Danielle arrived home just as Rucci’s guys were cleaning up. Her t-shirt was covered in grime and her khakis were stained. She looked tired and disheveled. I thought she’d be horrified by the idea of giving up Lucas’s condo for a tent. But I underestimated her again.
“I get it,” she said. “You want to be home.”
“Something like that.”
“No skin off my nose. I’ve got four walls and a roof in Tallahassee.”
We popped a bottle of wine and drank from plastic tumblers, laying back on our loungers. The sun gave a great show as it fell below the horizon beyond Riviera Beach.
“Did you tell Dale Beadman about his cars?” Danielle asked.
“I did. And I thanked him for the new palapa at Longboard’s. That was classy.”
“It was. But he must have had a lot of questions.”
“I’m sure. I told him he’d get answers from his wife and daughter.”
“You think they’ll tell him they took the cars?”
“I don’t know. I think they should. I think it might pound the message home to Dale, and it seems to me they’ve been dancing around the truth for too long.”
“Dancing around the truth never ends well.”
That thought hung on the air as we sipped our drinks.
“So when are you heading back to those four walls in Tallahassee?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “When will I see you again?”
“Next weekend. I’ll come up.”
“I’ll show you the sights.”
“Can’t wait.”
“And then what?” she asked.
“The weekend after, we could meet at Epcot. See the house of tomorrow, get some ideas.”
“I’m not sure that is what you think it is.”
“We could walk over to the France pavilion, eat a croissant.”
“And after that?”
“After that, you’ll graduate.”
“And end up somewhere.”
“Of course. We’ve all got to be somewhere.”
Danielle sipped her wine and then played with the ring on her finger. Her engagement ring.
“You having doubts?” I asked her.
“No,” she said. “None. I’m just thinking about Missy and Dale Beadman. I don’t want to live some great life but have to wait fifty years to have you in it.”
“If you’re not in it, it won’t be a great life.”
“Sort of my point,” she said.
“So they are not us and we are not them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. This very conversation is proof of it. We’re planning opportunities to be together. They didn’t do that.”
“Maybe they did, in the early days.”
“They didn’t do it hard enough. They should have spent more time at Epcot.”
Danielle smiled. “You’re not going to take this seriously, are you?”
“Nope. Not for a second. Because taking it seriously suggests there’s something to be concerned about, and there’s not. When you worked for the PBSO, did we work together?”
“Not usually.”
“And were there days when we didn’t see each other?”
“Yes, some.”
“And did you doubt how I felt about you or whether we’d lead separate lives because of it?”
“No. But we’re talking bigger distances and more days apart, aren’t we?”
“No, we’re not. That’s what you’re worried about, but what I’m saying is that there aren’t more days apart in the future. I know because you’re not some discretionary part of my life, like beer or nachos. You’re crucial to life, like oxygen or water. And sure, I can go days and days without water. But I don’t like the feeling it gives me because my body is telling me that I can’t do that forever. I’ll die. That’s how I feel about you. It’s not optional. I lost Lenny, and I promise you I would have curled up and died as well, and the only reason I didn’t, the only reason, is that you came into my life right then. Right when I needed you, you were there. Then and every time since. So don’t go thinking that you can get away from me, because I can’t afford for that to happen.”
Danielle looked me over. The X-ray look. I don’t know if she was looking for a false note in my symphony or just wanted to imprint my mug on her mind before she returned to Tallahassee. She looked for the longest time. And I waited for her to do it. Then she smiled. That half smile that turned handsprings in my guts.
We both looked toward the water and Riviera Beach beyond. The sun was playing out its final notes of the day and the sky grew pink and then purple. The lights across the water twinkled and I heard the sounds of yacht rigging slapping against masts. A flock of gulls flew low over the water. The birds were returning. The tourists would follow. Then the neighborhood burst to life. Lights exploded on and the sounds of air conditioners and televisions permeated the silence. The power was restored. Life would go on.
Our place stayed dark. We had no AC, no appliances. No floor, no kitchen. The power was off at the breaker box. We felt like an island of silence in an ocean of white noise. Or perhaps the opposite. A black hole in a starry galaxy. We didn’t care. We sat in the dark and watched the lights, and I hoped that Missy and Dale Beadman were doing the same. We drank our wine. The bottle got emptied.
Danielle stood. She stretched her back out and looked at the view. Then she turned and walked away. I wasn’t sure where she planned to go. There was no fridge in the house. There was no more wine. Just an old mattress in an older tent. I heard the zip to the tent. Then something landed on my head. It was a dirty t-shirt. Then I was hit by a pair of stained khakis. I dropped my empty tumbler onto the grass by my lounger and stood. I had said I wouldn’t leave her alone.
I am nothing if not true to my word.
If You Enjoyed This Book
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Also by AJ Stewart
Three Strikes *
Stiff Arm Steal
Offside Trap
High Lie
Dead Fast
Crash Tack
Deep Rough
King Tide
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* Three Strikes is only available to members of AJ Stewart’s readers’ crew. Click here for details.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Eliza Dee for the editorial support. Thanks to Wayne, Bob and Charlene for the above and beyond feedback.
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As always, any and all errors and omissions are mine, especially but not limited to not obeying the speed limit on I-95 outside Daytona. That’s just asking for trouble.
About the Author
A.J. Stewart is the USA Today bestselling author of the Miami Jones series and the John Flynn thriller series.
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He has lived and worked in Australia, Japan, UK, Norway, and South Africa, as well as San Francisco, Connecticut and of course Florida. He currently resides in Los Angeles with his two favorite people, his wife and son.
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AJ is working on a screenplay that he never plans to produce, but it gives him something to talk about at parties in LA.
You can find AJ online at
www.ajstewartbooks.com
Jacaranda Drive Publishing
Los Angeles, California
www.jacarandadrive.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, l
iving or dead, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover artwork by Streetlight Graphics
ISBN-10: 1-945741-09-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-945741-09-8
Copyright © 2017 by A.J. Stewart
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author.
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