Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel

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Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel Page 9

by Susan Donovan


  “Wallace. It’s close of business on Friday. I’m assuming you’re alive. If not, let me know.”

  Ash laughed.

  Four more calls were from the Oceanaire offices, probably in regard to next month’s board of directors meeting in Boston. Brian’s death had halted plans for the foundation’s proposed research and education institute and offices, but the board was ready once again to pursue Brian’s dream, and they expected Ash to guide them. He’d get back to them Monday.

  Ash tossed the phone into his duffel bag, then retraced his way up the steps, locked the cabin, and hopped onto the walkway. He hadn’t gotten twenty feet before he ran into Sully, the mechanic.

  “Mr. Wallace.” Sully wasn’t much for eye contact. “Got a minute?”

  “Of course.” Ash threw the duffel strap over his shoulder. “Have you had a chance to look at my boat?”

  Sully shook his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “Uh, briefly—enough to know that you’re going to need a whole new engine. You really messed her up good.”

  Ash produced the appropriate expression of shame. “I feel like an idiot.”

  Sully let that assessment slide. “Uh, I can order one from a guy I know in Hyannis—runs the best shop on the Cape. But only if that’s okay with you. If it’s not okay . . .” He looked away.

  Ash realized he wasn’t going to finish the sentence. “That’ll be fine.”

  “But, uh, it’s gonna cost about four thousand . . .”

  “All right.”

  “You’re lucky it’s gas, though, since diesel would’ve been five times as much.”

  Ash sighed with exaggerated relief. “Well, that’s good. Would you like me to get my checkbook?”

  “Got your credit card on file.”

  Ash nodded. “So we’re good?”

  “Uh, got another problem.”

  Despite Sully’s halting conversation style, Ash knew exactly where this was headed: He was about to be the victim of supply and demand. “Yes?”

  “Slips are at a premium this week.”

  “Of course. How much?”

  Sully glanced away again. “It’s peak season. I know you can’t overnight on your boat, but . . .”

  “Name your—”

  “Five hundred a night.”

  Ash pursed his lips, trying not to laugh at the outrageous number Sully had just pulled out of his ass. Not that he was surprised. In his years of negotiating, Ash had seen that even the most hesitant and insecure people could make themselves perfectly clear when cash was involved. “Go ahead and run the card for the slip rental and use it to buy whatever you need for the boat. Will that work?”

  “Absolutely, Mr. Wallace.” With that, Sully turned and headed back toward his tumbledown shack of an office.

  “Nice doing business with you.” Ash got no response. He made his way back through town and headed to the B and B, noting that the streets were filling up with locals and tourists alike. The storm had added a dash of anxiety to the goings-on, which meant the stressed-out folks running around trying to get things done were Bayberry locals. Otherwise, it wasn’t clear who was a visitor and who was a resident, because a majority of the people Ash saw were oddly dressed, to put it politely. In one of the many articles he’d read in his research, a travel writer had called Bayberry the Key West of New England. Ash was beginning to see how accurate that description had been.

  First off, there were mermaids. Everywhere. The mermaids were tall and slender, short and chunky, dark-skinned and pale, and everything in between. They ranged in age from crying babies to frail old women being pushed around in wheelchairs.

  The mermaid costumes ran the gamut from off-the-rack Walmart purchases to elaborate, custom-designed works of performance art. One woman glided down the boardwalk wearing a Statue-of-Liberty-slash-mermaid ensemble, complete with the torch, crown, and red, white, and blue scales on her fish tail. Ash decided he hadn’t seen this many long wigs and bikini tops since he watched part of a Beyoncé special on cable TV the year before.

  A close second to the mermaids was the number of sea captains and sailors of varying descriptions. There was also a staggering number of hippies, neo-hippies, hippy-hipsters, and quasi-Rastafarians from preteen to postprime ages. Then there were the pirates, fishermen, King Tritons, and even a few mermen. The undersea characters from the cartoon SpongeBob SquarePants were well represented, as were costumes that defied easy classification.

  Just then, Ash blinked in an effort to clear his vision. The six-foot-tall “mermaid” sashaying down the middle of Main Street sported thick chest hair, big biceps, and a pronounced Adam’s apple. Ash barely had time to regroup when he spied the gaggle of fairies walking toward the public dock. He had to stop and watch.

