“So this is it.” Buckhunter surveys the scene. “Huh.”
Holly looks around for the competitors. She spots them as they bob to the surface of the water, emerging in snorkeling gear and bathing suits. The woman with the colorful hair is the first out of the water, a mesh bag full of shells tied around her waist. She’s beaming and shouting something at the people behind her.
“Wow, look at all those shells,” Holly says quietly, admiring the woman’s ocean loot. Holly’s been collecting shells from the beaches for most of her life, and for the past year or so, on the nights she hasn’t been able to sleep, she’s mixed up a batch of grout and carefully affixed her favorite shells to the exterior wall of her house that’s covered by the lanai.
“Bet you could do something with those,” Buckhunter says, nodding at the other contestants as they come out of the water with their own bags of shells. Given the close proximity of their houses, he sometimes sees Holly on her lanai late at night, lights on, music playing as she pads around barefoot, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of a mortar-covered hand as she focuses intently on her shell wall.
Before Holly can say anything, Jake steps onto the sand. His dark hair glistens with water, and his skin is a deeper brown than usual. Although it’s been a while since she’s seen him shirtless, she can tell his muscles are more pronounced, his abs leaner. The waistband of his swim trunks rides low on his pelvis, and a trail of hair from his bellybutton disappears into the navy fabric of his shorts like a path leading into a dense forest. Holly swallows hard and tears her eyes away.
Not ten seconds later, the Amazonian blonde emerges from the surf, pushing her goggles onto the top of her head as she laughs hysterically. Streams of water run over her almond-colored skin. Jake stops and reaches out a hand to her, pulling her forward and closer to him so that her young, firm breasts press against his strong arm. They run to shore together, racing for some unseen finish line.
“Well,” Buckhunter says, tilting his head to one side. “This is more interesting than I thought it would be.”
Holly whacks his arm. “This is more naked than I thought it would be.”
“Everyone’s covered.” Buckhunter shrugs. “Looks harmless to me.”
Holly ignores him and marches forward. She sees Leanna and slows her aggressive approach, thinking of what she wants to say.
“Holly! Leo!” Leanna waves at them, calling Buckhunter by his first name. “It’s sandcastle day, and the contestants are paired up.” Leanna pulls the headset she’s wearing off her head and lets it dangle around her neck. “We’ve already sent the first four home, so now we’re down to eight.” Chuck Cortwell—with his giant Confederate flag tattoo—remains, as does the docile-looking angel with the waist-length waves of brown sugar hair. The flame-haired woman is paired with one of the generic male models, and the other contestants are on their knees in the sand, hard at work on what will obviously be sprawling sandcastles.
“Things are working out exactly the way we’d hoped,” Leanna confides. “Jake is doing great, and he and Bridget have a natural chemistry. The camera loves them.”
Holly bristles. Jake hasn’t noticed her because he’s clearly engrossed in the competition at hand—and in Bridget. Holly lowers her chin, watching from beneath the brim of her baseball cap.
“Looks like fun,” Buckhunter interjects awkwardly, filling the silence when Holly doesn’t say anything. “What happens when someone wins this competition?”
“They have three hours to construct and decorate. We brought in two of the world’s professional-level master sandcastle judges—”
“Wait, there’s such a thing as a ‘master sandcastle judge’?” Holly looks away from Jake and Bridget.
“Of course. They even have their own union,” Leanna says, pointing at a squat man in a Panama hat, and a tall, thick-legged woman with a puff of gray hair. “The boat dropped them off at dawn, and they’ll be leaving again after we film this segment.”
“Oh.” This makes Holly feel strange. And helpless. How could two more strangers have landed on her island without her knowledge? What would the other islanders say if they knew how little control she actually has over this reality show?
“Anyway,” Leanna continues. “After the judging, the winning team gets to eat a candlelit seafood dinner prepared by an award-winning chef from Miami. We’re getting everything set up in the pleasure tent over there.” She stretches one long arm, pointing at a large tent that’s been constructed from two smaller ones.
Buckhunter snorts. “The ‘pleasure tent’?”
