Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 9) Read online

  also by Vickie McKeehan

  The Evil Secrets Trilogy

  JUST EVIL Book One

  DEEPER EVIL Book Two

  ENDING EVIL Book Three

  The Pelican Pointe Series

  PROMISE COVE

  HIDDEN MOON BAY

  DANCING TIDES

  LIGHTHOUSE REEF

  STARLIGHT DUNES

  LAST CHANCE HARBOR

  SEA GLASS COTTAGE

  LAVENDER BEACH

  SANDCASTLES UNDER THE CHRISTMAS MOON

  BENEATH WINTER SAND

  The Skye Cree Novels

  THE BONES OF OTHERS

  THE BONES WILL TELL

  THE BOX OF BONES

  TRUTH IN THE BONES

  The Indigo Brothers Trilogy

  INDIGO FIRE

  INDIGO HEAT

  INDIGO JUSTICE

  SANDCASTLES UNDER THE CHRISTMAS MOON

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  Published by Beachdevils Press

  Copyright © 2016 Vickie McKeehan

  All rights reserved.

  Sandcastles Under The Christmas Moon

  A Pelican Pointe Novel

  Copyright © 2016 Vickie McKeehan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, locales, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, businesses or companies, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-10: 1540681181

  ISBN-13: 978-1540681188

  Published by

  Beachdevils Press

  Printed in the USA

  Titles Available at Amazon

  Cover art by artist Jess Johnson

  You can visit the author at:

  www.vickiemckeehan.com

  www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan

  http://vickiemckeehan.wordpress.com/

  www.twitter.com/VickieMcKeehan

  For Brian, you were a good football player,

  but an even better man who cared deeply about his friends,

  at least this friend. For that, I am forever grateful.

  Believe in sandcastles on a summer’s day,

  no matter that the tide will come and wash them away.

  ~ Vickie McKeehan

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Welcome to Pelican Pointe

  Sandcastles Under The Christmas Moon

  by

  VICKIE McKEEHAN

  Prologue

  Two years earlier

  South Lake Tahoe, California

  Quentin Blackwood threw his dirty scrubs into the bin and pushed through the double doors of the operating room. Finishing up his twelve-hour shift, he was finally done for the night. At least he hoped that was the case.

  Well past two a.m., every muscle in him screamed for rest. His legs were beginning to feel like jelly. He wanted nothing more than to get home and drop into bed, sleep for a blessed solid eight hours without any interruptions.

  Roger Mayhew, the anesthesiologist, followed him into the hallway. “They say it’s really coming down out there,” he announced.

  “It’s December, Rog. Five days before Christmas. I’d be surprised if the temp wasn’t already dipping into the single digits by now. Better not freeze getting to your car,” he quipped.

  “Yeah, well, Angie in radiology says the snowflakes are the size of golf balls.”

  Quentin slapped the other doctor on the back. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear. You’re from San Diego, right? You need to toughen up. How long you been here anyway?”

  “Eight months. Got here last April. The wife is threatening to file for divorce if I don’t take her back to Southern California by February.”

  “Quit your job already? That’d be career suicide. Come on, this isn’t Siberia. You guys haven’t even gone skiing, snowboarding, or tubing while you’ve been here. You can’t go back without experiencing everything the Sierra Nevada has to offer.”

  “Hey, I wasn’t raised here like you were. For a guy used to beaches and heat, this place is a shock to the system. I looked up your daddy, by the way. It’s obvious people around here still consider Jacob Blackwood the best country doctor they ever had. I had an old-timer come in yesterday who kept going on and on about him.”

  “Really? What’d he have to say?”

  “She. Ruth Ginther. Sang Jacob Blackwood’s praises from thirty years ago. At first I thought she was talking about you. Set me straight real fast.”

  Quentin chuckled. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that kind of story about his father. It made for a nice memory. “How times have changed.”

  “Yep. Country doctors are like dinosaurs.”

  “No argument there,” Quentin agreed, remembering a part of his childhood where he’d often accompanied his father on patient visits to parts of the area where most people needed a sled team to get in and out. “My dad used to cover half this summit, didn’t matter the weather. Just be sure you stay away from Donner Pass this time of year.”

  Roger’s mouth dropped open. “I heard something about that, some tall tale about cannibalism. I didn’t believe it.”

  Quentin rolled his eyes. Young people tended to gloss over history like it had never happened. “During winter that pass might get a record snowfall in a twenty-four-hour period where you could easily get stranded. But in spring and summer, it’s a beautiful place to visit. There’s even a beach near Donner Lake. I’m just not sure your wife would appreciate the shoreline this time of year.”

  “She doesn’t much like any of the scenery up here, winter, either.”

