The Chance. Робин Карр

She walked outside to the railing and looked down—the deck sat atop a rocky hill.

      “You can’t get to the beach from here,” Ray Anne said from behind her. “There really isn’t much beach—only a little when the tide’s out. You’ll have to go down the street and back through town to the marina. This is considered oceanfront. The only beachfront in Thunder Point is over there, where Cooper is building. Most of us thought there would never be any building there, but Cooper has a plan for maybe as many as twenty single-family residences. The rest of us po’ folk have to get to the beach either from his bar or the marina. This is the north promontory. Straight across there, that’s the south promontory. The previous owner, the guy who left it to Cooper in his will, had always wanted it to be a nature preserve, safe for the wildlife. Much as I’d like him to cut it up and let me sell lots for him, you have to admit it’s beautiful.”

      “Beautiful,” Laine said in a breath. A few trees growing right out of the rocks and hillside below her deck reached up so that their branches brushed the railing. They needed trimming so they wouldn’t obstruct her view.

      “It’s so wet and cold right now I didn’t uncover the grill or deck furniture. I thought I’d leave that to you. You might not want to sit outside in this weather.”

      Laine looked around for the first time. It looked like she had a table and four chairs, a chaise and a rather large grill under the weatherproof drapes. Laine turned and went inside again, taking note of the great room, divided from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. The pictures had done the interior more credit than it deserved. There was a maroon sofa, two uncomfortable-looking rattan chairs, a nice fireplace and zero homey touches. The breakfast nook held a beat-up but large table with eight cane-back chairs. There was a short hall that led to a laundry room, pantry and interior garage door.

      “Bedroom?” she asked.

      “Right this way,” Ray Anne said, leading her back toward the front door and up the stairs. Laine and Devon followed along. At the top of the stairs was a set of double doors that stood open to expose a rather small but comfortable-looking master bedroom. Not a suite, but a bedroom. One queen-size bed, one bureau, one bedside table and a fireplace. But it had a triple-wide set of sliding glass doors and a small deck again with the most stunning view. Laine was drawn to it. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head at a vision of sitting against big pillows, looking out the window at the clouds, only the fireplace lighting the room.

      Falling asleep with the light of the fireplace in the room held a special appeal. Since the shooting, she’d left a light on at night. She never told anyone.

      “When the weather gets exciting, watching the lightning over the bay is like a fireworks show,” Ray Anne said. “Around here, it’s all about the view. There are a lot of views in this town. Some have the view in front, some in back, some up the hill, some closer to the water, sometimes from big houses and sometimes from little ones.” Ray Anne stepped to one side. “Bath,” she said, indicating a very functional master bath, dressing area and closet. There was a glassed-in shower, large spa-style tub and wide closet with built-in drawers and shelves.

      Laine merely glanced, then her eyes were drawn back to that view again. Devon was oohing and aahing over the size of the master bath and closet space.

      “There are two bedrooms down the hall with a jack-and-jill bathroom dividing them. The owner has queen-size beds in each. Storage is limited. They’re small bedrooms but the sofa downstairs pulls out—the house can sleep at least eight. The owners wanted a place for their children and grandchildren to visit. Linen closet across the hall from the master. Downstairs front closet under the stairs. You have a two-car garage,” Ray Anne said as she continued the tour.

      And only a few rather tacky prints on the walls, no little touches of home, no plants, of course, and the lamps had been around a long time, Laine thought.

      “I had a cleaning crew come through—the carpet is shampooed, bathrooms and kitchen scoured, clean sheets on the beds, some towels on hand. The carpet is fairly new. I don’t know what your plans are for the house, but it will accommodate a large group.”

      Laine looked at her in some surprise. “My plan is to live in it.”

      “Oh! Wonderful! Are you planning to work around here?”

      She shrugged. “I’ll probably do a little computer work. I’m actually on leave from a government job but I can do some work from here—you know, clerical stuff. I had a pretty serious shoulder surgery and with all my vacation and good benefits and—”

      “I hope it wasn’t rotator cuff,” Ray Anne said, moving her own shoulder up and down. “That’s the worst! I had that surgery a few years ago and it’s hell, that’s all I can say. It’s fine now but I thought it would take forever!”

      Devon met Laine’s eyes, but didn’t comment. She just stood in the master bedroom and looked out at the rock-studded bay.

      Laine was thinking about other things, like what the place would feel like with a nicer sofa, with a throw on it for winter nights in front of the fire. And how about some accent tables, designer lighting, paintings on the walls, books on her own bookshelves? Her own sheets and towels and some of her favorite cookware and dishes? And her mother’s small kitchen breakfront, her treasure.

      She turned to Ray Anne. “Did you ask the owners if they mind that I store their furnishings and use my own? Of course I’ll cover the cost of packing, moving and storing their things.”

      “They said that’s fine as long as their things aren’t damaged.” Ray Anne shrugged. “I can’t imagine how they’d ever know if anything was damaged. This stuff is adequate but old. In fact, as long as you pay your deposit and rent on time and put the place back the way you found it when your lease is up, there are hardly any restrictions in your lease. You should read it over. You can paint as long as you either stick to the colors or return it to the original.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which appears to be renter’s white. No knocking out walls or redesigning the property.” Then she lowered her voice as if to tell a secret. “If you paint some walls, which I would do before nightfall, try not to make them too bold so you’re able to return them to their original color when you move out.”

      But Laine could only think of one thing. “Let’s go take a look at that kitchen, see what the owners left for me to use until my stuff comes. The moving truck is on the way—should be here in a day or two.”

      “Okay,” Ray Anne said, “but there are plenty of places in town where you can get a bite to eat until you get settled.”

      Laine was already on her way to the kitchen and when she got there, she started opening cupboard doors. She found plates, a few pots, a frying pan, utensils, some kitchen linens, just the bare essentials, designed for a vacation rental. But that was all right. She closed the last cupboard door, turned and smiled at Ray Anne and Devon. “I’m good,” she said. “If you could just give me directions to the nearest grocery, I’m going to light the fire and make soup. It looks like a soup day to me.”

      * * *

      Eric Gentry sat at the counter in the diner having a late breakfast. Next to him was Cooper from the beach bar, doing the same. Then the sheriff’s deputy walked in. Mac pulled off his hat and took the seat beside Eric. Mac’s wife, Gina, brought him a cup of coffee. Then she leaned over the counter and collected a kiss.

      “I certainly didn’t get that kind of first-class treatment,” Cooper said with a smile. “And I ordered a whole meal.”

      “Yeah, buddy, the day I hear about you getting treatment like that is the day you start walking with a limp.”

      Eric chuckled, but he’d never make such a remark. He and Gina had history. And he liked walking straight.

      “Mac,” Gina chided with a laugh in her voice.

      “What are you doing here, anyway?” Mac asked Cooper. “Get sick of Rawley’s cooking out at the bar?”

      “Rawley doesn’t cook,” Cooper said. “Sometimes he