by V. K. Sykes
She sighed. “I guess that makes some sense.” She drained the finished pasta. “But he still hardly sounds like a good hire.”
“A buddy at the site is giving him an alibi. I’m not necessarily buying it, but it’ll hold up unless there’s evidence that they’re lying.”
“That’s why you said there’s still nothing to go on.”
“And there may never be.” He hesitated. “Unless there’s another break-in.”
Chapter 10
Aunt Florence, you are not going back to work,” Holly said, gripping her teacup with white fingers. “You fell in the hospital, remember? When you tried to get out of bed without any help. Or are we just supposed to pretend that didn’t happen?”
That awful little episode had kept her aunt in the hospital for a few days longer than expected. Fortunately, the fall wasn’t the result of a ministroke, as the doctors had originally feared, but simply as a result of too much antianxiety medication. Once the docs had sorted out the right dosage, Holly and Beatrice had been able to bring Florence home—with strict orders to rest.
Naturally, the old gal had only walked through the door a few hours ago and she was already issuing orders and being a hardhead.
Florence adjusted her old wire-rimmed glasses and gave Holly a glare. “What else am I supposed to do? Lie around on the couch like a lazy dog? Or watch soap operas? You know me better than that, Holly Tyler.”
That was a pretty mild retort by Florence standards. Holly suspected that the only reason she hadn’t ramped up the volume to combat level was the meds the psychiatrist had prescribed, combined with the strain of her illness. In fact, Holly could hardly believe how frail her darling aunt still looked. Her face was pasty, and she’d lost five pounds off her already thin frame. But it was a good sign that Florence had a fair amount of spirit left in her.
“The doctor told you not to go back to work for at least ten days,” Beatrice said in a firm voice, patting her elder sister’s slender, blue-veined hand. “He was very clear about that.”
“That quack?” Florence scoffed. “I bet he tells every patient the same thing. Probably pushes a little button inside his coat and a tape recorder says the words so he doesn’t have to trouble himself.” She gave a dismissive snort. “He doesn’t know me.”
Holly sighed. “Aunt Florence, you know how much I love you, but I swear I’ll lock you in the house if you so much as try to set foot in the store. I’ve lost too many people I love already, and I’m darn well not going to lose you. Especially not because of your pigheadedness.”
“Holly’s right,” Beatrice said. She hardly ever took on her sister, but the recent scare had clearly rattled her. “You have to do what the doctor ordered. If not for your own sake, then for ours.” She was obviously repressing tears.
Florence opened her mouth as if to argue but then closed it again. A couple of moments later, she gave a small nod. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Guilt-tripping me like that.” She managed to crack a small smile.
“So you’ll take your medication and rest while Beatrice and I run the store?” Holly asked.
Florence took a delicate sip from her teacup. “We’ll just see how it goes. I’m not making any promises.”
Holly relaxed back into her chair. That phrase represented as close to capitulation as she was ever likely to get from Aunt Florence.
Florence redirected her gaze to her sister. Beatrice, her small, neatly dressed figure ramrod straight as always, stared back at her, obviously determined for once not to cave in to her big sister. Aunt Beatrice was as sweet and mild as Florence was feisty and strong-willed.
“But Holly’s leaving in a few days, Beatrice,” Florence said. “So I’ll need to get back in the saddle at least by then. You’ve never been comfortable running the store by yourself.”
Beatrice suddenly looked sick. She’d clearly forgotten that minor detail.
“I’m not leaving for a while,” Holly said, patting Beatrice’s hand.
While Beatrice could handle most day-to-day tasks at the store, like unpacking and stocking shelves and manning the cash register, she’d never wanted to have anything to do with the financial side of the business and didn’t like having to deal with suppliers. Because Florence was always there, she’d never had to.
Beatrice looked dumbfounded. “But you have to be in New York soon, don’t you?”
