1 A High-End Finish Read Online Free PDF Page A

there was some comfort in knowing that the two of us were still friends.
    The sound of my own breathing and the pounding of my shoes against the hard-packed ground drove me on. I followed the slow curve of blond sand that marked the beginning of the Golden Strand, where some of the town’s most prominent citizens lived in beautiful Victorian-style mansions built by my father.
    The Strand was also the gathering spot for our resident tai chi master to lead his followers, along with any willing tourists and locals, in his early-morning rituals. Many of the tourists who flocked to Lighthouse Cove came to experience the healing serenity our happy little town was famous for. We boasted more New Age healers per capita than any other town in the state, although their number was rapidly being surpassed by winemakers opening wine bars.
    As I ran, I found my rhythm and was able to relax enough to expand my focus. The ocean smelled briny this morning. The pink-and-coral shades of sunrise were muted against the stark blue backdrop of the dawn sky. Bold seagulls paraded in the wet earth, dispersing mere seconds before I invaded their sandy territory.
    I reached the old Fun Zone Pier a mile south, slapped one of the wood pilings for good measure, and turned toward home. My heart hammered in my chest. The sweat and exertion kept at bay the memory of last night’s events. I mindlessly calculated how many calories I’d burned so far, as if it mattered.
    Three-quarters of a mile later, I slowed down and began to jog around in circles, moving slower and slower to bring down my heart rate. I stopped running altogether and watched the waves dwindle and roll onto shore, almost touching my feet as I cooled down. Stretching my arms up above my head, I bent over leisurely until my hands grazed the smooth wet ground. Tiny air bubbles rose where sand crabs had burrowed beneath the surface. I smiled at the sudden desire to plunge my hands into the wet sand and dig some up.
    The image transported me back to the summer when I was sixteen years old. Tommy and I had been spending the day down at Barnacle Beach and, just for fun, I had filled a Styrofoam cup with a few dozen tiny sand crabs and had run back to the blanket to show Tommy. Rich girl Whitney Reid and her snooty friend Jennifer Bailey were sunning themselves nearby and I overheard one of them say, “Is she going to start a crab farm?”
    The other girl snorted. “I swear she’s dumber than a bag of rocks.”
    Tommy had pretended not to hear, but I was pretty sure everyone on the beach that day could hear the two girls talking about me. Tossing them a dirty look, I walked away with as much dignity as I could muster, down to the water’s edge, where I released the tiny creatures. I should’ve dumped the cupful of crabs onto the girls’ backs, but I wasn’t mean enough to do it.
    I could still recall the feeling of impotent fury as my teenage self dashed into the water to cool off. First of all, I wasn’t dumb! I was one the smartest girls in our class. But I couldn’t exactly shout out that fact to the rest of the beach crowd.
    And second, I was just showing Tommy some sand crabs, for goodness’ sake. It’s not like I wanted to keep them for pets. Hell, maybe I was dumb, because I couldn’t figure out why those girls had to be so mean all the time. I’d begun to feel like I was the personal target for Whitney’s venom and I didn’t know what to do about it.
    Whitney was a member of the privileged crowd whose wealthy parents had been coming to Lighthouse Cove on vacation for years. Enchanted by the beauty of the majestic redwood trees, the windswept cliffs, and the wild Pacific Ocean, many families had moved here permanently to take advantage of the good schools, idyllic lifestyle, picturesque harbor, historic Victorian architecture, charming shops and restaurants, and burgeoning wine industry.
    My friends and I had always reached out to welcome any new kids to town, but Whitney and