Undercurrent (Sand Dollar Shoal Book 1)

by Pandora Pine

  There were days when he couldn’t manage to make it out of bed at all. “I’ll come up with some pages for you soon. I promise. I just need a bit more time.” He hated the desperation in his own voice. Begging would be all that was left to him if Frank didn’t take him at his word.

  “I want one hundred pages by January 15th. I mean it, Landon. This is your last chance!”

  The disconnecting line echoed loudly in the quiet room. “Happy New Year to you too.” Landon hit the end button on his phone and set it down on his desk. Looking out the picture window in front of his desk, he could see scrubby brush partially buried in snow.

  Landon had picked this room as his office because it was the only room that didn’t afford him a view of a neighbor’s house. Plum Island was a beautiful place to live, but it had been so built up that houses were practically stacked on top of each other.

  The ocean was only two or three blocks away. A quick five minute walk would see him standing on the beach. His first book had done well, but not well enough to buy one of the ocean-side properties which sold in the millions and always seemed in danger of falling into the ocean during winter Nor’easters.

  Sighing, Landon shoveled his hands through his dark hair, both hands coming to rest at the base of his neck. Over the last few weeks, he’d tried writing in different rooms of the house, hoping a change of scene would break him out of his writing funk.

  He’d sat and stared at the blinking cursor mocking him in the dining room, then in the living room, in the kitchen and finally in his bedroom. As hard as Landon tried, he just couldn’t get the words to come. They were there, he knew they were there, but they seemed to be just beyond his reach. Out of his line of sight.

  Shit! He sounded like a crazy man talking about words that were out of reach. Landon supposed it wasn’t any crazier than hearing the voices of his characters clear as day in his mind. In the past, when he’d tried to describe his writing process to lovers they’d all looked at him like he was a few donuts short of a dozen.

  Crazy as it sounded, it was true. Marcus Pike had chit-chatted with him all the way through writing, re-writing and editing Killer Cure. Landon had even gone so far as holding business meetings in his mind with his fictional character when they’d hit a few bumps in the road along the way to the book getting published.

  What was even crazier, in Landon’s mind at least, was the fact that Marcus Pike was MIA. Over the last few months, Landon had begged Marcus to talk to him, to give him some idea for the next book in the series. Marcus, for his part, was a stubborn bastard, standing with his back to Landon, refusing to turn around, staying mute.

  Fuck! He sounded nuttier than a shithouse rat. One of Marcus’ ideas for his own character was for his relationship with his assistant, Geoff Patterson, to develop into a romance in the second book. Landon could see it all, clear as a bell in his head. Slowly nursing the relationship along until Geoff is almost killed by the killer and the two spend the night making love and vowing to get the bastard at all costs.

  Landon wasn’t a stupid man. As good as that kind of book would be, he knew there was no way his agent or publisher would ever accept a gay main character. Sure, he could make the lab assistant gay as a picnic basket, but there was no way Marcus Pike, genius doctor and hero of Jefferson Memorial Hospital, could ever be anything but as straight as an arrow.

  Behind Landon’s desk was a series of built-in shelves the previous owner had designed and installed. The shelves were full of books and other knick-knacks along with framed pictures. His favorite picture was of himself and Stephen King. They’d met at a writer’s conference a few years back up in Maine. It had been a dream come true to meet the horror writer whose books had shaped his nightmares for the last twenty years.

  Moving down the line was his collection of family pictures. Landon snorted. The “collection” consisted of two framed photographs. The last picture he and his parents had ever taken together was at his high school graduation. They’d managed to stop fighting long enough to pose for this one snapshot. Their smiles were very obviously fake. The other picture on the shelf was of happier times.

  Landon picked up the silver-framed memory. He was thirteen years old and wearing a red bathing suit. A dripping chocolate ice cream cone was in his left hand. His parents stood behind him loaded down with beach chairs and towels. They had managed to wrap an arm around each other, even though they were carrying so much gear. Behind the smiling family was Sand Dollar Shoal, its lighthouse beacon lit up.

