Angel of the Morning Read online

  Angel Of The Morning

  The Magic Jukebox, Volume 7

  Judith Arnold

  Published by Judith Arnold, 2018.

  ANGEL OF THE MORNING

  The Magic Jukebox: BOOK SEVEN

  ***

  Copyright © 2016 by Barbara Keiler

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  To learn more about the author, and to sign up for her newsletter, please visit her website

  .

  ***

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The view from the back porch was exactly what Dylan wanted.

  Actually, it was more of a veranda than a porch, with an overhang casting shade over most of it. Two steps below it lay a curving patio of inlaid brick and stone, complete with a built-in fire pit. Beyond that a grassy slope descended to the beach and the ocean, blue and green and gray, spreading east to meet the horizon.

  Behind him, one of the French doors opened and Andrea Simonetti stepped out into the chilly October air. He’d contacted her not long after he’d lost out on The Angel and decided he wanted to change everything in his life. Well, not everything, but he definitely wanted to change the ocean. For some reason, the Atlantic resonated more with him than the Pacific. He’d sold his house in California and flown east in search of a new home.

  Maybe the move had nothing to do with which coast he lived on, or which ocean he swam in. Maybe it was just that he had memories of his stay in Brogan’s Point six years ago. The last time he’d spent time in this town, he’d been hovering on a threshold, about to step across it and into an entirely new life. He’d been a kid with dreams and ambitions, on the cusp of becoming a star.

  He couldn’t complain about stardom. He loved that his new life had made him wealthy enough that he could afford a house with an ocean view.

  But he wanted something more than just a house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. He wanted something real, something basic. Something far from Hollywood in both distance and atmosphere. If he couldn’t have The Angel, he’d take Brogan’s Point.

  Andrea joined him at the porch railing. Her hair barely moved in the brisk breeze rolling up from the beach. She must have shellacked it with several gallons of hair spray. Her make-up was impeccable, the silk scarf around her neck tasteful. Dylan, on the other hand, wore a scuffed leather bomber jacket, ratty jeans, old sneakers, and a Red Sox cap. He’d taken his sunglasses off during his tour of the house, but he would put them on again once he was back in public, even though the afternoon was overcast, the sky a dull gray.

  He didn’t care about the clouds. He was gazing at the ocean, and the view was amazing.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Dylan, we don’t see many beach-front houses for sale here,” Andrea reminded him. “They tend to get passed down through families, from one generation to the next. And we’re in the off-season, in terms of real estate transactions. We might get a few more properties listed next May or June, but if you’re determined to buy now, I’d suggest that you make an offer on this property. You won’t find anything closer to what you’re looking for, at least not in Brogan’s Point.”

  “What was the asking price again?”

  “One point nine-five million.”

  “Tell the sellers I’ll pay one-point-five.”

  “That’s a bit low,” she warned.

  “So they’ll make a counter-offer. Let’s see where we go with this.” The house needed work, after all. The kitchen and bathrooms hadn’t been updated in at least thirty years, and he was wary about the energy efficiency of the heating system. The structure was old, a rambling Victorian on an acre of land which, like the house, cried out for tender loving care. A low-ball bid wasn’t unreasonable.

  Besides, he’d always been a savvy negotiator. People loved to bargain, they loved to dicker, they loved to land on a good price together. He’d go up a few hundred thousand, and the seller would come down a few hundred thousand, and everyone would shake hands and leave the room happy.

  Andrea nodded, tapped a note into her cell phone, and gave him a smile. Real estate agent smiles, he observed, were a lot like Hollywood smiles: automatic, bright, and not quite genuine. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Contingent on an inspection,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, then.” He slipped his sunglasses on, pulled his baseball cap more firmly onto his head, and gestured for Andrea to reenter the house ahead of him. He’d been raised in small-town Nebraska. He knew his manners.

  Once they were inside, she locked the French doors. He followed her through the empty house, her high-heel shoes clicking and his sneakers squeaking against the hardwood floor. At the entry foyer, he paused. “You’re not going to reveal my identity to the seller, right?” he asked.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” she promised. The smile she gave him when she said that seemed authentic.

  He smiled back. “Just...you know.” He shrugged. “People hear you’re an actor and they get ideas.” Like the idea that you’re richer than sin and can afford any price. Like the idea that you’re going to turn the property into a pleasure palace, with naked swimming parties and candy dishes filled with cocaine instead of M&M’s. Like the idea that you’ll have starlets flocking to your house and fighting for access to your bed, and guests helicoptering into your back yard, and paparazzi chasing you down the street on motor scooters.

  Dylan was rich, but he didn’t do drugs. He’d known a few starlets and he’d swum naked on occasion—although he’d done that a lot more often as a kid in Nebraska than as a movie star. He wanted to live in Brogan’s Point because of the peace, the tranquility, the coziness—because it was everything Hollywood wasn’t.