  He’d read about them. Apparently, there had been a mutiny within the Mermaid Society back in the late nineties, and several members founded a rival all-female club called the Bayberry Fairy Brigade. As the name implied, these ladies decided to pledge their loyalty to mythical forest creatures instead of mythical sea creatures. And despite what Ash was looking at now—the gossamer wings, frilly skirts, and overall delicate appearance—he knew these fairies were anything but wusses. He’d read about how their act of defiance had never been forgiven, and there had been several fairy-mermaid melees to which the police had responded. He hoped he would witness a skirmish while on the island, but wondered if such a treat might be too much to ask for.

  Stuck in the middle of all this weirdness were normal-looking families, salt-of-the-earth locals, and a whole bunch of retirees who seemed to be having a ball.

  Ash chuckled as he walked in the direction of the B and B. He’d traveled all over the world—Asia, Africa, Europe, South America. He’d been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Chinese New Year in Hong Kong, and Carnaval de Buenos Aires. And he could safely say that the tiny Bayberry Island Mermaid Festival packed more per-capita spectacle than any of them.

  Back at the carriage house, Ash enjoyed a leisurely hot shower. At some point he realized his thoughts had once more gravitated toward Rowan. Her body, to be exact. He raised his face into the steaming water, remembering how greedy she’d been for his touch, how she’d arched up against him and pushed her breast into his mouth, how she’d bared her neck to him and clutched at his back like she would die without him.

  He groaned at the memory of Rowan’s kisses. They were everything from fierce to demure. Her hair smelled like a summer storm. And when he was buried deep inside her—oh God, he didn’t think he’d ever felt anything as true and as right in his life.

  He shut off the now-cold water with a shake of his head, amazed that he was once more fighting the direction taken by his own thoughts. And his dick. He’d always seen himself as a disciplined man, not one prone to daydreaming and sentimentality. In fact, every woman he’d ever had a relationship with claimed that was his primary defect. He’d been called closed off, shut down, and just plain cold. So to find himself off balance like this was way beyond odd. It was fuckin’ nuts.

  Ash put on a pair of cargo shorts and a T-shirt, then set off toward town again. He hoped he’d get there in time to catch the beginning of the parade.

  And if he were lucky, he’d get a glimpse of Rowan. He needed to know what she looked like when she was happy and laughing. He decided if he were allowed only one more guilty pleasure during his time on Bayberry Island—Rowan’s laugh or mermaid-fairy fisticuffs—he’d choose Rowan in a heartbeat. He bet the sound of her laughter was lovely beyond words.

  Chapter Six

  “Shoot me now.”

  Rowan groused to herself as she settled into the giant-assed half-shell throne atop the Safe Haven B and B parade entry. How had this happened? It was all a blur. How had she allowed her mother to talk her into doing this? Why the hell had she agreed to be the B and B’s so-called Mermaid Queen? For very good reasons, she’d refused to ride on the family’s float since high school.

  Then she remembered. Guilt. She was doing this out
of a profound sense of guilt. Rowan felt a dead weight settle onto her bare shoulders as it hit her—when, exactly, could she expect this guilt to go away? How long would it be until she felt, in her heart, that she’d made amends to her family? How long would she have to carry the weight of the Safe Haven in her strong and healthy hands because her frail mother couldn’t? Five years? Ten years? The rest of her freaking life? Yes, Rowan knew it was selfish to even think this way, but she wished Mona would just agree to sell the Safe Haven and set her free.

  “Lookin’ real good.” Clancy stood at the side of the float, smiling up at Rowan, his shoulders shaking. “Lovely flipper.”

  “Bite me.”

  He laughed loudly, bending forward at the waist and leaning into the flatbed’s crepe paper fringe trim. At any other time, Rowan would have laughed right along with him. She’d never been able to resist the contagious nature of her brother’s full-throttle guffaw. But there was nothing funny about this particular situation.

  “Don’t you have some kind of emergency to handle?”

  Clancy shook his head and gestured at the float. “None more important than this violation of everything holy.”

  “Whatever.”