  For as far back as Landon could remember, the family had spent his father’s two week vacation at Sand Dollar Shoal. They’d competed in the sandcastle-building competition and would spend lazy afternoons walking the sandy beach and looking for shells, sea glass and sand dollars. Landon had a glass jar filled with those treasures on the shelf above the pictures.

  Sighing, he set the photo back on the shelf. That picture was the last day of summer vacation that year and was, in his mind, the last day the Fairchilds were a family. Once they were settled back at home, his parents had announced they were getting a divorce. His father had packed all of his things before they’d left for their two weeks on Cape Cod and after hugging his son goodbye, got into his car and drove off.

  Life changed dramatically after that day. Landon’s mother started drinking, only pulling the ever-present bottle of Jack Daniels away from her lips long enough to go to work. Once she was back at home, she’d sequester herself in her bedroom and in between bouts of crying or screaming, drink the bottle dry.

  At that point, Landon had to assume all of the household duties. He somehow managed to learn to do laundry and run the vacuum. With the help of the friendly librarian, who was a huge Julia Child fan, he’d taken out her most famous book, and taught himself how to cook. Thankfully, the liquor store was in the same shopping plaza as the grocery store, so his mother hadn’t minded waiting in the car while Landon ran into the store with his shopping list.

  Coming back to the present, Landon looked around his office. Knowing he had to do something drastic or risk losing his publishing contract and possibly being sued by the publisher, he pulled up an internet browser and searched for Sand Dollar Shoal.

  “BINGO!” He shouted to the empty room when he found the hotel’s website in the list Google returned. Quickly browsing the webpage, he saw the hotel was open year-round. Not bothering to call for a reservation, Landon powered down the computer. Who the hell goes on vacation to Cape Cod in the winter anyway? He had no doubt there would be a vacancy.

  Landon Fairchild had one last chance to write this book and save his writing career. What better place to find his mojo and his muse than at the one place that held good memories for him?

  2

  A soft woof and a very wet tongue against the side of his face woke Noble up. Cracking an eyeball open, he could see Charlie sitting at the side of his bed, or what passed for a bed during this stage of the hotel renovation. It was a bare mattress lying on the plank wood floor of the hotel dining room a few feet away from the massive stone fireplace. The collection of chairs and tables had been pushed against the far wall to make room for Noble.

  God, he wanted a drink. Sighing, he flopped over onto his back and stretched his muscles. What he would give to have his first thought of the day not be about booze.

  Noble had struggled through the ninety days of rehab. Even though he’d been out in California, just steps from the deep, blue Pacific, all he’d wanted to do was crawl back into a bottle of Jack Daniels. It wasn’t stopping drinking that scared him so badly, it was opening up and having to discuss his feelings with other residents in treatment.

  He’d assumed being a widow would make his case the hardest luck of his group, but boy, was he wrong. Peter had lost not only his wife in a car accident, but their two young daughters as well, while Marcy had suffered through years of being raped by her step-father. Cole had been abandoned by his parents when he was only hours old and Joe had lost a leg to an IED in Afghanistan.


  Noble’s first moment of clarity in rehab came when he realized how truly blessed his life had been. He had a lot to be grateful for. At the top of his list was his father, his friends and the sweet girl doing her level best to lick his face clean off at the moment. “Okay, Charlie, let’s go out and then we’ll have some num-nums.”

  Grabbing his phone from under his pillow, Noble cringed. It was almost 1:00pm. He hadn’t meant to sleep this late, even if today was his day off. He threw back the covers and stretched his arms wide while Charlie danced back from Noble and ran to the back door of the hotel, her nails clacking against the hard wood floor.

  The dog was sitting patiently at the door, her tail thumping against the floor when Noble reached her, trying to shrug into his green Boston Celtics hoodie. Grabbing the dog’s leash, Noble hooked her up and pulled open the door.

