Twila's Tempest

by Natasza Waters

  A Waterfall Press Book

  Sensual Romance

  Twila’s Tempest

  Copyright © 2016 Natasza Waters

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9947772-8-7

  First E-book Publication: June 2016

  Cover design by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Tamara Hoffa, Magic Wand editing services

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission from the author.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  About the author

  Books by Natasza

  Message from the author

  Dedication

  For Mary Schaumann. I hope you know.

  Acknowledgment

  Many hugs to those ladies who continue this journey with me. When I ask for brutally honest, I can count on them: Sheri Fredricks, Tamara Hoffa, and Kimberly Hickey.

  An enormous thank you to the Warriors’ Street team who keep me on course while I’m writing. (But you guys have to stop with the spider pictures LOL)

  And finally to my husband. We’ve dealt with a lot in the last year, and we have two more years to go before another chapter in our lives begin. Although an ocean separates us, two hearts that become one can never really be parted.

  Twila’s Tempest

  Natasza Waters

  Copyright © 2016

  Chapter One

  Fasteners shot through the air like bullets from a barrel as the clatter of siding ripped free from buildings. Angry gusts of wind bent palm trees to the breaking point, ratcheting Twila’s nerves as she leaned against her kitchen counter watching the footage. The hurricane crept across the ocean on all fours. With the advancing surge, the seas curled up and slammed the shore with a violent fist. Flying debris windmilled with deadly trajectory at anything in its path and rain showered the ground like blood splatter.

  Twila shuddered. Every Floridian understood and respected the power of a hurricane, but they’d rather watch it on TV than be caught in its path. Between June and November, Mother Nature had a bad case of cranky. Port St. Lucie had been hit twice last year by Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne. Luckily, her parent’s trailer, now her trailer, had escaped major damage.

  The weatherman sounded giddy instead of concerned as he reported on the aftermath of Hurricane Rita which skirted the Keys and flooded two hundred homes a couple days earlier. The guy gestured toward the weather map.

  “Rita was the fourth-most intense Atlantic hurricane ever recorded. I’d put money down that we’re not done yet, Florida. Two thousand and five is going to be a record-setting year,” he said, surveying the satellite image of the Atlantic. “We got away with a glancing blow from Katrina, but my meteorological senses tell me it’s not over. I’m Jimmy the human barometer with more to come on your local weather. Stay tuned.”

  The TV cut to commercial and Twila sported a grin. More like Jimmy the human ass-o-meter. She inhaled the aroma of fresh coffee, infusing her senses with have no fear, coffee’s here, and drew her cup of roasted brew from the mini coffee maker. The guy spouted more about his greatness than an accurate weather report, most of the time. With a buff build, bleached teeth and dark, ruffled hair, WWPE, the Treasure Coast’s TV station, found younger viewers, mostly women, were tuning in. He had zero education in meteorology, but he could wink at the audience wearing his skin-tight shirt, read a teleprompter, and flex his upper arms.

  Arrogant men irritated her beyond reason. Only an ass-o-meter would get excited over the mounting debt Florida faced every hurricane season. Adding a little milk to her coffee and bumping the refrigerator door shut with her bum, she turned toward the September sun laying warm strips across her brown shag carpet. Not that she had much left, but she’d put money down hoping the Human Barometer was wrong, and the tropical storms had come to an end in the Atlantic for this year.

  Plucking the phone up on her way, Twila settled in her Florida room. Taking another sip of her coffee, she cradled her mug watching the old folks stroll past her trailer through the half screened, half glass wall.

  A pen and pad of paper sat on the rattan table beside her. Five minutes of quiet bliss before the elderly residents of the Gold Pelican trailer park would start calling. She grinned as a head popped up and peered at her through the window. “Morning, Salty.”

  The Sandhill crane blinked its bright, beady eyes, waiting patiently for his cubes of bread. Twila pulled the bag she kept close by and dumped a few into her palm. She opened the patio door and offered them to the bird. Salty stretched his neck to gently peck the pieces from her hand. Like many residents of the park, he’d lost his mate last year. Twila’s mother had befriended the crane, and now her trailer was one of his regular stops. Salty cocked his head as if asking, “More?”

  “See you tomorrow, Salty.” He ruffled his feathers and with an elegant long-legged stride, moseyed across her lawn to the neighbors.

  During the last year, Twila had gone from visitor to resident. She hadn’t intended on staying once her mother passed away, but now her days were full from sunrise to sundown. Thoughts of leaving the park had been pushed to the back of her mind, but decisions had to be made. Soon, she’d have to find a paying job. The funds from selling her business dwindled.

  Interrupting her thoughts, the phone rang and she checked the number before answering. Mrs. Clancy reminded her she needed a ride to Dr. Aikens’ office at eleven. Twila wrote herself a note and patiently promised three times she’d be early before hanging up.