  “That’s a shame. Surely you guys could stick it out to summer when the weather’s perfect and there’s lots of outdoor activities.”

  “I don’t know. Christine misses being near her parents and their beach house in Carlsbad. And she’s terrified to go skiing, afraid she’ll get caught in an avalanche.”

  The idea darted through Quentin’s mind that Christine sounded like she was afraid of her own shadow. But he kept his trap shut and crooked his mouth. “So this is the same discussion we’ve had in the past about earthquakes along the coast versus avalanches here. Which is more dangerous? You can’t worry about the unpredictability of Mother Nature. I’ve been told in the southern part of the state you deal w
ith brush fires and mudslides and watch out for the Richter scale, waiting for ‘the big one’ to hit. Are you really that unhappy here?”

  Roger let out a sigh. “I took this job because it offered the best fast track to moving up in the hierarchy. I’m just out of residency and want what’s best for my career.”

  “The chief anesthesiologist is six to eight months away from retiring. You’ll definitely have a shot at the position. Just hang in there.”

  “Sure. But I also think Christine doesn’t like my schedule a whole lot. Leaving her home nights is causing friction between us.”

  Concerned for his friend, Quentin looked at him with newfound worry. “How long have you been married?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “She’s adjusting to a new place. Give it some time. Things will even out at home, you’ll see. For God’s sakes, don’t let the long hours get to you. Take her up to a cozy cabin next weekend. Wine and dine her. Do whatever you did when you were in the throes of love. You’re still basically newlyweds, still experiencing that complicated process of cohabitating for real after a long courtship, I’d bet.” Quentin had made that last part up. Since he’d never been anywhere near an altar himself, he felt like he had to say something to cheer the guy up.

  “I’ve known Christina almost four years. Things were never this bad between us.”

  “See? You’re just hitting a rough patch with this wedded bliss thing. Happens.” Quentin’s lips bowed up. “Don’t let it affect your career though. The job advice, that’s free. Stick it out here and you’re looking at advancement. But the marriage counseling, that’ll cost you an extra hundred bucks. Put the cash into the jar that we’re collecting for little Rona Davenport, the five-year-old girl suffering from leukemia.”

  He gave Roger a light punch on the arm as he turned to go. “Now get out of here. We’re five hours past the end of our shift. Surgery on that last patient took it all out of us. Go home and spend some quality time with the wife. Things will look better tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  “Did you pull that from your folksy small town archive?” Roger wanted to know.

  “Hey, don’t knock the folksy archive. I’m outta here.”

  Quentin rounded the counter at the admitting desk and looked out over the almost empty lobby, blessedly quiet for the moment, especially for the number-one trauma center in the area. Instead of wall to wall people, tonight the waiting room held festive decorations from various employees who’d tacked them to the walls alongside the Christmas cards, hand-drawn or hand-painted by the kids stuck in the oncology wing during the holidays. The display took up three walls.

  He wasn’t much into celebrating Christmas, hadn’t been since…well, for a long time. Usually he volunteered to work for those who did.

  Shoving into his down jacket, Quentin stared out the glass, past the automatic double doors as the weather worsened. The snowstorm had moved into the area hours earlier and already dumped four inches of the wet stuff everywhere. There were no signs of it slowing down.

  Zipping up his coat, he thought of the irony. Funny, he’d just given Roger a pep talk about toughening up. Right about now a warm sunny beach didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

  “It’s supposed to be like this till morning,” Natalie Patterson called out from behind the glass. “It’s a mess out there, so you be careful on the roads.”

  Quentin smiled at Natalie’s warning. At fifty, the woman was a delight, always in a good mood, always willing to dish a little gossip when the situation warranted it, always concerned about her coworkers. He’d known her for years. She was like a mother hen, the designated protector of all who worked the night shift.

  Quentin adored her. He walked behind the counter and put Natalie in a bear hug. “I intend to. Surely the snow plows are out by now. You didn’t drive in this blizzard getting to work, did you?”

  “Yes, but I clocked in long before it started snowing this hard.”

  “I’ll no doubt have to spend thirty minutes digging out my wheels.”

  “Definitely.” Natalie eyed him with the scorn of a stern professor. “That’s why you should’ve worn a heavier coat.”

  “Sure, but in my defense I didn’t catch the weather forecast before leaving the house around noon today. Or was it yesterday?” He scratched his head. “I’ve been on my feet too long.”

  Natalie led him back around the side door and patted the side of his face. “Yes, you have. I don’t have an extra coat. But I do have this.” She brought out a long, oversized woolen scarf from behind her back. “Put this up around your ears. It should do the trick to block the wind, maybe keep you a little warmer.”

