I reach the end, which is far out into the diamond-studded lake, and rest against the wooden railing with my duffle bags at my feet. In the distance, a group of brave teens race and splash, spitting water into the sky. The buzz of sea planes flying overhead competes with the crash and hiss of gently rocking waves below me. Back on the manufactured beach, herds of people shift along the sand with colorful umbrellas and blankets hoping to leech the remnants of summer before it gets too cool.
One day, I want to be like them—surrounded by the love and compassion of good friends. People who care to know what I’m doing and where I’m going. For so long, I’d squandered the attention of friends and family who only wanted the best for me. Hopefully, if I got the opportunity again, I wouldn’t let the same thing happen. You never know what is most important until it—against all reason—is taken from you.
I make my way back down the dock, and my eye catches on a bright white building at the far end of the main line of businesses. It’s situated so it has a direct view of the lake, is flanked by rows of beautiful flowering bushes, and has a sign just to the right of the walkway that reads: Nassau Bed and Breakfast. Drawn by the beautiful picture it paints, I sift my way through the throngs of people on the boardwalk until I’m standing in front of it. Even if Chloe hadn’t put out feelers, I would have immediately been drawn to its classic lines and charming decorations. There’s love here, and it almost emanates from the place.
Heavy pieces of furniture, crafted from driftwood, sit on the expansive wrap-around front porch. The front door is open, so I take the opportunity to duck in for a peek before I find the owner for introductions. The foyer is empty of guests and surprisingly quiet for what I’d expected of midday. The only sound is the soft ticking of the grandfather clock situated at the base of the stairs in front of me and the waves crashing in the distance.
I crack open a set of double doors to my right just enough to see the library on the other side. A rainbow of spines decorate floor to ceiling shelves. A grouping of comfortable-looking chairs is placed in front of a delicately crafted stone fireplace. The windows are open to a garden of colorful flowers. To the opposite side is a closed door, where I assume the dining room must be located.
On my left is a little gift shop with more driftwood lining the walls as shelves for knick knacks, books, and a variety of tongue-in-cheek shirts. I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in. The space needs no music or scent because the unique scent of fresh air fills the space. It’s peaceful and quaint. Finally, my eyes land on a large hunk of wood with elaborate, delicate branches that serves to hold the checkout counter and register.
A colorful chalkboard on the wall behind it details an enticing lunch menu. They must serve the occasional foot traffic as well as those with reservations. I walk slowly through the gift shop and out a pair of French doors. They lead out onto a spectacular veranda with the most beautiful lake views I’ve ever seen, which includes the two weeks I’d spent getting wasted on the shores of Mexico with Paige our freshman year in college.
The memory spears a fresh wave of pain, so I turn from the view and nearly run into a woman with a short cap of white hair. She joins me, leaning her arms against the deck. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Awestruck, I can do no more than offer her a baffled smile. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“That’s what we like to hear.” She straightens and turns to me. “I’m Rose. Were you looking to book a room or order something for lunch? Our fresh fish is to die for.”
“Actually, I would kill for some caffeine. You wouldn’t happen to make coffee here would you?”
“You’re in luck. We have the best cappuccinos in the state. Mostly because you can sit out here on the deck while you drink it.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
I follow the woman back through the gift shop and hall to an open room with a grand staircase and dining room on the far side. I conclude based on the lake views there as well that the back of the house must jut out toward the water, offering a million-dollar panoramic view. The dining room opens up into a spacious kitchen that is bright and airy, all light wood and soft cream accents. There is a central island with a sink and stainless steel stovetop, two commercial-grade ovens, and two identical stainless steel microwaves. It is like something from a design magazine.
As I step into the kitchen, I hear a curse coming from another side entrance that is followed by a lot of feminine grumbling.
My guide’s mouth pulls into a frown. “Excuse me for a moment.”
“Of course.”
She hurries from the room, her heels clicking against the tile floors as she goes. Curiosity piqued, I follow, though only to the stools situated at the bar, which is plenty close enough to hear the conversation going on down the hall.
“What in the devil is going on in here, Diane?”
I jump when three bangs sound in rapid succession from the hall. “Mrs. Cleary has decided she doesn’t want the Lily Suite after all. Too sunny.”
“Did you mention she specifically booked the Lily Suite because it gets a lot of sunlight?”
The woman sighs in response. “Of course I did, Mom, but that woman doesn’t listen to reason.”
“Well, we have customers in the other room. You can’t be throwing things about in here, now. We’ll take a look at the other rooms and see what we can do.”
“Of course. You’re right, but sometimes a body just needs to let off a little steam.”
I hear Rose laugh. “Next time you need to blow off a little steam, why don’t you just take a dip in the lake. It’s right cold enough to cool that temper of yours.”
“I may take you up on that offer,” Diane says. “If I don’t, I may drown that damn woman.”
“Language, Diane. We have a guest in the kitchen.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?”
“What do you think I’m doing here?”
The sound of shuffling feet jerks me from my eavesdropping, and I snatch up a menu from the counter and pretend to study it. It offers a variety of light meals that I’d find in a gourmet café. Soups and sandwiches. A selection of coffees and fresh salads, plus the aforementioned fish, probably freshly caught.