  Three more calls came in rapid succession. She scheduled them; relieved Becka Addison’s numbe
r hadn’t shown up on her phone. At five foot nothing and almost seventy-years-old, Becka still had the impact of a hurricane. The woman had a huge heart, and Twila could never repay her kindness. During the last month of her mom’s life, Becka had stood by them both. She owed her so much. Avoiding Becka was unthinkable, but coming up with a good excuse to evade her son was imperative.

  * * * *

  “Good morning, Twila, dear. Don’t forget our appointment this afternoon,” Mrs. McCoy called from her Florida room as Twila jogged past her trailer.

  The sweet woman’s dress, slathered with large blue hibiscus flowers, mimicked a shower curtain. She gave Mrs. McCoy a wave as she slowed to a quick walk. If she didn’t keep moving, Mrs. McCoy would wrangle her into lemonade and a three hour visit. “I won’t, Mrs. McCoy. The traffic will be heavy in town, so we’ll leave a littler earlier today.”

  “I’ll be ready, dear. You look hot. Can I offer you a lemonade?”

  Twila grinned and jogged across her pristine lawn. Harvey Greenways’ grandson mowed it every week, and Mrs. McCoy kindly paid him with homemade tarts. If the smell of baking bread didn’t waft from her kitchen every morning, the residents of the park would be banging on her door with worry. On Tuesdays, she played cards with some of the other ladies in the retirement park, but walking had become a hardship for her. The widow McCoy didn’t venture out too often.

  Twila shielded her eyes from the brilliant Florida sun. “No, thank you, Mrs. McCoy, I have to help Mr. Dettweiler. His printer isn’t working.”

  Mrs. McCoy huffed. “That old fool shouldn’t have a computer. He doesn’t even know how to use it.”

  Twila chuckled. “He’s learning a little at his computer classes. I’ll be back to pick you up at two, okay?”

  “See you then, dear.”

  Twila needed to move it. Mr. Dettweiler spent forty years in the Navy, and he got a little testy if she showed up more than five minutes late.

  “Oh, I almost forgot, Becka Addison was looking for you.”

  Becka’s net had been cast. Avoidance a pointless endeavour. Walking backwards, Twila asked, “Do you know what for?”

  “I think it’s about her birthday party. She wants you to drop over today.”

  The residents had a communication system that put “Ma Bell” to shame. Twila gave her another wave and jogged down the roadway. She didn’t have to worry about cars as much as being run over by wily eighty-year-olds speeding around in golf carts. The Gold Pelican retirement park mirrored hundreds in the state and brought retirees seeking refuge from the snow and ice. From November to late April the park bloomed to full capacity.

  Most residents owned trailers of varying quality and size, but the cement block homes had been popping up at the park over the last year. Ninety-nine thousand dollars could buy a hurricane resistant bungalow which provided a whispers’ chance of standing up against a direct hit. Sadly, many of the residents had limited incomes, but they treated their trailers as if they were waterfront mansions. Without fail, every yard had at least one palm tree, flowering shrubs bordering the skirt of each trailer, and an orange or lemon tree to boast about.

  Twila lived in her mother’s place, which resonated with a memory of her green thumb. Three months had passed since Twila and her brother buried their mom. A year ago, she had a minor stroke. Eight months later, Twila’s father died of cancer, and her mother’s will to live withered like her beloved plants without water.

  Arriving at Mr. Dettwieler’s, Twila opened the screen and knocked. She heard the thump of his cane crossing the living room. He opened the door, turning his wrist to glance at his watch. Aging yellow eyes sunk deep in their sockets and the blood vessels on his nose mapped a complex puzzle, but his tongue hadn’t lost its abrupt Navy report. “Thanks for coming, Twila. You know where the printer is.”

  “I do,” she said, climbing the one step into his space-saving entrance.

  Most of the elderly who had problems walking or climbing steps installed a ramp, but Mr. Dettwieler refused. “I’m Navy,” he’d bark. “I know how to walk down a step. I climbed plenty on the ships.” Twila had given up suggesting it, but she was concerned that one day he’d fall, and it would be a hard landing on his driveway that awaited him.

  Finished within ten minutes and a quick lesson on how to print a document, Twila hoofed it for Mrs. Little’s place. Becka Addison and her husband Gordon lived on the same street. A glance at her watch confirmed the possibility of a quick detour.

  The Addison’s lot boasted two enormous palms growing on each corner of their lawn. They backed onto a sizeable waterway, and a large oak tree provided shade and a little privacy from the pleasure yachts that cruised through the murky water of the canal.