  He and Andrea exited through the front door, a thick slab of oak with a diamond-shaped window of beveled glass embedded in it. Andrea checked to make sure it was locked, and then strolled with him down the brick front walk to where she’d parked her car. A brisk breeze rose off the ocean, scooping dead leaves from the ground and making them dance in the air. Living in Southern California, Dylan had missed the changing seasons. Here on the Massachusetts coast, some thirty miles north of Boston, he’d get his fill of blustery autumns and fr
igid winters.

  Maybe in time he’d get sick of snow and ice. He doubted it, though.

  He and Andrea didn’t talk much during the drive back to the Ocean Bluff Inn, where he was staying. He’d had no trouble booking an ocean-view room there. Late autumn wasn’t just a slow season for real estate sales; it was also a slow season for Brogan’s Point in general. The locals he’d met six years ago had insisted that the town was always packed with visitors through the summer months and into mid-October, but once the fall foliage faded, so did the crowds.

  That was fine. Crowds did nothing for him. If he lived in Brogan’s Point, the cold, crowd-free days of winter would undoubtedly become his favorite time of year.

  At the inn, he climbed out of Andrea’s sedan, thanked her, and checked the time on his cell phone. Too early to eat dinner, let alone retire to his room for the evening. Restless, he watched her steer over the crushed shells and gravel of the parking area and down the winding drive to Atlantic Avenue. Once her car had disappeared down the road, he set off for that funky little bar he remembered from his visit to Brogan’s Point six years ago.

  He’d thought about going there last night, after he’d arrived at the inn. But he’d been jet-lagged, and he’d wound up drinking a scotch in his room while browsing the local real estate listings on his laptop. Better rested today, he’d visited four properties with Andrea. Three of them didn’t have ocean views. The last one...yeah. Even if the owners refused to come down in price, Dylan could make it work.

  He wished he could remember the name of the bar—the Something Street Pub? Six years ago, he and the crew had all been staying at a cheap motel on Route One; the charming Ocean Bluff Inn had been way out of their price range. The eatery adjacent to that seedy motel had smelled of cooking grease and been too glaringly lit, so they’d located a bar in town for their after-work carousing. Not that they’d caroused much. They’d all been broke, laboring on a low-budget indie financed by overextended credit cards and the generosity of relatives.

  The Something Street Pub had suited them perfectly. A little bit grungy, a little bit scruffy, decent prices and a friendly vibe. Dylan still remembered the antiquated jukebox standing against one wall, spitting out tunes three for a quarter. Where could anyone buy three of anything for a quarter?

  He hoped the place still existed. Hanging out there had been one of the best things about working on location in Brogan’s Point.

  He might not be able to recall the name of the place, but he did recall that it was half a block off Atlantic Avenue, the boulevard that ran north-south, paralleling the town’s coastline. He turned up the collar of his jacket and jammed his hands into his pockets as he strolled south on Atlantic. If he moved here—when he moved here—he’d have to invest in some sweaters and gloves. And a thick, woolen muffler. If he hinted loudly enough, one of his sisters might knit him one for Christmas.

  He neared a side street that looked vaguely familiar. Turning the corner onto Faulk Street, he spotted the place. The Faulk Street Tavern, according to the sign beside the door.

  A sharp gust of wind blew over the sea wall and across Atlantic Avenue, whipping his back. Even Mother Nature wanted him to hurry down Faulk Street to the bar.

  He stepped inside and grinned as the atmosphere of the barroom settled over him, warming him like a favorite blanket. He didn’t need his sunglasses indoors—he’d scarcely needed them outdoors in the fading late-afternoon sunlight struggling through the clouds. Would people recognize him if he took the glasses off? If they recognized him, would they do the whole fan thing? He was looking as scruffy and grungy as the pub itself these days, with his bristle of beard and his long, unkempt hair. A far cry from his familiar image as Captain Steele of the Galaxy Force. He might pass for Captain Steele’s dissolute second cousin, but he was probably safe.

  And if someone did recognize him, well, so be it. He’d be gracious. He’s sign a napkin and pose for a selfie. It was thanks to the folks who cheered their way through the Galaxy Force movies that he could even contemplate buying a big, expensive house overlooking the ocean.

  He tucked the sunglasses into a pocket of his jacket, pulled off his cap, and shook his hair loose. Avoiding eye contact with any of the patrons—an interesting collection of laborers, office workers, professionals, and people old enough to be retired—he strode directly to the bar and planted himself on a stool. The bartender who glided over to him was nearly as tall as he was, with short, reddish hair and a slim figure. “What can I get you?” she asked.

  He considered ordering something hard, then opted for a beer. “What do you have on draft?”

  She listed his choices, and he picked one at random. Once she’d set a chilled mug of beer and a bowl of bar snacks in front of him, he swiveled on the stool and surveyed the room.