  Assaulting his senses at once was the bite of salt air. On the one hand, the smell of the ocean reminded him of summer, but the cold pinpricks of sleet slashing against his sleep-warmed face reminded him that it was, in fact, January in New England.

  Charlie tugged against her leash before running back to Noble, staring up at him with her dark, soulful eyes. Noble knew exactly what she wanted. Charlie wanted her freedom. Squatting down beside her, he unclipped the leash. “Go run!”

  Not having to be told twice, Charlie took off down the beach, barking happily, sending up a raucous chorus from the seagulls as they lifted into the air at her approach.

  Before Noble stood back up, he spotted a piece of green sea glass. He picked it up, brushing it off against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. It was in the perfect shape of a teardrop, reminding Noble of the legend of mermaid tears.

  When he was little, his mother had told him the story. She’d said a beautiful mermaid fell in love with a sailor and saved him from drowning which was against the mermaid code of conduct. Neptune banished her for her act of heroism and the mermaid still cries broken-hearted tears to this day. Shoving the glass into his pocket, Noble could empathize with the girl’s grief.

  The “easy” part of rehab had been listening to the stories of the other members of his group. It was always simple to judge other people’s lives and decisions from afar. It was so much harder to tell his own story and the series of bad mistakes he’d made leading him to rehab.

  One of the first lessons he’d learned was that life was all about decisions. Good decisions. Bad decisions. If Noble could have earned a living making bad decisions he would have been a millionaire. Unfortunately, for him, he was a penniless drunk. Well, maybe not completely penniless, but a drunk for sure.

  When his day to share his story finally came, Noble was a mess of nerves. He’d sat in the circle of trust, twisting his fingers around each other until the joints ached, all the while telling the story of how coming down with a simple cold cost him the love of his life.

  The group leader was quick to tell him that he was in no way responsible for Vincent’s death. He’d heard that same shit from his friends and his father. It didn’t help hearing those words, meant to comfort, from a total stranger. It was the story Joe told in the circle that had made him change his way of thinking.

  Joe and a fellow Marine had been on a routine patrol on a street in Fallujah when the IED had exploded. Joe had lost a leg, while the other Marine had lost his life. Joe explained it was the luck of the draw that made him patrol the left side of the street and his partner the right. If they’d switched, Joe would have been the one to die.

  Life can be so random. That was the lesson Noble had walked away with that day. It hadn’t been easy, but over the last few months, Noble had come to accept that Vincent’s death was a random accident. His guilt had slowly started ebbing, left in its place were questions about who Noble Killington was now.

  So far, his only answers were: master builder and dog person.

  The motto of the twelve-step program was “One Day At A Time.” Although it was a struggle, Noble did his best to live in this mindset, not looking back and not looking further ahead than today.

  Hearing Charlie’s excited barks, he looked away from the ocean to see his dog flying up the beach toward him with a piece of driftwood clamped in her jaws. “Good, girl, Charlie! That’s a good girl.” He wrestled with the dog to get the wood out of her jaws. One of the things he’d taken to doing on the lonely winter nights was carving driftwood. This piece was tapered on either end and thicker in the middle.

  Charlie barked, her tail wagging her whole body. “How about some num-nums? Daddy’s hungry.”

  Barking happily, Charlie took off toward the hotel.

  Once they were back inside, Noble dumped a cup of dry kibble into Charlie’s bowl and went into the hotel kitchen. It was a huge room with different stations for food prep. Thankfully, the room was done completely in stainless steel from the countertops to the appliances. With the exception of laying a new slip-resistant tile floor, there was very little Noble would need to do to bring the kitchen current and up to code. It would be up to Gregor to fit it out with the tools of his trade when the time came.

  Going to the enormous fridge, Noble pulled out his still-sealed bottle of Jack Daniels. He knew how dangerous it was to keep this at the hotel, but it had come to represent his sobriety. Each and every day was filled with Noble inventing a new reason not to drink. At the end of each successful day, Noble would put the bottle back in the fridge.

