Trespassed Hearts Read online

  ISBN 978-1-59789-889-8

  TRESPASSED HEARTS

  Copyright © 2008 by Lynn A. Coleman. 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 permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  one

  “Randi!” Dorothy Grindle hollered from the back kitchen.

  Randi spun around. Her foot caught, and the bowl of lobster bisque dumped all over a customer.

  He jumped from his seat.

  The bowl bounced on the old floorboards. “I’m so sorry.” She patted the man down with the towel she wore on her apron.

  “Miranda Blake, you did not do what I think you just did,” Dorothy spouted as she hurried to the man draped in lobster bisque. He was well-groomed, apart from the soup. “I’m so sorry. Your meal is on us. Feel free to go home and change. We’ll serve you up something special.”

  Randi felt the stab of Dorothy’s penetrating gaze. She needed this job to hold her over. Her home Web-page-designing business was not flourishing as she had hoped it would. “I’m sorry, Dorothy. I must have tripped.” Randi scanned the floor, looking—hoping—for something that would have made her lose her footing.

  Clearing his throat, the customer said, “I’ll clean up in the bathroom. Do you have hand dryers?”

  “No, but I can lend you a clean apron to cover the damp area. And some clean towels to mop up the soup.”

  His brown hair, not too much shorter than her own, draped to just above his shoulders, and swayed with the nod of his head. “Great.”

  “Great” was not how Randi would describe his demeanor. “Controlled annoyance” fit better. The pants he wore were casual but on the upper scale of quality fabric. His wristwatch was modest, but the polo shirt and Top-Siders spelled money and summer tourist through and through. Not that Squabbin Bay received many tourists. From time to time, though, a few sailboats would pull into the harbor and spend a night or two in the area.

  “Hey, Randi,” Jess said with a wave as she marched in and plopped herself by a bay window. “How’s it going?”

  Randi shrugged her shoulders.

  Jess raised her right eyebrow but didn’t say another word.

  Randi and Jess had been best friends since fourth grade. Jess’s father had recently married one of the newest residents of Squabbin Bay. And Randi couldn’t be happier for the two of them. Wayne Kearns had been the youth leader when she and Jess were growing up. As an unwed father, he had raised Jess on his own since he was eighteen. His past experience regarding sex before marriage had been a tremendous deterrent for the kids in high school. At least it had been for her and Jess.

  “Randi, you can’t mess up again. Once more and you’re out of here. I can’t afford a clumsy waitress,” Dorothy muttered in a low whisper, as if to keep the customers from hearing the reprimand.

  “I’ll do better. I promise,” Randi replied. After the lecture and cleanup, the customer still hadn’t returned from the men’s room. Randi took out her pad and went over to Jess.

  “What would you like, Jess?”

  “Nothing. I came here on an errand for Mom.”

  “Oh.” Randi slid the ordering pad into the pocket of her apron.

  “What happened?” Jess asked.

  Randi slipped a stray hair behind her ears to keep it from falling in her face. “I dumped a hot bowl of lobster bisque on a customer.”

  “No.” Jess chuckled. “Please tell me you didn’t?”

  “I did.”

  “Girlfriend, you’ve got to be more careful. You’ve got the only available job in town. Dorothy doesn’t have time to train you.”

  “Don’t remind me. She does just about every day.” Randi scanned the room and visually checked on her customers. “So what’s this errand for your mom?”

  Randi’s joy over the closeness Jess shared with her stepmother, Dena, couldn’t be more complete. In the private conversations Randi and Jess had had over the years, Jess had wondered what her real, biological mother was like since she’d had virtually nothing to do with Jess’s life. Now she had a woman she could talk to. Randi was relieved because she felt inept to guide Jess in her decision to continue dating her college boyfriend, Trevor. He just seemed so strange. But Jess loved him. And Randi hoped that was all that mattered.

  “I’m meeting a new photographer she’s interviewing,” Jess said.

  Jess had gotten her dream job straight out of college, but it hadn’t worked out. In less than a month, she had returned disillusioned and content to stay in Squabbin Bay. Therein was the rub with Trevor. He preferred the city life in Boston and wanted her to move back. Jess hardly spoke about him.

  The customer emerged from the men’s room. The wet spot on his shirt and pants was enormous.

  “Excuse me.” Randi ran to the kitchen and procured a clean apron and some fresh towels for the poor man. Returning with the items in hand, she stepped up to his table. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “It’s over, end of story. Can I have another bowl of lobster bisque?”

  “Coming right up.” And hopefully not on top of you again. Randi grinned while placing his order back at the kitchen window. Even with the huge wet spot, he was more handsome than any man should be, at least to her way of thinking. Randi gave a sidelong glance in his direction. She’d love to run her fingers through his wavy, brown hair. Normally men with longer hair didn’t appeal to her, but there was something about his— Randi cut off her thoughts. He was good-looking. She had noticed. That was the end of it.

  Jess walked over to the stranger’s table. “Excuse me. Are you Jordan Lamont?”