  There was the jukebox he’d remembered, garish and gorgeous, with its domed top, burled wood veneer, and stained-glass peacocks decorating the front panel. There were the booths along one wall and the tables along the other, with a small, square dance floor occupying the center of the room. The tables were filled people talking, arguing, laughing, drinking, snacking. No one was looking at him. He let out a long breath and took a sip. The beer was icy and sour. Perfect.

  He’d resided in the Venice Beach neighborhood of Los Angeles for four years. Less than one day in Brogan’s Point, and he felt more at home here than he’d ever felt there. Living in L.A. had been important at one time; when his career was just starting, he’d had to go to meetings, break bread with executives, schmooze the people in power. Even after the first Galaxy Force film turned out to be an unexpected blockbuster, launching a series and turning Dylan into a star as Captain Steele, he’d felt it important that he remain close to the film industry’s beating heart.

  Not anymore. His manager and his reps were in L.A. He could hop on a plane and be in Southern California in six hours if he was needed. And if he wasn’t needed—if the producers and the director of The Angel decided, after three auditions, that they wanted to go with another actor—he could live wherever the hell he wanted, until someone was willing to cut him another big check to star in another film. Then...hop on a plane. He’d be there.

  He watched as a dude in jeans and a dark blue work shirt with a company logo stitched above the breast pocket rose from a table, accompanied by hooting and guffaws from his companions, and shuffled over to the jukebox. He hunched over it for a long minute. The door to the tavern opened and a few more people swarmed in. Dylan pulled out his cell phone, skimmed a text from his manager that didn’t say anything important, and checked the time. A few minutes past five. It was the TGIF celebration hour, the end of the work week. He predicted that the place would be packed before long.

  The guy at the jukebox slid a coin into the slot, shrugged, and shuffled back to his friends at the table. The door swung open again, just as a song booted up, some ancient rock tune about a gypsy with a gold tooth—

  That woman. He knew her.

  She entered the bar with a man Dylan was sure he’d never seen before. But her... Damn. He recognized her at once—the tawny hair streaked with golden highlights, the delicately chiseled chin, the elegant cheekbones. The smile, when she spotted an empty booth, snagged the man’s hand and pulled him across the dance floor to claim the table. The slender, graceful body half-hidden inside a heavy jacket, which she unzipped and shed before she slid onto the bench seat.

  The smile. He knew that smile.

  Six years ago. They’d both been a little drunk, a little giddy, but...

  Damn. What was her name?

  She settled into the booth, her back to the bar and Dylan. Just as well. If she recognized him, it could get awkward. Not that anything bad had happened between them so long ago. They’d met here at the bar, when the cast and crew had been celebrating their last day of location filming. His people had been mixing and mingling with the locals, buying rounds, having a grand old time. She’d flirted with him. He’d welcomed her advances. They’
d both been looking for nothing more than a fun night—and hell, it had been fun. More than fun. It had been incredible. The best one-night-stand of his life.

  But still... He couldn’t even remember her freaking name. And she was with another guy now. It was pretty clear from their body language that they were a couple. Maybe married. Who knew? Six years was a long time.

  He scrutinized the route between his stool and the exit. No way could he reach the door without crossing her line of vision. Of all the people in the bar, she’d be the one most likely to recognize him. The night they’d spent together, he hadn’t yet become famous as Captain Steele. He’d just been Dylan Scott, a struggling actor in a low-budget indie, with messy hair and a stubble of beard, just like he had now.

  Then again, she might have forgotten all about him and that night. He hadn’t thought about her for the past six years. She might not have thought about him, either. There she was, chatting with the waitress taking her order while her companion looked on. He appeared older than her, his hair starting to thin, his jaw as square as a box of crackers.

  Gwen. Her name came to Dylan in a sudden pop of memory. Gwen.

  God, they’d been good together that night. Better than good. Phenomenal.

  A lifetime ago.

  He needed to leave. Now. Before she spotted him.

  He drained his mug of beer, tossed a twenty onto the bar, and eased off the stool. He decided not to hide behind his sunglasses. In the bar’s dim lighting, wearing them would call more attention to him than leaving them off. If he cut a path past the tables, across the dance floor from the booths, he might be able to sneak out without her noticing.

  His escape would be easier if some of the patrons did him the favor of dancing. What was wrong with them? The voice from the jukebox was wailing about a love potion. They should be on their feet, crowding the floor, obscuring her view of Dylan while he made his getaway.

  But no. Everyone remained seated, drinking and chattering, providing no cover.

  The waitress left Gwen’s table, and Gwen steered her attention back to her companion. Now, while she was caught up in a conversation, was Dylan’s best chance to walk across the room unnoticed. He moved toward the wall on the table side of the room, his head forward and his steps decisive. He could do this. She’d never see him.