Holly had been wrestling with that problem from the moment she first set eyes on her aunt at the hospital. She’d hoped Florence would bounce back quickly so she could keep her stay on the island almost as short as she’d originally planned and then get down to New York. But now that she was back home, she realized that her schedule was a lot less important than her responsibility to her aunts.
David and Cory wouldn’t be happy, to say the least, and she mentally cringed at how that phone call was likely to go. But Holly wasn’t about to leave until Florence was healthy and back in the saddle.
“I can make some adjustments,” she said. “The most important thing is for you to get well, Aunt Florence.”
Beatrice reached over and gave Holly’s hand a squeeze. “God bless you, dear.”
“Thank you, Holly,” Florence said in a tight voice. Florence didn’t do emotion very well, but Holly could see that she was struggling to hold back tears.
“You’ll take advantage of the fact that I’m here for a while and just rest up, right?” Holly asked. “Because you need to totally relax if you’re going to keep your blood pressure down.”
“That’s what the damn pills are for,” Florence scoffed.
“Aunt Florence—”
“Yes, yes. I’ll rest, and I’ll try not to bother you at the store,” Florence said, waving a hand. “But I’ll tell you one thing I’m going to do. I’m going to get on the phone and talk to every single soul I know about that Night Owl permit. Those blockheaded selectmen need to get an earful from people who don’t want to see our store pushed out by a damn chain.”
“Oh no, please don’t. That would jack up your blood pressure for sure,” Holly said. Just the idea was no doubt sending her blood pressure up through the roof.
Florence gave a smile that suggested Holly was still a silly eight-year-old girl with skinned knees who didn’t know much at all. “On the contrary. I just know all the support will cheer me up. And in any case, would you rather I showed up at the store every day? Because that’s what’s going to happen if I don’t keep busy fighting Night Owl.”
Her aunt had always been a tough negotiator, and Holly knew when she was beaten. “Fine, as long as you don’t overdo it,” she said in a resigned voice.
“Now what about all those plans you have for the store?” Florence said. “Beatrice told me she just happened to see some drawings you’ve been working on.”
“Florence!” Beatrice exclaimed. “You weren’t supposed to say anything!”
Crap.
“Why don’t we just park that discussion for a few days,” Holly said with a placating smile. “We’ll see how you’re feeling then.”
“Oh, bosh!” Florence snapped. “You really think I’m going to be able to rest knowing that you’re plotting some kind of… revolution? I know very well where you’re coming from, Holly. You made yourself quite clear last summer. You think we’re just a couple of old fogies who want to keep living fifty years in the past.”
“I never said any such thing,” Holly said. Okay, she’d thought it, but she’d jump off the high bluffs on the other side of the island before admitting it.
Florence waved away her protest. “Holly, dear, just tell me. If my damn heart doesn’t kill me, all this suspense will.”
“You’d better go ahead, Holly,” Beatrice said morosely. “You know how she gets.”
Florence’s faded blue eyes narrowed to slits behind her glasses as she silently radiated disapproval of her sister and niece. Wimps was what Holly could clearly hear her thinking.
Resigned, Holly stood up. “All right, let me
get my sketches.”
She retrieved the set of drawings from her room. When she returned, Florence was at the kitchen counter, screwing the top back onto a fifth of Johnnie Walker. As Holly watched in horror, her aunt picked up a glass containing two fingers of whisky and started back to the table.
“You’re certifiable,” Holly said. “You know you shouldn’t drink while you’re on antianxiety and pain medications. You’re going to end up flat on the floor.”
“Yes, Dr. Tyler,” Florence said sarcastically, “but as Rhett Butler famously said, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’” She raised the glass as if toasting. “Scotch is the best treatment for anxiety. Always has been, always will be.”
Holly was appalled but figured it might at least soften Florence up a bit while she presented her ideas.
As it turned out though, Florence’s face looked pinched and her thin cheeks were flushed through the entire presentation. Holly wished she’d put her foot down and refused to talk about it at all.