  Becka had a tendency to talk to her Oleander and Crape Myrtle from the large back deck she and her husband, Gordon, built to entertain their friends and celebrate happy hour. The network of gossip spread as big as the trees some afternoons.

  Becka retired four years ago, and this Saturday would be her seventieth birthday. “Every one you reach means giving the cemetery the middle finger,” Becka told her. Age didn’t hold the spry woman down, and her mind could shred a New York Times crossword puzzle in under fifteen minutes. She’d owned a restaurant on Broadway, and the New Yorkers who flocked to the plays knew Becka’s on Broadway as a place to find a good meal and divine desserts.

  Before Twila reached the door, Becka opened it. “Twila, darling come in, come in.”

  The Addisons had two sons. One, Layton, served as a special ops Marine, and the older one, Drake, had served ten years then threw his dog tags into a drawer. Since then, he’d become a jet-setting, wealthy entrepreneur. He manufactured yachts, and to hear Becka talk, the Marines must have been sad to see him leave. According to his mother, he walked on water.

  “Hi, Becka, I heard you were looking for me.”

  Twila entered the stylish trailer decked out with walnut floors and fine fixtures. Framed pictures of her two sons hung on every wall, and sat on most shelves. Both were very handsome, but Drake’s green eyes seemed to follow Twila wherever she stood in the room.

  Becka ushered her into the kitchen and plucked a glass off the counter without slowing down, placing it in her hand like a Macdonalds drive-thru. “We need to talk,” she said, and with quick steps headed for the back deck. Twila had no option but to follow.

  Mr. Addison sat on his favorite lounge chair, gripping a newspaper. Dappled sunshine from the oak cast shadows across his nearly bald head. “Whatever she’s about to try and talk you into, it’s all right to say no, Twila,” Mr. Addison offered, without moving the paper away from his face.

  “Sit, please,” Becka pulled out the chair and settled herself. “Now, I know you have a policy about not attending the resident’s birthday parties.”

  “I—” Becka raised a hand and stifled her.

  “I’m not just any resident and this is my seventieth year on the planet. I expect you to be there.”

  Becka had a way of giving what Twila called a New York long-eye. Basically it comprised of a tilt of her head and a shrewd stare, but no one did it as well as Becka. The woman might only be five foot nothing, but her willpower topped out at Cat5.

  “Becka, I don’t have a policy about birthdays, I’m just beat at the end of the day.”

  Becka drummed her manicured nails on the glass tabletop. “Then I want to hire you.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes,” Becka shot back. “I need help, dear.”

  Her ploy couldn’t have been more transparent. “Becka—” Twila flopped back in the chair and stared at her. She’d do anything for Becka. Almost anything. “You have two strapping sons.”

  “But only one can make it for my birthday. God knows where Layton is, but he won’t be able to get here until later.”

  “Than one strapping son.”

  Becka gave her the sweet but deadly old lady smile. “Yes, and you haven’t met him yet.”

  Twila rose to
her feet. “I don’t need to meet him, Becka.” Hence, the almost anything.

  “Darling, you are twenty-nine-years old. In my day, you would have been considered an old maid. Drake is thirty-five, and I know you two would hit it off.”

  Twila rolled her eyes, but ended with a grin at Becka’s valiant effort. “You told me Drake has a girlfriend.”

  A loud snort emanated from Becka. “Girlfriend! Bah! She’s a barracuda looking to replace her daddy’s money with Drake’s.”

  “Didn’t you tell me they’re in Europe? Maybe they eloped,” she said, pulling Becka’s chain.

  “Heather DeCourcy doesn’t love my son,” Becka spouted. “She flits all over Europe on her modeling jobs, then distracts him with all her rich friends. It just so happens Drake had to visit Italy to inspect a new diesel engine for his yachts at the same time.”

  Becka had old fashioned values, even if she had been twenty-something in the sixties. People didn’t fall in love anymore. Nobody had the time. She certainly didn’t. “How do you know she doesn’t love him? If Drake is happy, then you should be happy for him.”

  Air whistled through Becka’s teeth. “He’s not happy. I know. Mother’s know. You’ll see one day when you have your own family.”

  “I have a family.”

  “I’m not talking about caring for the fuddy-duddies in this park. Now, give me one good reason why you won’t help me? It’s my birthday.”

  Mr. Addison chuckled from behind his paper. “Give it up, girl, ya know you can’t win now.”

  “Becka, I will help you, but you’re not hiring me.”

  Becka beamed at her. “It’s going to be a small gathering.”

  “How small?”

  Becka’s pencilled brows lifted. “Maybe fifty people or so.”

  Twila laughed. “Where are you going to fit fifty or so people?”

  Becka’s thin arms spread wide. “Out here and some will mill inside. We keep them fed and their tongues wet, and they’ll be happy.”