you and I take a ride.”

The San Luis Obispo police storage unit was located in arid scrubland south of the Morro Bay main highway. Buildings and warehouses and acres of equipment were rimmed by rusting metal fence and razor wire. Though why anyone would want to break into this place was beyond Noah. As they rose from Amos’s Wagoneer, dry desert heat struck at him from all sides. “What are we doing here?”

“There’s someone you need to meet.” Amos leaned through his open door and beeped his horn. “Here he comes now.”

A solid man with steel-gray hair and a gut that defied his jacket’s buttons emerged from the nearest concrete structure. “Cabrón!”

“Zia Morales, meet my brother, Noah Hearst.”

The man’s stride revealed a gold detective badge attached to his gun belt. A matching gold tooth glinted when he smiled. “Amos, my man, I hate to be the one to tell you, but this guy, he’s Anglo.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

The man’s grip was iron hard. “Amos tells me I’m looking at another addict.”

“He means you like boats.”

“Like doesn’t go far enough,” Noah said.

“That’s what I want to hear.” To Amos, “You tell him what we’ve got?”

“I figured he’d probably run for the hills if I did.”

“Yeah, there’s definitely some crazy attached to this.” The tooth caught the sunlight a second time. “But hey. Nobody sane owns a boat, am I right?”

“Crazy works for me,” Noah replied.

“A man after my own heart.” Zia stripped off his jacket and dropped it in Amos’s car. “Right this way.”

Their stroll across the cracked concrete was marked by the constant pop-pop of gunfire. “Gun range,” Zia said. “Latest crop of recruits are busy missing targets.”

Amos asked, “We safe here?”

“Hard to say,” Zia replied. “They’re supposed to be aiming in the other direction. But you know recruits.”

Their destination was the compound’s largest structure, a massive warehouse whose entrance was a full thirty feet high and twice as broad. The shadows offered a semblance of coolness. When Noah’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he froze.

“Welcome to the police auction hall,” Zia told him. “Like I said, crazy.”

The building was littered with an odd array of equipment and vehicles, including two tractor-trailers, four Dodge Chargers, a pair of rusting Explorers, and a derelict mobile home.

And looming over everything was a boat.

The yacht was huge. It occupied the warehouse’s central position and completely dominated the vast interior space. Shadows played over its length, making it seem to move, to shift, to beckon.

Zia stepped to the side wall, opened a metal box, and snapped on the overhead lights.

Seen in the glaring illumination, the craft became transformed. One moment a mythical seaborne beast. The next . . .

The boat was a complete and utter wreck.

The yacht had once probably been someone’s dream. Or trophy. Now it rested on a series of padded plywood supports, exposing a hull blanketed by years of barnacles and rotting seaweed. In some places the growth was two or even three shells deep. The stench of rotting fish was fierce.

But that was not what held Noah fast.

The hull was ripped open in several places—great gaping wounds almost a foot wide, most of them near or below the waterline. The fiberglass was breached outward, shaped like rancid flowers.

Noah asked, “What happened?”

“Shotgun blasts. From the damage, we’re thinking sawed-off twelve gauge.” Zia was almost matter-of-fact. A seasoned detective surveying just another crime scene. He pulled a notebook from his back pocket. “Here’s what we know. Boat is an Azimut 84, purchased new sixteen years ago by its former owner, one Dino Vicenza, late of Santa Barbara. Gentleman died from natural causes last week. Survived by two daughters and grandkids.”

Amos remained a few paces farther away, surveying the scene from a safe distance. “You’re certain the man’s death was by natural causes? I’m only asking because we’re looking at acts of serious violence here.”

“Yes, Amos. I’m sure. The gent was a hundred and two.”

“You’re telling me this guy bought a new boat when he was eighty-six?”

“What, you think you lose all interest in life just because you’re old?”

“We’re talking about a boat, not life.”

Zia shot Noah an exasperated look. “You see what I have to put up with?”

Noah said again, “Tell me what happened.”

“What we know came from his live-in carer.” Zia flipped a page. “Jenna Greaves, age twenty-nine, gives a Miramar home address. Specializes in late-stage home care. Works all over the place. Or she did. Ms. Greaves became employed by Dino Vicenza nineteen months ago. When the old man was up to it, Ms. Greaves drove him to the Santa Barbara harbor, wheeled his chair out to the boat. She gained her pilot’s license, apparently paid for by Vicenza. She took him on short cruises, nothing much. Out to the Channel Islands, tour up the coast a ways. Two weeks back, he sold the boat to his attorney, Sol Feinnes.”

Amos said,. . .