Craig returned with a tray holding a pitcher filled with pale yellow liquid and lemon slices, tall glasses, an ice bucket and a plate of Enolia book cookies. He set the tray on the coffee table and sat next to Alden.
“Is that real lemonade?” Roz asked with interest as Craig used a silver scoop to fill the glasses with ice.
“Yes, I made it myself.” Craig smiled. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and Alden also took a glass.
“I hope you don’t mind the cookies,” Craig said. “We had a few left over.”
“Did you make those, too?” Alden asked.
“No,” he said. “They’re from Cosmic Confections.”
“Craig has many skills,” came Enolia’s strong alto voice, “but baking isn’t one of them.” The writer strode into the room, now wearing relaxed tan linen pants, matching sandals and a loose white blouse. Her white-blond hair hung straight. If she stood still, she would’ve been camouflaged by her own furniture, given away only by her pink lipstick. “Welcome to my home.”
“It’s beautiful,” said Roz, rising with Alden to greet their hostess. “You have a wonderful view.”
“Thank you. I find beachside living agrees with me.”
“You were in Upstate New York before?” Alden confirmed.
Enolia smiled, acknowledging that he did his homework. “Yes. I still have a home there for when the summer heat here gets too unbearable.”
Of course she does. “It’s a pretty part of the country.”
“You know it?” she asked.
He just nodded, not wanting to get into his contentious relationship with his family there. “Thanks for giving us time this afternoon. Should we talk in here?”
“Perfect.” She sat in a large chair next to a small table stacked with a few books. “Craig, I’ll take a lemonade. I’ve already pre-gamed with Tums.”
Alden and Roz both laughed and sat.
Alden got Enolia’s permission to record, then embarked on several questions about her books and writing, hinted that he’d love to see her office—“maybe later,” she said—and warmed her up with his unabashed love of her work. It was a thrill to talk to her about her novels, as cynical as he was about celebrities in general. Writing still held magic for him.
“Any romance in your life?” Alden asked. He had to. You could take the reporter out of the tabloid, but it was hard to take the tabloid out of the reporter.
Enolia smirked. “Not at the moment. And I’m not in the market, in spite of what dear Mae said at the signing.”
“Oh? So no future Mr. Honeywood in the works, then?”
She looked amused. “Probably never. I assume you know my divorce was final twenty years ago. Best thing I ever did. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not pooh-poohing marriage. Everyone should get married at least once.”
Alden and Roz both chuckled. Craig just smiled. Maybe he’d heard the joke before.
“Mae said your Shellbreak Island is going to be a movie?” Alden asked.
A slight frown touched her lips. “I’m not so sure now, if what I heard about the unpleasantness behind the bookstore today is true.”
“What did you hear?” Roz asked, wrapping her napkin around half of the big book cookie she’d nibbled when Alden was on a roll.
Enolia swallowed and took a breath. “That the man who died was someone who was going to make my dream of a film adaptation a reality.”
Roz sat up straighter. “You knew Wayne Vandershell?”
“I did. He’s—he was a film producer. He committed to producing Shellbreak Island.” Enolia’s eyes unfocused, gazing toward the ocean, as she mused. “He was so charming. I’ve talked with these movie people before, you know. My agent set up meetings. Nothing ever came from it. But Wayne sought me out. He talked me into a drink. He ran into me after my weekly lunch at Sirenia with my pickleball club—we play at Lunaria Lodge on Wednesdays.” Her smile held a hint of sadness. “Maybe he was stalking me a bit, but I didn’t mind. I thought him rather clever. I was flattered.”
“More lemonade?” Craig interrupted at what Alden considered an inopportune time.
