From everything Steven had said, Jared knew Jenny had no interest in the business. Opening and operating a seaplane charter had been solely Steven’s idea. Jared was sure once Jenny knew he just wanted repayment, she’d be only too relieved.
But telling her that would have to wait until tomorrow. He’d tried going back to her house, but she was nowhere to be found.
From what he could tell, the only place to stay in town was a bed-and-breakfast. Minutes later, he pulled up in front of a big Victorian house.
Even in the waning light, the house all but glowed under its layers of paint. Purple—and all its various shades—overpowered the entire three stories. A large sign was pounded into the front yard: Murphy’s Bed-and-Breakfast. Except someone had drawn an arrow before the word breakfast and inked in the word occasional. Murphy’s Bed-and-occasional- Breakfast.
He knocked on the front door. A few moments later, a loud “Door’s open,” came from inside, and he walked in.
Inside, every square inch was crammed with something either gilded, cherubed, or just plain ugly, but he’d spent nights in places a hell of a lot worse than this.
“May I help you?”
Jared hadn’t heard the woman approach. A rarity for him. She was short, barely five feet. Her head was a mass of tight white curls, and an apron was tied around her round waist. With her bright, cheerful expression and age somewhere in the old lady territory, she put him in mind of Mrs. Claus.
“Mrs. Murphy?” he asked, remembering the name from the sign out front.
“Call me Lovie, dear. Everybody does.”
He shifted the duffel bag. “I’m here about a room.”
She dusted her hands off on her apron and shot him a broad smile. “Well, you’re in luck. I just had a cancellation, so Clark Gable’s available.”
“Excuse me?”
“Clark Gable.” A dreamy, faraway look crossed over her wrinkled features. “Each room is named after one of my favorite movie stars.” She sighed. “Let’s see. There’s Errol Flynn . . . Cary Grant . . . Rock Hudson . . . Gary Cooper, and of course Clark.” Another sigh. “You’ll be sleeping with him.”
Not hardly. “You sure you don’t have any Rita Hayworths? Marilyn Monroes?” he asked with a grin.
She gave a deep laugh, sending her ample girth bouncing. “Nope. Just my boys. Now, how many nights will you be needing the room?”
“Just one.”
She nodded and motioned for him to follow. At the foot of the long, oak staircase, she paused and faced him. “I could let you have the room for two nights, but that’s it.”
He expected to be stampeded by all the guests at any moment. “Just tonight.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
He had to admire her persistence. It was probably the only thing that kept the purple mausoleum afloat. “I’m sure.”
“If you change your mind, you just let me know.” She grabbed ahold of the thick, carved banister and hoisted herself up the first step. “Come on then, and I’ll show you to Mr. Gable.”
There was something just plain wrong about that sentence.
The staircase was tall and narrow. Hiking his duffel higher on his shoulder, he followed her shuffling feet. Forcing his eyes away from downstairs, he glanced to the wall on his right and found himself face-to-face with dozens of pictures. If the sheer number wasn’t weird enough, then what was in the frames—or not in them as the case may be—was enough to seriously creep a person out. Someone had systematically gone through and massacred them.
He felt Mrs. Claus’s eyes on him. “Nice photos.”
“My family,” she said with a sad shake of her head. “Reprobates, every last one of ’em. I told ’em if they didn’t straighten out, I was going to get rid of them. My brother Bob thought I was joking.” She cackled and motioned to what had obviously once been a family photo of a man, his wife, and three children. But the man’s head was now only a hacked-out memory, and all that remained of him was an arm wrapped around his wife’s shoulder. “He was the first to go.” She cackled again and pointed out several more frames. “Then came my brother Doug, my sister Martha, sister Delle . . .”
The wedding pictures were the worst. A bride. A groom. But never both in the same photo. Jared was sure he heard the theme music from Psycho.
He was seriously rethinking his whole Mrs. Claus comparison.
