Friends Like These

by Carina Taylor

  FRIENDS

  LIKE

  THESE

  by Carina Taylor

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. Copyright law.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Friends Like These

  CHAPTER ONE | PAGE

  CHAPTER TWO | NOAH

  CHAPTER THREE | PAGE

  CHAPTER FOUR | NOAH

  CHAPTER FIVE | PAGE

  CHAPTER SIX | NOAH

  CHAPTER SEVEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER EIGHT | NOAH

  CHAPTER NINE | PAGE

  CHAPTER TEN | NOAH

  CHAPTER ELEVEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER TWELVE | NOAH

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN | NOAH

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN | NOAH

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN | NOAH

  CHAPTER NINETEEN | PAGE

  CHAPTER TWENTY | NOAH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE | PAGE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO | NOAH

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE | PAGE

  EPILOGUE | NOAH

  Acknowledgements

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  Also By Carina Taylor

  This story is dedicated to my Grandpa Jim—the best snake storyteller there ever was.

  I love you, Grandpa, and I can’t wait to hug your neck when we meet in heaven.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PAGE

  Help!

  I’ve been kidnapped.

  Glancing around the half-full restaurant, I waited until no one was watching, then slipped the note into the waiter’s hand.

  A little water spilled from the pitcher he was pouring when our fingers touched. His eyes widened as he glanced down at the scrap of paper in his hand. I’d folded it so he couldn’t read the words right away. He looked at me and winked. Too bad for him, it wasn’t my phone number on the paper. I had standards—very few—and they included not dating high-schoolers.

  “You’re too young,” I whispered. The waiter didn’t appear to have heard me over the hum of voices and clinking of forks on plates.

  “What was that you said?” The man sitting at my table glanced at me. I liked to call him kidnapper-number-one. His receding hairline was visible beneath his golf cap as he flipped through a Golf Digest magazine. He probably didn’t fit the profile of most kidnappers.

  “I said, wow, this is fun,” I spoke up as I lifted my water glass in a salute.

  With another wink, the waiter left me alone with my abductors.

  “So, Page. Have you ever been golfing before?” Kidnapper-number-two asked me as she broke off a piece of bread and buttered it with a rounded knife.

  I shook my head and grabbed a piece of bread for myself. I’d need to keep up my strength.

  “It’s okay if you’re terrible at it at first. It’s fun even then—especially for us.” Kidnapper-number-one, a.k.a. Big Mike, a.k.a. Uncle Mike chuckled at his joke.

  They say that most kidnappings happen by someone you know. They were right.

  Earlier that morning, Uncle Mike and Aunt Tricia asked my parents to go golfing with them. My parents already had plans, so they pointed my aunt and uncle in my direction.

  Ever since Mike and Tricia had lost their daughter, the entire Boone family—including me—was unable to deny them anything. We wanted to do anything possible to help them through the grieving process. Their method of grieving consisted of taking up hobbies and spending quality time with family. That meant we tried to spend as much time with them as possible.

  We’d made it past the badminton stage, thank goodness. Croquet was still on the way out. Golf was the most recent hobby they’d picked up, and they were excited to share the joy of it with the rest of us.

  “You know, I was talking with the golf pro, Bob—he’s our favorite—the other day, and he said I’d made phenomenal progress,” Tricia explained in between bites of bread.

  “That’s wonderful, honey,” Mike answered. “Page, why don’t we get you started with a private lesson today?”

  I coughed and took a sip of the tap water that tasted distinctly like chlorine. “Thanks, Uncle Mike, but I’d rather spend the afternoon learning from you.”

  Both Mike and Tricia sighed contentedly at that. Tricia looked at me out of the corner of her eye as she said, “You know, this course is a legend.”

  “That’s so interesting.” I smiled at them and took another sip of the water, not overly interested in learning about a golf legend. The course could be world renown, and I wouldn’t know the difference from a backyard golf course.

  A waitress delivered our sweet teas and lemonades, informing us there was a shift change, and she would be serving us for the rest of the meal.

  I wrote a quick note on a napkin while she replenished our bread bowl.

  Please start a grease fire as a distraction. I would rather do anything than golf this afternoon.

  Dropping the note in the waitress’ apron pocket as she walked by, I glanced at the door that led to the kitchen. A man close to my age stood there, his hand resting on the door as he watched me. He was good looking but prettier than me. I had a strict personal policy that I couldn’t date someone prettier than me. He had blond hair, bright teeth and looked like he belonged on the beach with a surfboard. Instead, he was in a restaurant wearing a suit, sans tie. His smile stretched farther across his face as he studied me. The familiar way that he looked at me made me wonder if I knew him. Maybe we went to school together. I never could remember faces.

  I raised my eyebrows at him, then turned back to face the table. When I glanced over my shoulder a moment later, I watched him slip into the kitchen after the waitress.

  By the time the waitress delivered the meal, I had built a house out of sugar packets on the table. Tricia and Mike had regaled me with golfing stories while we waited for our food. The waitress handed me a new napkin with a funny look on her face. I set the napkin in my lap before I opened it. There was a note written with permanent marker on the inside.