  She looked away, trying not to give him the satisfaction of her chuckle. After all, he was right. The float was a joke. Mona and her buddies had pulled out all the stops this year. Liberace himself would consider this thing a little too flamboyant. The sides had been trimmed in corrugated cardboard waves, each two-foot-high peak embellished with an ornate swirl of a glittery whitecap. There were decorative displays of real seaweed, sand, and shells, along with strategically placed bouquets of sea grass. But it was the sturdy papier-mâché shell cupping Rowan’s butt that was the most over-the-top element of all. It was blinged from its base to its scalloped edges with so much glitter, rhinestones, and sequins that Rowan feared innocent bystanders could be blinded should the sun hit it just right.

  She sighed, knowing she wouldn’t be the only one to notice the irony; the glammed-out Safe Haven B and B parade float had no resemblance whatsoever to the worn-out B and B itself.

  Just then, all four of the seasonal maids clambered aboard, obviously enjoying this new and unusual experience. They waved and greeted Rowan before taking their places around the shell throne, and she had to admit they looked adorable in their costumes. Mona had come through with the outfits, as always, but where her mother managed to store all her spare mermaid gear in the off-season was anybody’s guess.

  The float began to move, inching its way out of the parking lot of the old Flynn Fisheries warehouse, now the island’s museum. Clancy walked alongside. He tipped his police chief ball cap to the giggling maids.

  “Have fun, lovely ladies.” When he produced a chivalrous bow, the girls blushed and giggled louder. Rowan supposed the language of flirting was universal.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Dude. Step away from the help.” Clancy knew the rules—temporary summer employees were strictly off-limits. “Is Dad riding up front with the council?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is Ma riding with him?” Rowan already knew the answer to that and supposed asking was a form of wishful thinking. She’d been holding out hope that festival week would give her parents a reason to stand within five feet of each other and possibly even speak in pleasant tones to one another. But there would be no truce until the resort issue was resolved, and even then they might not be able to reconcile. A lot of ugly things had been said since the developers came to Bayberry, and Rowan knew her parents. It wasn’t easy for either of them to forgive and forget.

  But it hadn’t always been like this. When she was young her parents had loved each other. Rowan still remembered how the house echoed with their laughter. Sometimes at night they’d put old records on the stereo and dance in the main dining room, and all three kids would hide behind the stair banister to watch as their father twirled their mother in his arms. When the fishery closed, the laughing and the dancing became less frequent, and the bickering more commonplace.

  “Ma and Dad together on a float? Are you kidding?” Clancy frowned and shook his head at Rowan’s suggestion, then switched gears. “Do us proud, now!” He smiled at the girls and waved as the float lurched onto the public dock service road. With the first bump, Rowan grabbed her bikini top, unhappy that her C cups were shoved into what were clearly B-sized plastic shells. She felt ridiculous riding around half-naked like this. Her mother had instructed her to look regal while the employees threw bubble gum to the kids. Rowan could already tell that was going to be a serious challenge.

  The Safe Haven float had been assigned midparade placement, right behind the mainland’s Falmouth High School marching band, a perennial fan favorite. Rowan appreciated John Phillip Sousa as much as the next person, but the thud of the drum line had already given her a wicked headache. She waved and smiled despite the pounding behind her eyeballs.

  The first ten minutes went by without mishap, and Rowan felt her headache dissipate in the sea air and bright sunshine. Her shoulders began to loosen and her waves became broader. She began to smile. Fine. It would take a complete jerk not to enjoy at least a portion of this. It was one of those postcard seaside days, the sky and the ocean on their best blue behavior, a friendly breeze causing decorative banners and flags on the gaslights to dance. And, whether she liked it or not—putting the guilt aside for a moment—this island was home. This was her history. And if the festival did anything, it gave people a reason to cut loose and be ridiculous for a few days, locals and tourists alike.

  True, she hated the mermaid, and she hated all the work that went into this week. But people came from all over to be a part of this, to party on the beach, to laugh and drink and maybe, if they were lucky, fall in love.

  Rowan stiffened, suddenly sensing something was different. She gasped. She felt him. Oh God! Rowan couldn’t see him, but he was there, no question. Ash’s eyes were on her, and it took every bit of courage she had not to flip her flipper to the side, jump off this bitch, and take cover in the nearest shop.

  “Mermaid! Mermaid!” A little girl in a too-big costume ran along, waving and calling out to Rowan. “You are so pretty! Are you real?”