“These are just preliminary ideas,” she said. “The details can wait until you’re feeling better.”
“Oh, phooey. I feel fine. This is doing the trick.” Florence held up her glass approvingly. Then she pointed down at the sketches. “Aside from the fact that those changes look like they might turn our store into some kind of tourist trap, there’s the minor matter of cost. I appreciate all the work you’ve done, Holly, but you know we could never afford anything like that. We don’t make enough profit these days to even buy that fancy coffee machine you’re talking about.”
Holly had planned for that response. “Aunt Florence, Aunt Beatrice, you’ve never wanted to let me give you anything, but this time you really must. I’ll beg if I have to. Since Mom and Dad died, all the giving has been from you to me, so it’s high time for me to finally give something back. Believe me, I can afford what this would cost, and nothing would give me more pleasure than to do this for you.”
She meant every word—no one was more important to her than her aunts. Holly had made an excellent salary for years, had saved a good deal of it, and still hadn’t touched a cent of the military insurance payout she’d received after Drew’s death. There was no better way to spend her money.
“Please let me do this for you,” she pleaded, her throat going tight with all the love she felt for them. “For us. I’ll be devastated if you say no.”
Beatrice turned and looked at her sister with a steadfast gaze. Florence held that look for several moments, but then let out a sad little sigh. Holly knew how hard it was for her to ignore the generational legacy of self-reliance and pride that all the islanders valued so highly.
“You’re far too generous, dear,” Florence said, “and you should be worrying about your future, not ours. After all, you’re starting your own business. But we love you, and we’ll certainly think about everything you’ve said. Yes, we’ll think hard, won’t we, sister?”
Beatrice gave a mournful nod, obviously not terribly hopeful.
Holly didn’t blame her. There was too much wiggle room in Florence’s reply, so it was time to double down on the guilt.
“I hate to have to say it,” Holly said, “but my plan might be the only way for the store to survive. If I can’t do something to help you save our family treasure, I’ll feel like a complete failure.”
And as tired as the old store was, she did feel like the historic Jenkins General Store was a Seashell Bay treasure. It was hard to imagine the island without it.
Florence pushed herself up from her chair with grim determination. “You certainly shouldn’t feel that way, dear. But we’ll talk later. Right now, I could use a little nap.”
When Holly moved to help, Florence waved her off. “I’m not dead yet.” She took a few slow steps to the patio door and peered out at Micah, who’d used the extra few days her aunt was in the hospital to forge ahead with the new porch.
On arriving home, Florence had grudgingly accepted that the project was too far along to turn back. Holly had formed the distinct impression that her aunt was in fact secretly pleased that Micah had taken charge.
Florence pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “My, my, that Micah Lancaster looks even better without his shirt on, doesn’t he? Quite a treat.” Then she cut Holly a sly grin.
“Nice, Aunt Florence. Real nice,” Holly said sarcastically.
The hell of it was, Florence was totally right.
After her nap, Florence had pulled Beatrice into the living room for a discussion of Holly’s plans. Not wanting to intrude, Holly had headed upstairs to her room, although she’d been tempted to sit at the top of the stairs and eavesdrop. She’d barely managed to restrain herself.
But her self-discipline utterly failed when it came to staring down at the construction project going on behind the house.
Or, more precisely, staring down at Micah in all his half-naked, sweaty glory as he labored on the new porch. Even though it was almost dusk, he was still working away, doing all the heavy slugging involved in mixing and pouring concrete to set the new support posts. The rays of the setting sun lit up his bronzed body like it was gold. Holly was mesmerized by the flex and bulge of his biceps as he easily lifted big sacks of sand, his cargo shorts riding low on his narrow hips. He turned his back to her, his massive shoulders gleaming with perspiration, every gorgeous muscle lovingly outlined as if by a master craftsman. She had to resist the insane urge to drag him out of sight behind the house and lick every square inch of his awesome body.