  She positioned herself in front of him so he couldn’t move until she was satisfied that the scarf was tucked down into his jacket. “Think of it as an early Christmas present.”

  Touched by the gesture, Quentin leaned in to give her a friendly smooch on the cheek. “Thanks. And I didn’t get you anything. Yet. I still have time to shop.”

  Natalie waved him off. “Belongs to my eldest boy, who forgets to wear it most of the time.”

  “Well, thank you. I forget you’re prepared for anything, be it blizzard, national emergency, or torrential downpour.”

  “You know I’m a native like you, except I was born and raised on a ranch outside Alpine. I’m used to dealing with nasty winters and how quick these storms pop up.” She cut her eyes to his and brought out something else from underneath the desk. She handed off an ice scraper with a brush on one end. “This’ll help dig out your wheels. But you have to bring it back when you’re done with it.”

  “No problem.” To show his appreciation, he swept her up into an impromptu dance. “You’re an angel, a doll. Why don’t we blow this joint for good? Leave behind the winter once and for all. Marry me. We’ll land in the Caymans, stay at the best resort. I’ll make sure we spend our days on the beach drinking all the fruity mojitos we can hold and then lazing our nights away in bed.”

  Natalie cackled with laughter, patted his chest. “Sweetie, you couldn’t handle me in bed. I’ve been telling you that for years. And don’t try to sweet-talk me.” She winked at him. “Nice job of finagling money out of that tightwad for little Rona. You know how many times I’ve asked Roger, excuse me, he prefers to be called Dr. Mayhew in front of the patients. Do you know how many times I asked that Scrooge for a contribution?”

  Quentin grinned from ear to ear. “You make sure Roger coughs up that money for Rona then, will you? Right about now I’m in no shape to wrestle the money out of his wallet. I’m about to drop.” He finished prepping for the cold by stuffing the wool around his neck and ears before tugging on a pair of leather gloves.

  When he decided he was ready to brave the weather, he waved goodbye to Natalie and a couple of other colleagues before making his way to the entrance the doctors used.

  Once he was through the automatic doors and into the bitter cold, the Arctic wind stung his face, battering, shoving through the bundled layers he wore.

  Trudging out onto the parking lot, he shivered all the way to his 1965 classic Willys Overland station wagon, commonly referred to as a “Woodie.” He had to admit that the four by four vehicle his dad had once owned had had a good run. But since it was the only real connection he had left of his father, he couldn’t seem to let it go. Maybe he’d store the Woodie in a nice clean storage locker, at least for the winter. Given the fact that Quentin still babied the car like he had the first day he’d crawled behind the wheel at thirteen, he knew the idea would never take root.

  But tonight, he found himself fantasizing about more practical wheels—like the sleek Subaru Crosstrek he’d been eyeing for months on the showroom floor of a local dealership. That shiny red SUV he’d taken for a test drive the week before had keyless entry, a feature that started the engine up with one click of the remote and allowed it to idle, warming the interior to a toasty seventy-two degrees before you ever crawled inside. In freezing temps, that little selling point
alone could topple decades of sentiment on a night like tonight.

  Instead of sliding into a sauna, he revved the cold engine on the Willys. He turned up the heat along with the defroster that never seemed to generate quite enough warmth to chase away the frigid cold. For a few minutes he watched the windshield wipers slap at the constant snowfall as it fell in what seemed like bucket loads. Unable to put it off any longer, he opened the door and stepped back outside to begin scraping off the ice and frozen slush so he could drive home.

  De-icing was slow going. He stood there freezing, chipping away the buildup while scanning the rows of other parked cars. Another fifteen minutes of scraping might get the job done.

  Through the blowing snow, he spotted a lone figure at the far end of the entrance near the gate, struggling to walk.

  Quentin squinted through the flakes, did his best to make the image come into clearer focus. What he saw was a female, no coat, bare head, long black hair flapping in the north wind, trying her best to run. It looked like one of her legs had been injured. As he watched, she stumbled and fell on the snow-packed pavement.

  He didn’t think twice about rushing to help.

  Hopping back inside the car, he shoved the transmission into drive and took off, racing to the other end of the lot. Once he reached her, he got out and immediately checked her vital signs.

  It was apparent to him that the woman had suffered a beating. Her nose had been bloodied, her face bruised and battered.

  Behind him out on the street, a pickup truck screeched to a halt, fishtailing on the slick road. Quentin looked up through the darkness. The nearest light pole was twenty yards away. But its illuminating glow was enough for him to make out a man emerging from the driver’s side.

  “Get away from her,” the man shouted.

  “Can’t you see she’s hurt?” Quentin answered, still trying to get the woman to come around. “Help me get her out of the cold.”