“Mmhmm.” Leanna is distracted as distant voices crackle in the earpiece of the headset around her neck. “Hold on.” She puts the headset back on and listens for a minute, frowning. “Okay,” she says, taking it off again. “Just some minor details.”
“So, this dinner,” Holly says, redirecting the conversation back to the pleasure tent.
“Right. Johannes Comedreu came by boat with the sandcastle judges,” she says, turning her attention to the big tent.
Holly sways on her feet; the tally of unknown strangers on Christmas Key now stands at three.
“He’s prepping right now if you want to take a peek at the tent,” Leanna says, running a hand through her loose hair. “But if things run as long as they normally do, we might keep him here overnight. We promised him a room at the B&B, and I’m assuming there’s still somewhere we can stick him? You can throw it on our bill,” she adds hastily, not waiting for Holly to confirm whether or not they have a room for Johannes Comedreu. The Apple watch on Leanna’s wrist buzzes, pulling her attention away from them again. “Anyhow, have a look around. But try to stay out of the way—we don’t want to distract the contestants.” Leanna is already staring at her watch and walking away from them, scratchy voices blaring from the headset as she goes. “Oh, and text me about the room at the inn!” she says over her shoulder, shielding her eyes from the sun.
Holly gives her a half-hearted thumbs-up.
“Shall we take a jaunt over to the pleasure tent, Mayor?” Buckhunter asks in a faux British accent. With a sigh of defeat, Holly falls into line behind him, following in the loose footprints his Birkenstocks leave in the sand.
“I think you should start referring to me as ‘Mayoral Candidate’ instead of ‘Mayor,’” she says loudly. “Or maybe ‘The Artist Formerly Known as Mayor,’ because I’ve obviously lost control of this situation.”
“Aww, don’t be so hard on yourself, girl.” Buckhunter tosses her a backwards glance. “Maybe Johannes Comedreu will give you a crab cake or something to cheer you up.”
“Ha.” Holly ducks under the flap of the giant tent behind Buckhunter and immediately stops in her tracks: an intimate table for two is set in the middle of the tent. It’s covered with a snow-white table cloth, and gold-rimmed china rests on both place settings. The center of the table is filled with vanilla-scented candles and a tight bunch of ivory roses clipped short and studded with rhinestone stickpins. A gleaming guitar rests against a stool in one corner of the tent, and a sparkling chandelier is suspended from the tent’s metal beam over the table. The delicate setting is a sharp juxtaposition to the ruggedness of the canvas tent, but it’s so elegantly done that Holly half expects Martha Stewart to pop her head into the tent and ask if it needs a few more roses. The dreamy set-up is breathtaking enough to be a private wedding feast for a bride and groom, and in a heartbeat, Holly knows who will win the sandcastle challenge.
The clanging of pots and pans and a string of frustrated words in French rise from behind a modest partition in the tent. “Mon dieu!” a man shouts, slamming something metal.
“Let’s go.” Buckhunter grabs her elbow. “Johannes Comedreu sounds like he’s not parting with any of his crab cakes, even for a Yankees fan.” Holly holds onto her hat defensively as Buckhunter yanks her out of the tent and back onto the beach.
“So, do you want to stick around and watch these yahoos build Versailles out of sand, or shoul
d we split?” Buckhunter asks, hands on his hips as he looks around at the competitors digging in the sand.
“We should split, please. And get coffee.”
“As you wish, madam.” Buckhunter leads the way again. The crew is all heavily involved in filming the scene, and Leanna and Wayne stand shoulder to shoulder on the sand near the competitors and their creations.
Holly sneaks one last peek at Jake and Bridget just in time to see Jake jokingly hit Bridget on the butt with a firm cake of sand. They fall into one another, laughing. Holly’s mouth drops open as she watches Bridget raise one hip alluringly and look over her shoulder at her own perfectly shaped, sand-dusted bottom.
“Keep walking, chicklet.” Buckhunter follows her gaze and reaches out a hand to take hers and steer her away from the scene. “One foot in front of the other—there you go. Coffee awaits.”
He leads Holly all the way to the cart and then drives her directly to Mistletoe Morning Brew. She stares into the distance the entire way, not saying a word.