  We regret that we can’t start a fire to force an evacuation. Try faking a headache.

  I looked up and found Blondie leaning against the kitchen doorway again, smiling at me. He rubbed his temples with exaggerated motions.

  His antics almost made me smile, but a movement in the restaurant entrance caught my attention. A tall man wearing a suit and tie stood in the double-door entrance to the restaurant, talking on his phone. He appeared unconcerned about his location. His erect posture drew attention to his broad shoulders. His light brown, pompadour-styled hair looked as though it wouldn’t dare move out of place. The man’s face appeared determined as he spoke into the phone.

  The electricity in the room seemed to intensify as he glanced through the restaurant, his eyes lighting on me for a moment—or maybe I imagined it. His handsome aquiline features should have given him the same pretty-boy look as Blondie, but the self-assured way he carried himself made it clear he was no boy.

  A white-haired gentleman approached him, and the suit-man pocketed his phone while greeting the other man. As they stood there chatting, I found myself mesmerized by the handsome man. His arms were relaxed at his sides, but his body seemed coiled. Energetic. He was striking—n
ot just his looks but his entire carriage. I felt like I could reach out and touch him from where I sat. His presence made me forget about Blondie.

  “Better tank up, trooper. We’ve got some golfing to do!” Mike drew my attention back to the table. When I glanced back over my shoulder, the suit-man was gone.

  Picking up my fork, I took a bite of the tasteless food. Somehow the afternoon seemed duller now that the suit-man wasn’t standing there where I could watch. It didn’t make sense, but I hoped I would catch a glimpse of him again since we would be spending the afternoon at the golf course.

  Even though I probably wouldn’t see the man again, I knew that at least an afternoon playing golf would be more exciting than watching it.

  I was wrong.

  Watching golf on TV was not the most boring thing in the world: playing golf was.

  I was grateful that I had escaped this specific torture for so long.

  We’d made it to the ninth hole but not without incident. I knocked over the contents of the golf bag—twice, lost ten golf balls, and hit the golf cart with my club. When I’d prepared to take a swing, I let go, and my club put a nice dent in the front of the golf cart.

  I tried to rub it out like I would a wrinkle on my clothes except that wrinkle wouldn’t fix. Aunt Tricia and Uncle Mike seemed to think it was hilarious while the caddy assured me it happened all the time—I didn’t believe her.

  Mike and Tricia stood a short distance away, practicing their swings while I lay on my back in the grass. My golf club rested on my chest, and I hoped that I didn’t become any fire ants’ favorite afternoon snack.

  It was a scorching fall afternoon in Louisiana—the worst time to be outside, in my opinion. My relatives were a special kind of crazy. They loved the hot and humid air. Me? Not so much.

  I dreamed of Paris sidewalk cafes, a remote Italian vineyard, and quaint English towns. Instead, I lived in Louisiana. As a barista and starving artist, my finances weren’t ready for a year-long European tour.

  Even though I stashed away every penny possible, I still didn’t have enough to quit my jobs and travel the world indefinitely. I’d been consoling myself with quick weekend trips. Usually I dragged my cousin, Jenny, with me. She was always game for quick trips. New York in three days? Possible. Skiing in Vale for a weekend? Also possible. I didn’t know my legs could get that sore in such a short time. Jenny was in such good shape she didn’t notice any difference. Over the years, I’d slowly been checking cities and sights off my list: Washington, D.C., The Grand Canyon, San Antonio, Los Angeles.

  Someday I would tour Europe—right after I decided on a grown-up job that would provide a decent salary. Too bad I didn’t know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. There were too many options. How was a person supposed to decide anyway? They say to do what you love, so I’d looked into the possibility of becoming a professional cuddler. My cousin Kylie and her fiancé talked me out of it.

  Tricia called out to me, interrupting my life review. “Paging Page!”

  Never heard that before—at least not today.

  I heaved myself off the ground and followed her: time to find that lost ball. It had landed near some tall grass on the edge of a pond. Although the rest of the golf course was meticulously maintained, the overgrown patch looked untouched. I’d heard of golf courses with sand traps, but I hadn’t heard of miniature forests. My golf ball was somewhere in that thicket of grass. Traipsing through it wearing shorts did not sound pleasant.

  “Page, here you go. You can start from the edge of the grass. This course is a legend for a reason, so I don’t want you walking through the tall grass. We might be getting close to it,” Tricia explained as she handed me another golf ball.

  “Why won’t you tell me about this so-called legend?” They’d been careful not to explain what it was. Maybe you had to be a club member to hear the story.

  “You wouldn’t have come with us if we told you!” Mike called from over by the golf cart.

  They thought I wouldn’t want to go golfing if they told me about the urban legend surrounding this golf course. Newsflash: I didn’t want to go golfing at all, but there I was anyway.