“That’s why I can’t rent you the room for more than two days. At the end of the week, I’ll be heading out to the family reunion.”
“But I thought—”
Lovie Murphy stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face him. “Just ’cuz I can’t stand my family doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss the reunion.”
And didn’t that just say it all?
She started back up the stairs. “Do you have family in the area?”
“No.”
“Oh, they live out of state?”
“No.” He didn’t have family. Period. In the state or out.
“Just passin’ through then?”
He was glad when they arrived at a bedroom and her questions stopped. She opened the door to his worst Victorian-inspired nightmare.
“Tea will be in an hour. I’ve made my signature sour cherry coffee cake.”
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”
She patted his arm. “That’s okay, dear. Come down anyway. It’ll give us a chance for a nice chat—”
“I think I’ll just crash. It’s been a long day.” True, but he wasn’t the least bit tired.
She patted his arm again. “Well, don’t you worry. I’ll make sure to save you a piece of my coffee cake. You haven’t tasted anything until you’ve tasted Lovie’s sour cherry. Now, go on there and crawl into bed. I’ve sprinkled the sheets with lavender so you’ll sleep like a baby.” With assurances that he had everything he needed and one final pat to his arm, Lovie made her way out of the room and closed the door.
He stared at the lace-canopied bed with its lavender-sprinkled sheets and made a distinct detour to the chair by the window. With a conscious effort, he kept his eyes averted from the dark sky. Once, that wide-open blue had been his haven, the only place he belonged. Now, every time he looked at it, all he saw was his failure.
Setting his duffel bag on the floor, he retrieved his cell phone and turned it on. A few moments later, surprised to find he had service, he punched in the long-distance number from memory.
“Fitzgerald Realty.”
“Eric, please.”
“Just a moment.”
There was a slight pause. “Hello?”
“Eric? Jared Worth.”
“I’m glad you called; you’re a hard man to get ahold of.”
“What’s the news?”
“Good.”
“Tell me.”
“I just got off the phone with the interpreter, and I’m happy to report that everything is a go on my end. By this time next week, Mr. Worth, you’ll be sitting on your own private beach in Mexico.”
With a sigh, Jared leaned back and propped his foot on a flowered footstool. “Perfect.”
“The only detail left is for you to wire my office the funds so I can complete the sale.”
Jared stared out the window, noticing for the first time he had a decent view of the lake. “No problem. You should have them by the end of the week at the latest.”
“Excellent. Excellent. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece of property, Mr. Worth, exactly what you wanted—which was no easy feat to find. We were lucky. Your own isolated bit of Mexican paradise. It’s so remote, no one could find you, even if they knew where to look.”
The realtor chuckled, never realizing how close to the truth he was. It was exactly what Jared wanted. To disappear to a place where no one would bother him. “How quickly can we close the deal?”
“Once I’ve received your wire transfer . . . two days. Three at the most. Why don’t you give me a call after you’ve wired the money? I’ll have a more accurate time frame for you then.”
“I’ll do that. And thanks.” Jared ended the call. A tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying left him. By tomorrow afternoon, after he collected his money, he’d be on his way to a place where the sun was warm, the tequila was cheap, and no one knew how badly he’d fucked up.
The next morning, Jared was out of the house before anyone else was up. He left his money on the hall table, which had been set up as a makeshift desk complete with pink envelopes that reeked of perfume. The envelopes smelled as bad as his sheets. If he’d been in a sleeping frame of mind, he might have cared.
Instead, he’d spent the night in the chair by the open window. The fresh air was welcome but not the noise. Even in a town this small, the daily grind of people going about their business was more than he cared to hear. He’d tried shutting the window, but that only amplified Mrs. Murphy and the other guests visiting on the floor below him.
Twenty plus years ago, when he’d been nothing more than a kid, he’d have gone downstairs, eaten cake and drunk tea, even though he couldn’t stand the stuff, and tried to fit in. It had taken him too many years to learn something he should have known from the moment his mother left him: he’d never fit. Not with his mother, not at the orphanage, and not with the foster families they’d tried to place him with.