Chapter 12
Bonnie’s bungalow is tucked in behind a stand of palm trees, and the yard is staked with pink plastic flamingos in Santa hats. The inside of the house is layered in shades of yellow from butter to sunshine, and the walls are covered with framed black-and-white pictures taken by Bonnie’s youngest son. A leopard-print throw rests casually over the arm of the couch in her front room.
“Now don’t get your tinsel in a tangle over this, sugar,” Bonnie advises, clearing a stack of cookbooks off the island in the middle of her kitchen so Holly can sit down and rest her elbows on the black quartz countertop. “I can see it all over your face, and going down this path is only going to get you into a whole heap of trouble—trust me.” Bonnie sets the tea kettle on the stainless steel stove and twists the knob to turn on the burner.
“Please don’t judge me, Bon. I never knew I had this, this—” she flails around for the right words, “—this ugly, jealous beast living inside me. This girl can’t be more than five years younger than me, but when I look at her, suddenly I feel like an over-the-hill spinster. I’m a wrinkled old troll with teeth like yellow kernels of corn. And you should see her in a bikini—she’s practically a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“Now you listen to me, and listen good,” Bonnie says sharply, snapping a placemat in the air and setting it in front of Holly. “I would never judge you, honey—I think that goes without saying.” Bonnie opens a white cabinet and chooses a heavy ceramic mug for the tea. “But you’ve got to find some peace with this.” She searches for a suitable saucer and brings them both over to Holly, setting them on the placemat.
The kettle whistles and Bonnie pulls it off the burner. She hands Holly a container full of individual tea bags with flavor names like Passionate Peanut Butter Pie and Orange Jelly Donut.
“Are these flavors for real?” Holly picks one called Pineapple Papaya Margarita.
“Pretty much. Aren’t they more fun than a barrel of monkeys?” Bonnie wrinkles her nose and sets the boiling water on a trivet in the middle of the island. “Milk or sugar?” she offers.
“No thanks.” Holly chooses a packet of plain mint tea.
“I do think it’s worth pointing out,” Bonnie says, arching an eyebrow as she fills her own mug with hot water, “that what you’re feeling right now is probably exactly what Jake was feeling when he saw you running around with River this summer.”
Holly keeps her eyes on the tea bag as it bobs around in the cup of steaming water. “I tried my best not to rub his face in it. That was never my intention, you know.”
“I know.” Bonnie pats her hand. “And I’m sure they weren’t engaging in foreplay on the beach today just to taunt you, honey. Jake probably used his manners and waited to untie her bikini top with his teeth until after you left.”
Holly pushes her tea aside. “Well, that paints a nauseating picture.”
“Good thing you chose the mint tea then, sugar, because I’m about to make you feel a little more queasy.”
“How?” Holly’s mood shifts from despondent to wary in an instant.
“Cookie?” Bonnie shoots her a nervous look, snapping the lid off the Tupperware container full of oatmeal raisin cookies that she’s holding out like an olive branch. Holly takes one and sets it on her saucer. “Okay, you aren’t going to want to hear this.” Bonnie reaches across the island and takes Holly’s hands in her own. “But your mother called today while you were out with Buckhunter.”
“You’re right,” Holly says quickly. “I can taste the vomit already.”
Bonnie holds tightly to both of Holly’s hands. “She heard about Cap running for mayor, and she says it’s one more sign that you aren’t cut out for this. She thinks someone else could do it better, and she wants to come down over Thanksgiving to talk about the resort that’s still interested in buying the island.”
Holly lets go of Bonnie’s hands and stands up, leaving her tea and cookie untouched. “But I know what I’m doing, Bon—why doesn’t anyone think that I know what I’m doing?” She rubs her forehead with one hand, the other clamped on her waist below her ribcage, rubbing at the sudden pain shooting through her side. “I’ve got this handled.”
“Okay, hon,” Bonnie says soothingly, picking up her own cup by the handle and sipping the hot tea. “I believe in you. One hundred percent—you know that.”