  “Yes, are you Jessica Kearns?” he asked.

  “The one and only.” Jess plopped herself down at the man’s table.

  What was his name? Oh, yeah, Jordan. Randi decided the best order of business was to mind her own and try not to lose her job. She should be able to do that for three more hours, she hoped, and fired off a prayer.

  Jordan felt so foolish sitting there wearing a big white apron. The lobster bisque would stain unless he had a chance to wash his clothes. His overnight bag was in the trunk. Dena Russell had offered him the spare room in her house for the night after their interview, but he would smell horrible and look even worse. The only redeeming factor was that Dena’s stepdaughter, Jess, was now aware of what happened.

  He needed this job. Thankfully, he’d left his portfolio out in the car. No telling what the lobster bisque would have done to it. Oddly enough, if the waitress hadn’t distracted him so much, he would have moved out of the way before the bowl fell in his lap. She had a stunning beauty, her skin tone suggesting a rich Italian heritage. But what intrigued him the most was her eyes. If he wasn’t mistaken, they were charcoal gray, almost black. It had been a long time since he’d seen eyes that dark.

  “Hello? Earth to Jordan.” Jess Kearns’s voice broke in on his musings.

  “Sorry. What did you ask?”

  “If you’d like to have them make your order ‘to go’ so you can get out of those wet clothes and change at the
house, that might help.”

  “Yes, yes, that would be great.” Jordan jumped up and banged into Randi’s tray.

  He saw Jess’s eyes widen saucerlike a millisecond before he felt the heat of the soup pour down his back. He spun around, and the look of horror on Randi’s face said it all. Jordan couldn’t contain himself and laughed out loud. “I’m so sorry.” He helped steady Randi on her feet. “I was going to say make that order ‘to go,’ but you just did.” He kissed her cheek and ran out the door.

  As he approached the back end of his Jeep, he took off his wet shirt. Opening his tote bag, he grabbed a new polo shirt and pulled it on. Brushing his hair with his fingers, he fastened it with the elastic band he kept on his wrist.

  Jess came up behind him. “Follow me,” she said then jumped into a green pickup and turned on the engine.

  He hesitated. He should go back and apologize again. And why did he kiss the waitress? He shook off the further need to apologize, slipped behind the wheel, and followed Jess down the winding roads that covered the Maine coastline. They passed a field of boulders. It looked as if someone had been planting them—there were so many—and yet he knew they were just part of the natural setting that made up Maine. He loved the rocky coast and wanted to paint and photograph as much of the area as possible. But that would only happen if he managed to get the job with Dena Russell, now going by the name of Dena Russell Kearns.

  He could have managed to find the place on his own except for the last turn. There were no real markers to offset the turn toward Dena’s home.

  He’d driven by her studio in town. It had a large plate-glass window, but other than that it appeared to be a small Victorian cottage on stilts built into the rock cliff that lined the north side of Main Street.

  Jess brought her truck to a stop on the broken shell driveway and hopped out. “Bring in your bag!” she called out and marched to the side door of the house.

  They had a great view of the ocean. Jordan stepped out of his Jeep and took in a deep pull of the salt air. It felt good, cool, crisp, with just enough salt and not a lot of low tide.

  “Mom, I found him!” Jess hollered as she walked through the door.

  Found me? As if I was lost? Grr. Not a good thing for a man who’s trying to be hired as a photojournalist. Why hadn’t I insisted on finding the place myself?

  A woman stepped to the door. “Jordan, I’m Dena. It’s good to meet …” Her words trailed off as she glanced at the apron around his waist.

  “Sorry. I met a clumsy waitress.”

  “It was Randi,” Jess supplied, suppressing a chuckle.

  Dena smiled. “The guest room is straight back and on your right.” She stepped inside and allowed Jordan entrance into the cozy cottage.

  “Thank you. I’ll be out in a moment.”

  “No problem. Would you like some iced tea?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Jordan continued down the hallway to the first room on his right. He overheard Jess say, “I’m heading back to the studio to finish the bookwork.”

  He shut the door and placed his duffel bag on the bed of the small but comfortable room. A window faced the ocean. Jordan found himself drawn to the view. He set his hands on the sill and focused on the Atlantic past the rise of the bluff. The royal blue of the sea contrasted the sand and tall grass. He shook off the meanderings of his artistic thoughts and quickly dispensed with the damp slacks and put on his jeans. Unfortunately he had brought only one dress outfit for the interview.

  He stepped out of his room and headed back to the entryway where he’d seen Dena in the kitchen. “Hi.”

  “Feel better?” She placed two glasses of iced tea on the table.

  “Much.”

  “You can wash your things later.” Dena sat down at the table. “I’m assuming you passed by the studio in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t do much local business yet, but I’m working on it. Your résumé showed you had studio experience.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Jordan and Dena continued with the formalities of the interview for the next fifteen minutes.

  “So what questions do you have for me?” Dena asked.