School and studying came easily. He’d breezed through high school, graduated just after he’d turned sixteen. Right after that, he’d left. Left. Not run. Just stuffed his few things into a paper sack and walked out the front door. No one tried to stop him. For a few years, he’d bummed around, taking odd jobs, eating when he could, living on the streets. By one of his favorite haunts, he’d seen a weathered recruitment poster. We Want You! For over a year, he’d cursed at that picture, knowing it was a lie. Then, for no reason he could identify, he’d walked into the recruiting office on his eighteenth birthday and found out the poster had been telling the truth.
With nothing to distract him, he’d funneled all his energy into his career, and it had paid off big. In record time he’d become one of the navy’s top fighter pilots with medals and ribbons and accolades that even the broadest of chests couldn’t accommodate. But then he’d risked everything and lost it all.
With a swift curse, he kick-started his bike. He wasn’t going to think about that. Instead, he turned his thoughts to last night’s call with the realtor. He knew Mexico wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was the best he had right now. He needed to get away, find a quiet place where he could think, and figure out what he was going to do next, now that the F-18s he loved were no longer an option.
Damp roads and a clear sky were the only remnants of last night’s shower. A quick glance at his watch told him it wasn’t even seven. He bypassed the local drive-through coffee stand and hit the road. He needed to kill some time before he headed over to Blue Sky Air.
A handful of miles down the road, he pulled into a service station combo mini-mart. After filling his tank, he grabbed a cup of coffee, paid, and then headed back outside. A weathered picnic table was chained to a telephone booth. Bracing himself against the table’s side, he took the lid off his coffee and inhaled. Damn, but there was nothing like a good cup of joe in the morning.
He blew the steam away and took a drink as he watched the traffic. Only a few cars drove past, and fewer still pulled into the station.
The minutes inched by. Finishing his coffee, he looked at his watch once more: 7:10. Perfect. He’d wasted enough time.
A short while later, he pulled off the main road. The rumble from his engine echoed off the still lake and filled the quiet yard. He angled his bike into a parking spot next to a shiny red Corvette. As he cut the engine, he eyed the extravagant car, trying to remember where he’d seen it last. And then he remembered: yesterday, at the restaurant. It didn’t take much of a deduction to figure the car belonged to Jenny.
Taking off his helmet, he got off the bike and surveyed the area. When he’d been here yesterday, he’d barely looked around. Now he took a longer look. And what he saw confirmed his suspicions: without Steven at the helm, the place was all but dead.
Yesterday, the plane had been in the hangar off to his left. Today, it was anchored at the end of the dock. He eyed it with contempt. Once more he wondered how his friend had gone from flying jets to flying charters.
The hangar, like the home and yard, had an air of recent neglect. Trim was missing around the windows, and on the side there was a gaping hole, which Jared could only assume was meant for a door.
The house was as quiet as the rest of the place and also in need of attention. The cedar-shingle siding was weathered and grayed, the trim in desperate need of a fresh coat of white paint, and the roof in dire need of attention. But even with all that obvious maintenance needed, he had to admit that the sprawling home had a decidedly comfortable look, as if whoever built it took their cue from the surrounding landscape and strived to find harmony between the two. A large front porch wrapped around the bottom story of the house. On the far end, several rocking chairs were grouped together. A gentle breeze coming in from the lake tipped and rocked the chairs. Just past the lawn’s tall grass and on the beach, Jared could make out a large fire pit, the rocks black from years of use. And then there were the flowers. Normally Jared didn’t give a crap about flowers—much less notice them. But it was impossible to ignore these. While the house and hangar needed some work, the garden was perfection. Even this early in the morning, the air was heavy with their fragrance.