I glance up as they enter the kitchen and have to blink twice at the sight. The women could have been identical were it not for the marked age difference. They both have the same heavily lidded tawny eyes and smooth cocoa-and-cream skin. The same slashing cheekbones and Cupid’s bow lips. The younger woman, presumably Diane, has a thick mane of hair so brown it is almost black and looks to be in her forties. She is easily one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.
She offers me a warm smile as she crosses the kitchen to the sink where she grabs a dishrag to run under the cold water. “Welcome to Nassau Bed and Breakfast. I hope we didn’t bother you. Bit of a complication came up.”
“No problem at all.” I indicate the menu and hope that my stomach doesn’t growl. “This all looks so great.”
“Thank you.” She rinses her hands in the sink. “What can we get you today?”
“Rose mentioned a cappuccino? That sounds perfect, thank you.”
Diane moves across the small bar to the cappuccino machine. Her gait is easy, confident, and her movements as she prepares the drink are efficient and capable.
She hands me a steaming mug with a complimentary pastry. “So what brings you to Nassau? Vacation?” Diane nods toward the duffle bags at my feet.
I take a moment to blow on the drink and sip before answering. “Of sorts. More like a fresh start. I’m—” I have to pause and remember I use my middle name now. It helps with the questions. As the death toll rose, so did the coverage of the case—especially when I made it out alive. Even now, years later, I still tense up when I say my name, expecting someone to recognize it. “My name is Sienna Davenport. Chloe said she talked to you about maybe giving me a job.”
They share a look. Finally, Diane exclaims. “Thank goodness! Lord
have mercy, we could use some help around here.”
My mouth drops open and I remember to shut it after a few seconds of stunned silence. “Really?”
“Mom and I have been trying to find someone to help out around here for months with no luck. If you want, we can go up to the office to discuss hours and pay.”
My heart beats a little faster. “That sounds great. You wouldn’t also happen to know of anywhere I could rent, would you? I’ll be staying in Nassau for the foreseeable future, but just got to town and haven’t had a chance to look yet.”
Rose is pulling cookies from the oven and the smell overwhelms the room, reminding me the pastry was delicious, but small, and I can’t remember the last time I’d eaten before that. My mother had never been very skilled in the kitchen, but there is something about the smell of baking that makes me feel at home.
Diane perches on one of the bar chairs and nabs a cookie, juggling it around as it cools. “Chloe mentioned how handy you are, and based on the resume she forwarded, my mother and I could use you around here. There’s always something that needs to be fixed or some errand to run. We also manage the bungalows across the street. We’re renovating them as we go. Same goes for our tenants there. I’m assuming you have experience?”
“Believe it or not, I was raised by a general contractor. I can do just about anything that you need doing. My father insisted on it. In addition, I’ve also done just about every job under the sun. Waitress, secretary, cook, maid.”
“Have you ever been fired or committed any crimes?”
My mind flashes back to that night, but I force myself not to let it show on my face. “No, I haven't.”
She studies me for another minute before grabbing another cookie and indicating for me to follow. She leads me through the hallway and out to a solarium that opens out to a side road with a fence on either side.
“We are open year round but do most of our business during the warmer months. At the moment, we have all of the seven rooms occupied, and I expect that we’ll stay at full capacity throughout the end of the month as people take last minute vacations. If you decide to take the position, your duties will include light housekeeping, some paperwork, general Q and A for our guests about the area’s activities, and maintenance as needed. I do most of the cooking here in house, and I may need a hand from time to time. My mother does a little bit of everything else when her health allows.”
“What would the hours be like?”
“I’m obviously here around the clock, but I would need you from eight to five, sometimes longer depending on what activities are planned that day. In any case, if that happens, you'll be paid overtime. Are you going to school out here?”
“No, I haven’t made plans to. Well, not yet anyway."
She gives me an assessing look as we cross the street toward the bungalows. “If you do, Nassau College has a great selection of night classes, and if need be, we can work around your schedule."
“Thank you, that’s kind of you to mention.”
“Well, it works in my favor to keep you around.”
The main road that separates the bed and breakfast from the bungalows is heavy with traffic. As the sun starts its slow descent down the horizon, the soft blues paint the white shell driveway in pastels. Lights from the passing cars dance spots over the windows and lawns. Gathered in a loose semi-circle are a dozen or so modest houses with matching porches and carports. Each has a little fence framing the sidewalk that leads up to the front door. Diane guides me down the road to the farthest one. The house is like a fairy tale tucked away under a pair of palm trees. It’s a faded lavender color, but not in any way that makes it look old or worn, just lived in. The front window is large and bare, framed by a flowerbox of struggling impatiens.
“It’s nothing special.” Diane takes a ring of keys from her pocket and unlocks the door. “It has a bedroom, kitchen with attached dining room, and bathroom. The yard isn’t much to speak of, but who needs one with paradise across the street, right?”
I step in and take in the second hand-furniture, oddly charmed by the mismatched pieces. “Right. Does this one need some cleaning or fixing up?” I’m eager to get started, I realize. To prove myself worthy of the two kind women taking a chance on me.
