Roxanne Claire: Barefoot by the Sea

She fluffed for a long time, probably more than the pile required, but every poke of the pitchfork was relaxing to her. Each time she lifted a few layers, her mind slipped back to that first farm and that first true love.

She’d loved Billy, yes, but she couldn’t give him all the credit for the pleasures she discovered in gardening and farming. Growing something from nothing thrilled her; she loved the systems, the process, the bone-deep satisfaction of doing something a certain way—the only way, the right way—and getting exactly the desired result.

After a month on that farm, she’d known she’d found her calling in life. And after a few months with Billy, she’d thought she’d found the man who’d be the love of that life.

And he had been—for a while. She stabbed the fork into the heap, heaving a full load with a grunt, letting the old failure demons work as if they themselves held that pitchfork. Guess not everything gets the desired result, no matter how much you do things the right way. She’d failed in her marriage, failed at her attempts to be a mother, failed—

“Tessa, here you are!”

She spun at the sound of a man’s voice, surprised to see Clay Walker coming around the greenhouse. Lacey’s husband, and the resort’s main architect, rarely made it out to the gardens.

“Where else would I be?”

“At the resort, with Lacey.”

She drew in a soft breath. “Shoot. I was supposed to go over the chef apps with her, wasn’t I?”

“I told her I’d look for you on the way to the house. I need to relieve the sitter.”

“I thought Lacey had the baby with her today.” A little disappointment tugged inside her chest. The only thing she liked more than planting, harvesting, and composting was a chance to hold Elijah, and she’d planned to do just that while they reviewed resumes.

“No, she’s interviewing.”

“Interviewing?” That wasn’t right. “I thought we were going over the new applications first.”

“There was a walk-in who blew her away. She didn’t even want to leave to get Elijah—that’s why I’m going home.” He stepped back, obviously anxious to leave. “Better hurry, and so should you.”

She looked down at her khaki work shorts and boots and a T-shirt streaked with dirt. She had to interview a potential chef smelling like the compost bin?

Taking only the time she needed to wash her hands, she jogged across the western border of the gardens, past Rockrose, one of the prettiest and most secluded villas at Casa Blanca, and straight to the beach.

As she hustled along the walkway that cut through the property parallel to the shore, she looked out to the Gulf, noticing that the drier winds brought a slight wave to the usually calm swells. That meant the best shell-hunting possible.

Could this be the day she’d find a junonia?

She crossed a quaint bridge to the sand to take a faster route to the resort. Keeping her eyes down, she scanned the shell-laden beach, looking for the one . The rarest shell in the Atlantic would be a coup even for a seasoned sheller, but for a freshman hobbyist like Tessa, it would be a stroke of pure luck. And hope .

She was a practical and sensible woman who knew her secret game was flat-out silly. Finding a junonia didn’t really mean she’d find her lifelong dream. It wasn’t some imaginary “sign.” What she wanted didn’t come from a seashell, for God’s sake. But it was fun to play this game even as she bounded down the beach.

She paused at the sight of a chipped giant cockle, the brownish color close to the giraffe-like spots of the junonia, but she wasn’t fooled. She looked up to check how close she was to Casa Blanca’s picturesque hotel building, taking a minute to admire the view. The resort’s khaki-colored barrel-tile roof angled over creamy Moroccan-style archways always reminded her more of a sandcastle built on the shores of northern Africa than a typical Florida resort.

In a couple of minutes, she was close enough to see the upstairs pool deck peppered with a few guests enjoying a late breakfast. Very few. She moved a little faster, spurred by how much they really needed a great chef to rebound from the scathing review they’d suffered shortly after the soft opening. For weeks they’d been running ads and reviewing resumes, but the real talent was either out of their price range or had no interest in working or living on the unpretentious barrier island of Mimosa Key.

So who was Lacey interviewing?

As she approached the employee entrance, Tessa took one more glance at the sand, slowing when she caught a glimpse of brown about ten feet away. Was that a jun—

“Tessa!” The back door popped open and Lacey’s coppery hair appeared in the sunlight, along with her not-so-thrilled expression. “I thought you’d never get here. Why don’t you answer your cell?”

Because it was probably under a pile of seed invoices in the greenhouse.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” Tessa squinted at the shell, then Lacey. “I didn’t know we were interviewing anyone.”

Lacey didn’t say anything in response. Whoa, was she mad? Maybe. She leaned on the door, arms crossed over a pretty white sweater that hung down to her hips and showed off the figure she’d been working so hard to get back to pre-baby weight. Her expression was tight, and strange.

“Sorry,” Tessa said again, the dry sand kicking up under her work boots. As she reached Lacey, she took one more look, peering at the tiny brown shell a few inches from an empty chaise. She had to check. “One second, Lace.”

Lacey snagged her arm. “Now.”

“Lacey, that’s a…” How could she explain this silliness? A shell I think will mean I’m going to have a baby. “Can I just…”

Lacey shook her head and tugged her inside. “Listen to me.”

“I know I’m late, but…” She stole one more look over her shoulder, memorizing the shell’s location. Not that there was a chance in hell a junonia wouldn’t be snatched up by the first person who saw it. “I need to get—”

“No.”

At the harsh syllable, Tessa turned from the sunny beach to look at her friend, a woman who rarely spoke a word that wasn’t encouraging, warm, and selfless. “What’s the matter, Lace?”

Lacey blinked her brownish-gold eyes, her expression balanced precariously between excitement and dread. “Nothing. Everything. Maybe something.”

Tessa laughed softly. “Does not compute, boss.”

Lacey let out a slow, exasperated sigh, then gave Tessa a once-over. “You really should answer your cell phone.”

“I’m sorry. Am I too filthy to interview a chef?”

“This chef.”

Tessa frowned. “Why?”

“Listen, I have good news and I have… other news.”

“Good news first,” Tessa said instantly.

“I found a chef, I mean, I found the chef.”

“Really?” What a relief that would be. “You’re sure?”

“So sure. He’s brilliant, talented, fast, creative, cheap, and can start tomorrow.”

“That’s awesome.” She reached out to squeeze Lacey’s arm. “What’s the other news?”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Walker?”

Tessa turned at the low voice that came from the hall, the sound oddly…familiar. She knew that voice.

“I’ve got the prosciutto eggs Benedict…” His words faded as their eyes met and locked, his as crazy ice blue as she remembered, hers no doubt widening in speechless shock.

“That would be the other news,” Lacey whispered.

Ian suspected he might run into the sperm-hunting gardener. When the talkative old lady in the convenience store mentioned that the local resort was probably going out of business if they didn’t find a chef, he remembered that the dishy woman he’d met in the bar had said she worked at a resort.