  Every new day started with Noble taking the bottle out and setting it on one of the dining room tables with his AA chip. Noble fished into his pocket and pulled out the aluminum token with a giant 4 emblazoned on it. Around the top of the chip was written, “To thine own self be true.” On the back of the chip was the serenity prayer.

  Sighing, Noble set the chip and the bottle on the table and was heading back to the kitchen to make some lunch when Charlie started to bark. He watched while the dog ran to the front of the hotel barking and jumping up at the door. In the two weeks they’d been together, he’d never seen the puppy act like this. The way she was growling and barking made Noble think she was in defense-mode.

  Defense against what? It was New Year’s Day on the Cape. The temperatures were in the low teens and a foot of snow was due later this afternoon. Who the hell would be here on a day like this?

  XX

  Landon knew the minute he turned down the long drive leading to the hotel that he’d made a big mistake not calling ahead for a reservation. His first clue that the hotel might not be open for business was a huge sign that sat at the entrance to the turn off. Craning his neck to look out the passenger window, Landon could read the sign. Sand Dollar Shoal Under New Management. Join us for our grand re-opening Memorial Day Weekend.

  His second clue that the hotel was closed was that the access road leading to the building hadn’t been plowed. Landon could see there was only two or three inches of snow on the ground, so he took the left turn and headed down the road. He might have been driving a Chevy compact, but he was certain it could stand up to a few measly inches of snow.

  Landon might not be able to spend the night here, but it wouldn’t hurt to walk around and spend some time with his memories. Rolling down the car window, Landon turned down his iPhone, which had been blasting Fall Out Boy since he’d gotten into the car nearly three hours ago.

  He could smell the salt on the frigid air as the wind blasted against his face. The hotel looked much the same as it had the last time he was here with the exception that the exterior looked like it had fallen into disrepair. The white paint was peeling off and sections of clapboard had been ripped off the façade, while a piece or two flapped precariously in the wind from the third floor. The lighthouse tower, as always, flashed every ten seconds.

  Parking the car in what he could only hope was a parking spot, not that it seemed to matter with the hotel being closed, Landon rolled up the window before getting out of the car. He huddled deeper into his red ski parka and walked toward the side of the hotel to the snowed-ov
er path leading to the beach.

  The crashing ocean waves matched the leaden skies in color. Gone were the bluish-green white capped waves, replaced by dark water throwing itself up on the shore. The sea looked angry.

  Landon took a few steps onto the beach, leaving perfect boot prints in the sand. Spying a half-buried sand dollar, he bent down to pick it up. Using his thumb, he managed to swipe away most of the sand clinging to it.

  “Can I help you, buddy?” a deep voice said from behind Landon.

  Squeaking in alarm, Landon fumbled the sand dollar into the air. It hit his chilled cheek before slapping against his parka. Landon managed to snag it out of the air before it hit the beach.

  Turning toward the voice, Landon could suddenly hear what sounded like a very angry and possibly very hungry dog. “Yeah, I, uh…” Landon faltered when the barking got louder and more menacing.

  “You what?” The man who pushed open the hotel door was wearing a Boston Celtics hoodie. So far as Landon could tell, he was unarmed, unless you counted the hound of hell barking from inside the hotel.

  “I’m Landon Fairchild. I-I’m a writer.” Landon shook his head. He sounded like complete idiot. Once he told the story of how he ended up here, the handsome blond man with the killer dog was going to know he was a complete idiot.

  The other man broke into a grin that looked as if it surprised him. “I’m Noble Killington. Master builder.” Noble pushed open the back door a little wider, stepping onto the first stair leading down to the beach. Just as he was about to take the second step, a dog flew past him, heading straight for Landon.

  “Sweet Jesus! Be a tree! Be a tree!” Landon slapped his arms down at his side and stood stone still while the furry menace barreled toward him.

  “Charlie, sit!” Noble commanded.