  “I’m curious as to why you’re hiring someone to do the work you’re more than capable of? If you don’t mind me asking,” he added.

  “Truthfully I’ve cut back a lot, but I’d like to pull back further. What I’m looking for is someone who can handle the local business with an occasional photojournalism job. It takes the right kind of person to live in an area so off the beaten path. Tourism is extremely limited, compared to other areas on the coast. There are two reasons for that. One, we’re much further north, so it takes a lot longer to travel here. Two, there are large tourist areas not too far from here. Personally I think Squabbin Bay is one of Maine’s best-kept secrets.”

  Jordan nodded. The remoteness of this location had been one of the things holding him back about the job offer.

  “Mr. Lamont, I’ve done some research on you and your work. You clearly fit my criteria, or I wouldn’t have invited you up. The question is, do you think you can live in this environment? Most folks up here work two jobs. They’re hardworking people with precious little to show for their efforts. That’s why I’m offering the apartment on the second floor of the studio as part of the package. The lab is here in this house, which is why I had you come here for the interview.”

  “May I see it?” Jordan could just imagine a room the size of his bedroom having been converted into a darkroom.

  “Absolutely. Follow me.”

  Dena Russell led him back down the hallway; but instead of turning right to the guest room, they turned left and walked past the laundry room and into one of the largest private darkrooms he’d ever seen. “Wow!”

  “My husband made it for me.”

  He walked over to the light table. Above it were some negative strips. “May I?”

  “Take a look at those.” She pointed to the set farthest to his right.

  “These?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned to look for the sink and washed his hands. She smiled. Had it been a test to see if he’d reach for negatives without washing his hands? Wasn’t that basic photo development 101?

  Looking at negatives took an acquired skill, the ability to recognize the opposite colors for those that appeared. Oddly enough, the strip of negatives was in black and white. And the focus of the pictures looked like an abandoned fisherman’s wharf.

  “Print me up a couple of shots ranging from the grainy texture of the wood to the smoother, more refined photograph.”

  “All right. Where are your supplies?”

  Dena showed him where the various chemicals were kept and the paper. She leaned against the light table and let him work. The uneasiness of the situation abated once he began the process and his mind shifted to his work. First, he made a close-up of the weathered grain of the wooden deck; then he zoomed out and re-centered the frame to slightly off to the right side of the negative and printed a full-size photo. A short time later, he put the photographs in the water bath to stop the chemical reactions then hung them up to dry.

  Flicking on the normal light, he asked, “What do you think?”

  “You tell me.”

  He scrutinized each photo but settled on the one he felt confident was the best. “This one.”

  “Why?” Dena stood beside him looking at each photo.

  “I like the contrast. It looks kinda Ansel Adams to me.”

  “Interesting.”

  He wanted to ask. Did I get it right? But held off. His mind flickered back to the clumsy waitress and her wonderfully alluring eyes. He wondered what they would look like in a black and white print.

  “Let’s clean up and go to the studio.” Dena caught him in his musings. They talked as they put everything in its place in the darkroom. She was organized, unlike him. He’d love to look through her filing cabinets and see how she organized them. That was one of his
weakest areas. He had logs and notes on his laptop, but apart from setting negatives aside with the date on the outside of the envelope he didn’t do much organizing. It would be an honor to work with Dena Russell, even if it was only doing studio work. Then again, he could probably learn that in a few weeks. Would I be bored with no challenge, no adventure?

  The hard fact was he needed a steady job. Income was not what he’d hoped when he left college to pursue his career. Freelancing hadn’t been as profitable as he’d anticipated. To date, he owned a Jeep, a few cameras, some tubes of paint, and an easel. And his nest egg was the size of a twig. His apartment was a room with kitchen privileges that he rented from the other two guys who leased the place. At twenty-seven, he’d hoped to be further along in a career. Far enough along where he could entertain the thought of marriage. But he barely kept himself alive. He didn’t earn enough to support a wife. Not that he’d found a wife yet.

  “I’m glad you handle film so well. Are you equally skilled in digital photography?” Dena asked.

  “Very. When I started college, digital photography wasn’t financially practical for all the students. I’m grateful I was trained in both. I use digital most of the time, but I still enjoy working with the film and always have my film camera with me.”

  Dena gave a slight nod. “Jordan, what’s your dream with regard to your career?”

  two

  Randi tossed her purse on the table. What a day! She made it through without getting fired but only because Dorothy had seen the customer back into her serving tray and not the other way around. The man had to be a photographer, Randi figured, if his appointment was with Dena Kearns. She toed off her sneakers and pulled off her socks. Ever since she started living on her own, she found the freedom to go barefoot around the house. When she was younger, her father insisted she wear shoes all the time, or at the very least slippers, in the house. So she’d been forced to keep her toes covered for years.

  She padded her way to the office, a small second bedroom. Her dad had come by and rewired that section of the cottage with up-to-date wiring and surge protection. Her computers and equipment were the tools of her trade, and unfortunately an uncontrolled charge of electricity could wipe out her system in less than a second.