  I bent down to place my eleventh golf ball on the ground. Tricia moved back to stand in the shade of the golf cart next to Mike. While I rested the golf ball on the tee, the tall grass in front of me shifted. It sounded like someone was walking through the grass—coming closer. My ears were playing tricks on me. Heatstroke was a real thing. Tricia had even warned me I should have drank more water.

  I readjusted my grip on the golf club and made a few practice swings. The swishing sounded again, and I glanced around, trying to find the source of the noise.

  I spotted two large beady eyes staring at me from the grass. A triangular head pointed straight at me. A long tongue flicked out, almost as if it was licking its chops while contemplating a snack.

  It hadn’t been a breeze that I heard.

  The largest snake’s head I had ever seen poked out of the thicket of grass, looking at me like I was lunch. It moved forward, revealing part of a thick body.

  My heart skipped a beat. My hands shook on the golf club grip.

  Living in the south meant I’d seen my fair share of ugly, nasty snakes. I also had a healthy respect for them, thanks to the incident.

  When my cousin Kylie and I were twelve, we fell into a cottonmouth nest. We’d been playing a game of sardines on Mimi’s property with the rest of our cousins. We decided to hide together in the woods. When we ran down the hill towards the creek, we tumbled straight onto a nest. There was one mad momma plus lots of angry babies. Multiple bites later, and our parents had to rush us to the ER. It left an impression and an allergy to the antivenom. Getting bit wasn’t an option I liked to consider.

  Shaking my head to clear away the bad memories, I tried to focus on the problem in front of me.

  Trying to hit my golf ball and stay alive.

  The snake opened its mouth wide, showing me the white inside that earned itself the cottonmouth nickname. I wanted to run, but all I could do was take a stumbling step back.

  I heard Tricia gasp, and Mike said, “Good grief, it’s true.”

  The snake slithered further onto the turf—straight toward me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  NOAH

  “I quit.” The man slammed the door shut behind him as he left my office. His stomping footsteps echoed down the hall.

  Pulling out my small day planner, I wrote a note to call the bookkeeper about the change in staff.

  Sean Bartelli: send his last check to the provided mailing address.

  I added a second note in the back of the book, reminding myself to ask more specific questions the next time I hired a golf pro.

  The oak door opened for the second time in ten minutes. Kent, my golf course manager-in-training, stepped inside. He glanced out in the hall one more time before he closed the door. “What’s Sean’s problem?”

  “He decided he didn’t want to make a career here at The Garden. After one of our members complained about his golf lesson, I looked deeper into Sean’s credentials. It turned out he was a tennis pro, not a golf pro. He forgot to mention that little detail in the interview. I asked him if it was a mistake; he got upset and quit. Saved me the breath it would have taken to fire him.”

  I brushed a hand over the top of my hair, careful to comb it in the right direction. Running a golf course was going to make me turn gray. It wasn’t near as fun as my last business venture: opening a chain of cross fit gyms. Even starting a coffee shop from scratch and building a delivery business had nothing on trying to pull an unpopular golf course out of debt.

  “Here’s that updated list of members you wanted, along with the pending applications.” Kent had found and organized the lists in less than an hour. That’s why we worked well together. He was able to get things done, and I didn’t have to micromanage him.

  “And how is the guest policy coming along?” I asked him as I compared the ha
ndwritten guest list to the computer files.

  “I’ve hired a copywriter to draft the terms.”

  “And the restaurant?”

  He scrunched his face. “Horrible. The kitchen crew is slow, the customers are frustrated, and even a simple hamburger is tasteless.”

  “I know. Everything coming out of there is food that you can get at any old diner.” I sighed and closed my laptop. I flipped open the day planner again to make another note.

  Priority one: revamping the clubhouse restaurant.

  Email Xavier.

  “What do you suggest for the restaurant?” I asked him. I’d already planned everything that needed to change but was curious what Kent would suggest, since he would be taking over management of The Garden soon.

  “We need an entire new kitchen staff, new menus, and a facelift to the dining area. All things that cost more money, but the restaurant’s a major part of this golf course. If we don’t do any of that, we’ll keep losing members to Sandy Pines.”

  My chest burned at the thought of losing our clientele to the neighboring golf course. Unfortunately, I couldn’t exactly fault them for leaving The Garden. I had taken on the golf course precisely eight weeks before and was struggling to make it solvent again — lots of hiring and firing, with bankruptcy lurking around every corner.

  “I’ve heard that Sandy Pines has French cuisine. I refuse to go find out for myself,” Kent said.

  Slipping my phone into my pocket, I walked to the large bay window that overlooked the golf course. I kept a pair of binoculars sitting on the windowsill for the days when I wanted to procrastinate on my real work.

  My grandfather gave me a golf course that I didn’t want so that he could “retire.” While some might see this as a benevolent act on my grandfather’s part, I knew the truth. My grandfather’s ‘gift’ was the equivalent of giving me a sunken ship.

  “What are we going to do about the Lucifer situation?” I asked Kent. Lucifer was another reason to be mad at my grandfather. I knew what we needed to do about the problem—I just wasn’t sure how some of our members would feel about us moving him. They’d grown unhealthily attached.