“If so, I’m sure you’ll be able to fix it in no time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, while you’re helping us, you’re welcome to live here. I’ll speak to my mother about a reasonable deal for rent and utilities, but if you want it, this place is yours.”
I turn in a circle, dazed. “This place?”
“Unless you’d prefer another?”
“No!” Giddy laughter bubbles in my chest. “No, this is great, I’m just caught off guard. I wasn’t expecting you to offer me a house.”
“You need it, and we need you.” I shift my weight from one foot to another at her frank appraisal. “I can tell that you’ve had a hard life. Trust me, I can relate. Just consider this Southern hospitality.”
I raise a hand to shake hers. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“You’re welcome. Besides, you’ll come to know everyone is family here.”
I turn in a circle, taking it all in. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I’ll let you get settled in. You can start first thing tomorrow. Pleasure to meet you, Sienna.”
Logan
The beer is warm and flat, but it is wet enough to wash the sour taste of vomit from my mouth. My father always said a beer in the morning was the cure for a hangover. As a veteran drunk, I guess he knew best. Can drained dry, I toss it in the general direction of the overflowing garbage and wince at the clatter it makes against the tile floor.
The reflection in the chipped mirror above the leaky sink, which is stained with rust that I’ve been meaning to clean, reminds me more and more of that old bastard each day. Sweat and a slew of other indiscriminate stains camouflage what was once a white T-shirt. My beard has far surpassed the five o’clock shadow stage and has grown in patchy and unkempt. But what most reminds me of my father are my eyes. Light green, ringed by red, watery—as if I’m drowning myself in alcohol as well as drinking it—and angrily bloodshot.
I flip open the medicine cabinet and hunt for a bottle of ibuprofen. Empties rain down into the sink, along with a dull razor, empty mouthwash, and squished tube of toothpaste. A singular rattle leads me to a lone pill. It won’t kick the headache completely, but it’s better than nothing. I twist the stiff knob on the sink and use my hands as a cup to drink water.
I half stumble, half trip my way to the kitchen, bypassing a mountain of laundry and a stack of unopened bills. Dishes are piled over every available surface, so I opt for a reasonably clean one I find next to the fridge. I give it a quick rinse, fill it with water, nuke it in the microwave and then dump in some instant coffee. It tastes like ass, but it helps eradicate some of the cobwebs that took up residence in my head during the night. There’s some leftover pizza from three or four days ago that I throw on a paper plate and heat up as I suck back the remains of coffee. I’ve found coffee—like beer—is best consumed quickly and without mercy.
After inhaling the pizza as I stand over the counter, I make a second cup of coffee and amble through the dark hallway that forks off to the only bedroom and bathroom to the living room. Normally, I’d sit on the couch in front of the flat screen and ferment in the haze of the blue light until the sun went down, but it’s starting to cool off, and I could use the fresh air. Since it’s hotter inside my house than it is outside, I head out to the porch. I don’t mind the heat, but I don’t want to sweat to death, either.
I spent the last decade in the desert. A little Florida sunshine is pitiful in comparison. The heat almost makes me a little homesick for the dusty trailers and hundred-degree weather.
The ancient wooden swing on equally ancient chains creaks audibly as I sprawl over it with one foot planted on the floor so I can sway myself ba
ck and forth. A fan circulates the humid air in lazy rotations above me.
A car door slams in the distance, but I ignore it. I’m almost asleep again, and the throbbing in my head is finally fucking off.
Someone’s shouting over the whir of the fan, but I ignore that, too. A good nap to sleep off the last chokehold of this hangover is my number one priority.
I reach that point where all my muscles are lax, my breathing is slow and even, and the specters of the man I used to be are quiet. Then a woman screams, and I bolt upright, knocking my head against the arm of the swing and nearly blacking out for the second time in twenty-four hours—a record even for me.
My hand comes away smeared with blood. “Fan-fucking-tastic,” I croak.
I use the hem of my shirt to staunch the bleeding, but that leaves me hunched over, so I just yank it off and press it to my forehead. When I sit up, the world tilts, and I have to grab onto the chains to keep from swaying like a reed in the wind.
I keep my eyes closed until the urge to yak all over my shoes—again—passes, then I get unsteadily to my feet and hobble down the steps. There’s a fifty-gallon container I keep near the water hose beside the house that’s already filled with rainwater. I duck my head in it to wash away the blood, and it also serves to cool me down and clear my head before I do something rash.
Like kill someone.
With the blood gone and streams of water flowing down my chest and back, I feel reasonably calm when I turn to face the source of the scream that gave me the concussion.
I knew when the FOR RENT sign wound up in the neighbors trash a week ago that my little slice of solitude wouldn’t be so for much longer. After spending a large chunk of my life packed like a sardine with fifty other men while I spent eight long years in the Marines, I’ve grown very protective of my privacy.
The little blonde—really she isn’t little, but I’m over six feet and would dwarf her—is standing on her own porch steps nearly identical to mine, glowering at a man in a suit that must have cost more than everything I owned.
First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5 Page 60