  Something in the child’s upturned face made Rowan want to cry. She was pure innocence. The kid was too young to know that there was no such thing as mermaids, or magic, or happily-ever-afters. Then Rowan noticed how her housemaids were enjoying themselves almost as much as the children in the crowd, giggling and smiling with that same innocence on their faces. Maybe all women held on to a small piece of that little-girl wonder. The chicks in the Tea Rose Room. Members of the Mermaid Society. Rowan wondered if, somewhere deep down and despite all evidence to the contrary, she might, too.

  She grinned at the girl. “Yes, sweetie. I’m a real mermaid. You look pretty, too! Are you real?”

  “I am!”

  “Miss Flynn! Over here!” It was the family from the Seahorse Suite. The kids stood on the boardwalk with their mouths hanging open, and the mother jumped up and down in an effort to get her attention. Rowan returned the wave, laughing as she noticed how even the sourpuss dad was smiling ear to ear.

  Maybe there was magic here after all. If so, it wasn’t the paranormal kind. It was the type of magic found in a perfect island summer day, while on vacation, making memories with the people you loved.

  Rowan’s eyes scanned the parade route. She didn’t see him. Not that she wanted him—wanted to see him, that was.

  The marching band suddenly switched gears and was now belting out what Rowan swore was a Kanye West medley, and her headache returned.

  But she kept waving. And she kept looking.

  * * *

  Ash knew exactly where he would stand to watch the festivities and headed for a tourist trap a couple blocks from the public dock. He hadn’t chosen the spot for its view of the parade route, though it would give him a good vantage point as the floats crawled from the old fishery and headed down Main
Street. He’d chosen the location for its name—A Little Tail—and the words stenciled upon the shop window: MERMAID-THEMED SOUVENIRS, MERMAID/SEA CAPTAIN EROTIC NOVELS, ADULTS-ONLY CAKES AND CHOCOLATES, X-RATED SEA SHANTIES.

  This was the shop owned by Rowan’s best friend, Annabeth Parker, a chick who wrote mermaid porno in the off-season and sold it online. He’d purchased a few of her e-books, for research purposes only, of course, and had tried his best to read them. It was safe to say that whatever the stories lacked by way of plot development was more than made up for with sex—the kind of sex that could be had between sea captains and mermaids, which, as far as Ash had been able to deduce, was possible only because of how the mermaid’s anatomy morphed once she hit dry air.

  Common to all of Annie Parker’s books was the variety of scenes dedicated to sex on the beach. Also, there was a good bit of sex in the captain’s quarters. And on deck. And under the stars, in front of the hearth, and in rented rooms at the inn. Ash’s takeaway from all this research was the knowledge that sea captains and mermaids were randier than a pack of wild bonobos.

  Since he still had a good half hour before the parade began, Ash decided to go inside. A little bell tinkled to announce his arrival, not that anyone could hear it over the din of conversation, screaming kids, cajoling parents, and cell phone ringtones.

  Ash began to weave in and out of the tourists, shelves, and display racks until he spotted Annie behind a small antique counter. She was prettier, and taller, than she’d looked in her pictures. As she chatted up customers and rang up sales, it was obvious that this was a truly happy woman. Her face was lit up with pleasure. She laughed freely. Her lightly tanned cheeks were permanently pushed up by her smile. Ash figured she either really loved her job or that fiancé of hers knew what he was doing. Ash scanned the shop but didn’t see the man who’d been prominently featured on Annie’s Facebook page.

  So, pretending to be in the market for tacky New England mermaid souvenirs made in China, Ash took his time looking around. Crammed onto shelves were license plate frames, key chains, bumper stickers, coffee cups, ashtrays, photo frames, holiday ornaments, and temporary mermaid tattoo kits. Beach cover-ups, shorts, T-shirts, and sweatshirts of every description lined the walls. There were smartphone covers, children’s storybooks, shot glasses, and stuffed animals. Suddenly, Ash saw something that truly spoke to him: a hoodie sweatshirt featuring a vintage-inspired pinup mermaid tagged with the caption SLIPPERY WHEN WET. He found a men’s size large and tossed it over his arm, then headed toward the main attraction at the back of the shop. He figured any door with a sign that read ADULTS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT was a door worth opening.

 

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