Holly knows Bonnie isn’t pulling her leg, and she’s grateful for the unconditional support from her friend. “I have you, and I have Buckhunter and Fiona on my side, and…”
“And a lot of people.” Bonnie sets the cup down on the saucer a little too loudly. “You’ve been running this island like a pro since your grandfather passed away, and no one has had any complaints to speak of until Cap got a bug up his butt about this whole mayor thing. Speaking of which, we still need to get to the bottom of his big secret,” Bonnie says, wagging a finger as she talks. “The tantrum he threw at the village council meeting a couple of months ago about everyone having big secrets has not been forgotten. At least not by me.”
Holly relaxes, breathing through the stitch in her side. “Thanks, Bon. I know you’ve got my back.”
“Of course I do,” Bonnie insists. “We just need to eat this elephant one bite at a time.”
“You’re right.” Holly sits down at the island again. “So what’s the first bite?”
“Bite one is getting your hiney out of my kitchen and onto the beach.” Bonnie points at Holly’s beat up Converse tennis shoes, abandoned on the tile floor by the front door. Holly, Mrs. Agnelli, the triplets, and—recently—Bonnie, have been taking an early morning walk on the beach every Thursday since New Year’s. They’ve postponed it until sunset today because of Holly’s morning visit to the set, and Holly and Pucci have come by in the golf cart to pick up Bonnie. “Get your pup off my porch and let’s do this, otherwise I’m sitting down on my lanai with a mystery novel and I’m not getting up again until bedtime.”
“I’m ready.” Holly takes one long sip of her tea and sets the cup and saucer in Bonnie’s sink. “I need to get cussed out by Maria Agnelli like I need another man in my life, but let’s do this.”
The women leave the ceiling fans spinning throughout the bungalow. The back door to the lanai is open to let in the evening breeze, and the sound of rustling palm fronds fills the house.
Pucci hops onto the rear-facing seat of the golf cart and settles on the bench as Holly backs up onto the road, head craned to look over her shoulder.
“We’re gonna get you some fresh air to clear your head, sugar. And then I want you to hurry on home and do that naked Skyping thing with old Slugger, you hear me?”
Holly’s foot eases off the gas pedal as a surprised laugh overtakes her; it’s the first real, easy feeling she’s had all day. She looks over at Bonnie, whose face is one of complete innocence.
“I’m serious, sugar. In thirty years you two will be sitting in front of your computers in your birthday suits, and it won’t b
e the same pretty picture as it is now.” Bonnie sweeps a hand up and down in the air in front of Holly’s body.
“Never in my life have I Skyped naked!” Holly says through her laughter. “I can’t even imagine.”
“Oooh, girl, you need to try it!” Bonnie pats Holly’s thigh. “It can be very sexy.”
“Wait—are you telling me…” Holly trails off. She can’t even finish the sentence or the thought.
“I’m not telling you anything, Holly Jean—a lady never gives away her own secrets.” Bonnie crosses one leg over the other, sitting as primly in the passenger seat of the golf cart as anyone ever has.
Holly casts a look in her friend’s direction. “Well, well, well,” she says, a knowing smirk on her face. “Wyatt Bender is one lucky man!”
A hint of horror passes across Bonnie’s face. “You bite your tongue, missy. Wyatt Bender is most definitely not on the receiving end of a Skype call from yours truly.”
“Oh?”
“But there are gentleman of a certain age in various parts of this fine country who’ve seen various parts of my fine anatomy, and that’s all I can say about that.”
“Well, Bon, that’s good, because I think that’s about all I can handle.”
Chapter 13
“I definitely don’t want live turkeys!” Holly shouts down the hallway toward the back office of the B&B. She’s rifling through the drawers behind the front desk, looking for the extra master key that opens every room in the hotel. “Make sure you tell them they’d better send us birds that are ready for the oven!”
Bonnie is still on the phone with the grocery store in Tampa, and her surprised laugh tells Holly everything she needs to know. She shuts the drawer and walks back to the office.
“So what’s the verdict?”
Bonnie sets down the phone and pokes the end of her ballpoint pen into the pile of red curls on top of her head. “Well, sugar,” she smiles sweetly, “looks like we’re going to have some company for Marco.”
Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two Page 9