Once, a long time ago, when he was just a kid, he’d dreamed about living in a place just like this. What an optimistic fool he’d been.
“It’s you.”
Jared turned toward the sound of the voice. Jenny stood in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the open screen door. She looked different than she had yesterday, as if she’d just rolled out of bed. But even sleep-rumpled, she was just as gorgeous. He couldn’t help but think she’d look completely at home frolicking around Hugh Hefner’s mansion in a bunny suit. Her honey blonde hair fell past her shoulders in a mass of untamed curls. Instead of the pink dress and high heels, she wore shorts and a faded gray sweatshirt that said Go Huskies! in purple letters. Her feet were bare, with one foot resting on top of the other. The only thing that reminded him of the made-up girl he’d seen yesterday were her hot pink toenails and churlish expression.
“Expecting someone else?”
“Hoping.”
“For?”
A springy lock of hair fell across her forehead, and she pushed it back. “That you were a nightmare. And like all horrible dreams, when morning came, you’d be gone.”
He laughed. “Sweetheart, I’ve been told I’m the stuff of dreams, but those women begged me to stick around.”
Her lips tightened into a scowl. “I’m not your sweetheart. And before I can deal with an ego that big, I need caffeine.” Without another word, she disappeared back inside the house. The screen door banged shut behind her.
Jared crossed the yard. She wasn’t going to get rid of him that easily.
He walked into the house and saw her moving down a long hallway. He followed and entered the large kitchen in time to see her bang a teakettle onto a burner then turn and rummage in one of the cupboards.
She stretched to reach something on the top shelf, and Jared couldn’t help but notice her legs. For all her scatter-brained faults, Jenny Beckinsale had killer legs. Long and tanned and the kind that could wrap around a man and suck him in.
“Are you always this rude?” she asked, turning to face him with a mug in one hand a box of tea in the other. “Roaring into people’s driveways at the crack of dawn?”
“Seven thirty is hardly the crack of dawn.”
She grunted—grunted—and plopped a teabag into her cup. For several moments she seemed deep in thought until she finally held out her hand toward him. “I want to see your driver’s license.”
“Excuse me?” It wasn’t often a person surprised him, but in less than three minutes, she�
��d managed to do it twice.
“You heard me. Your driver’s license. It occurred to me after you left yesterday that you may not be who you say you are.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Jared thought about arguing further, but what was the point? All he wanted was to get his money and get out of here. If her looking at his driver’s license would speed the process along, so be it. He dug his wallet out of his Levi’s back pocket and tossed it onto the nicked and scarred butcher-block countertop.
Before she picked it up, she gave him a glare, obviously pissed he hadn’t handed the wallet directly to her. Too bad, sweetheart.
While she took her sweet time studying his license, he looked around. He couldn’t see down the hallway to what he’d passed on the way in, but the kitchen was large—one of those country kitchens he’d seen on magazine covers at the checkout stands. But he got the feeling this was the real deal—no remodel job here. Wide planked floors, yellow walls, blue cupboards softened and sanded by years of use, and a large antique stove. The same wood floors that were in the kitchen stretched into the adjoining family room. A river rock fireplace dominated the far wall, and a bank of windows showcased a backyard full of more flowers. While the furniture was a little flowery for his taste, he had to admit that the plush sofa looked damned comfortable. Even with the faded flowery print, he could imagine sinking in and propping his feet up on the worn wooden coffee table while enjoying a beer.
“You’re in the military,” she said, bringing his attention back around. She was staring at his military ID.
Was, but he didn’t correct her.
“Is that how you knew Steven?”
He didn’t miss the way her voice dipped and stumbled across Steven’s name. “Same squadron.”
Slowly, she returned his wallet. “So you’re a fighter pilot.” It was a statement not a question, but either way, he wasn’t answering. “I should have known.”
The teakettle whistled, cutting off their conversation. And frankly, he was glad. That was one road he didn’t feel like heading down again.
Lake Magic Page 4