Get a grip, you pervert.
Ever since their dinner a few nights ago, Micah had kept a bit of a distance between them, which she hadn’t expected. Oh, he was as friendly as always, but his focus was firmly on the job and not on her. Holly would frequently slide open the door and ask if she could get him something to drink or help him in any way. The answer was usually yes to a drink but no to her assistance. He seemed determined to do most of the work himself, although he’d finally promised she could join him in hammering down the porch floor once they got the support posts and beams underneath squared away.
Naturally, she’d offered to help with that too, but he’d given her a firm no, telling her that Ryan was coming over tomorrow to lend a hand. Maybe he thought she was too much of a wimp or a city girl to get her hands dirty. That had her mentally wincing. She’d known for a long time that Micah had a thing for her, and she realized that in some weird way she’d come to emotionally depend on his feelings for her. The notion that he might think less of her, for any reason, was more disturbing than she cared to admit.
She sat down on her bed with a sigh. Life was getting way too complicated, and her growing feelings for Micah weren’t making things any easier. It was time to end her trip to Seashell Bay as soon as she could. Now that Florence was settling in at home, Holly figured she might be able to make her getaway in time to avoid really creating friction with her new partners. It would take maybe a week or ten days to get most of her ideas for the store moving forward—if her aunts agreed—and then Florence and Beatrice would have to take over. Florence would be champing at the bit to get back to work by then anyway. And even if Florence wasn’t up to full speed, Morgan had said she’d be happy to help out at the store, since she wasn’t teaching until later in the month. There was no one as organized or better able to whip the place into shape than Morgan.
For now, Holly simply had to keep her head down, work on the store, and ignore Deputy Lancaster as much as possible—especially when he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
She was getting her laundry ready to do a load, when Beatrice called up the stairs. “Holly, we’re ready to talk again now.”
When she joined her aunts in the living room, Florence and Beatrice were sitting primly on opposite ends of the sofa. Holly took one of the wingback chairs and tried not to look as nervous as she felt.
“We’ve come to a decision,” Florence said, pushing her glasses higher on her nose. “As much as I hate to admit it, we’re scared to death th
at the Night Owl permit might get approved. And we aren’t so old-fashioned or naïve as to think it won’t mean we’re in a lot of trouble.”
Encouraged, Holly nodded.
“So yes, we’ll accept your generosity—just this once,” her aunt went on, giving Holly a tight smile. “Though we’re terribly ashamed to have to take your hard-earned money.”
“Well, you shouldn’t feel that way, Aunt Florence. You shouldn’t ever—”
“But we’re not in favor of everything you want to do,” Florence interrupted.
Frig. It wasn’t like she’d presented her aunts with an all-or-nothing, take-it-or-leave-it deal. But her ideas did hang together. “Okay, such as?”
“Putting in a deli counter and even one of those ridiculously expensive coffee machines might make some sense,” Florence said. “I suppose that’s the sort of stuff people want these days, even here on the island. And we were going to get rid of the DVDs anyway at some point.”
“Good, that’s good,” Holly said.
“But we’re just not comfortable with the idea of making the general store cater more to tourists than to our own people. We won’t have room for our regular stock, and our loyal customers won’t be able to find what they want. Then they’ll start going somewhere else—like to Night Owl.” Her aunt’s mouth quivered a bit. “If, God forbid, they do get their permit.”
Holly took a deep breath. “Okay, I get your concern. I think we can keep most of the same products, though we’ll need to reduce the number of brands.”
She explained her ideas in more detail, and the aunts rebutted with what they could live with and what they couldn’t. After a half hour of pushing and pulling, they reached a cautious consensus. Holly’s biggest concern at this point was the potential for backsliding when she left the island, but they’d just have to cross that bridge when they came to it.
Finally, Florence gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Now there’s just one more thing we need to talk about.”
Holly bit back a groan. “Yes?”