by Lush, Tamara
I groaned aloud. Even before our mother's death, it had been my job to keep the hotel running. I'd helped for years, since I was a teen, and had since graduated with honors and dual degrees in hospitality and business management from a small college in nearby Fort Myers.
Nicole technically co-owned the hotel, but she was married to a cop on the island who, in my opinion, was far too demanding of her time. Daniel wanted a traditional, stay-at-home housewife to clean and cook three meals a day, and I couldn't understand how my sister accepted that her husband did nothing around the house when he wasn't working. Nicole was also involved in numerous volunteer projects at Grace's school, and because of all this, she couldn't be bothered with the hotel's day-to-day affairs.
She wanted nothing to do with the hotel, but still felt the need to boss me around on the regular. Like right now.
"Did you hear me? Jess? Earth to Jess?"
"I heard you. The Daily Bread's closed. Someone...bought it."
"Oh, yeah? Who?"
I fished around in my bag, found my phone, then pretended to fiddle with it. "I don’t know. Catalina told me some guy bought it."
A lie of omission? No, self-preservation. I already knew where Nicole stood on the subject of Leo.
"Okay, whatever. Go to the grocery store. We have a full house the day after tomorrow and need pastries at the very least. And something salty for the afternoon cocktail hour." Nicole walked toward the door, then stopped and turned. "Oh, the property appraiser is also coming soon. On the fourteenth."
I avoided my sister's gaze. Nicole always had a jam-packed schedule and tried to give me the same. "That's a Sunday. Valentine's Day. We're always busy. We can't wait ’til after? There's so much to do. Why would he come on a Sunday, of all days?"
"Don't whine. You know I hate it when your voice takes that tone."
I rolled my eyes. Nicole could channel Mom so well, it made me want to scream.
Nicole waved her hand. "The appraiser had that afternoon free, and he's a friend of Daniel's. Might as well get the ball rolling so we can list the hotel first thing in March. Maybe you'll be able to move by the summer if we sell quickly. The less we have to invest in this hotel, the better. It's a money pit. And don't you want to go off-island and work for a bigger hotel chain or something? We spent all that money on college for you."
"I've heard this all before and—"
Nicole didn't allow me to finish. "Gotta run. Gotta get dinner on." She swept out the door, allowing a column of bright sunshine to enter the inn's lobby, which was decorated with shells we'd collected over the years as kids.
I hissed out a breath. Life was happening too fast. Since Mom died last fall, it seemed like Nicole's way of coping was to steamroll ahead. First, she'd insisted on cleaning out the closets, and then she gave most of Mom's belongings to a charity. Now, she wanted to sell the hotel.
I wasn't sure I agreed. Nicole said I couldn't handle running the business by myself at twenty-two, but that's how old Mom had been when she took the business over from her parents, and if Mom could do it, so could I.
Nicole was eager to move on, to unload the business that had been in the family for generations.
All I wanted was to slow down. And for Nicole to chill the hell out.
The door opened, and Nicole poked her head back inside. "I forgot to tell you, that nutless wonder called. Jacob. I told him you wouldn't call back."
At least my sister had gotten one thing right. "I wouldn't call him back if he was the last man on this island. Or the planet." Nicole chuckled, shutting the door.
Jacob was the assistant to the mayor of the mainland city of Fort Myers, and when I'd caught him and an intern groping each other in his car outside his condo one night, I was devastated. And pissed.
I love you, Jessica, but I have needs, he'd texted a few days later.
It made sense, I guess, given my physical issue, but he should have been upfront with me rather than going behind my back. I hated him for that—and for hounding me after we'd tried to have sex that first time and it hurt so much we had to stop. We'd tried some more, but it had always ended the same.
I felt horrible and inadequate and broken. Then we stopped trying.
Sometimes, I wondered if my body tightened up because of my time with Leo and how it ended with him. My doctor had said past sexual experiences involving fear and shame could trigger the condition. I'd certainly felt both of those when I had to tell Mom I thought I was pregnant.
Or maybe Catalina was right. Maybe my body had known all along Jacob wasn't good for me. I'd found out later through mutual friends he had been screwing other women our entire year-long relationship.
It hadn't surprised me when he split with the intern soon afterward, or his subsequent texts and calls. I'd ignored them. And then Mom died, and Jacob was an afterthought.
"I'm sorry about your mom. I made a mistake. Let's talk, please," he’d bleated into my voicemail like a lovelorn sheep.
Whatever. I didn't care. It was just like Mom had told me over the years: men couldn't be trusted. That was the danger of the lure of sex.
With a sigh, I tried to push all my bad thoughts aside. I had to plan the week's breakfast menu for the hotel. I loved everything about running the hotel except for the meal planning and shopping. I always came up blank.
If only I could find Mom's recipes...
She had special recipe boxes, one for each month and every holiday. Stacks of menu plans and shopping lists for all occasions. I used to tease her about having menus for obscure holidays, like National Dog Day or International Children's Book Day.
"Every day's a celebration," Mom used to say, then laugh.
For some reason, I hadn't been able to find the Valentine's Day plan. I'd torn through every closet and nook and came up empty, which was frustrating. It seemed like every week, I'd look in a new place and find nothing.
I looked up, and my eyes landed on the walnut facade of a large, imposing art deco chest at the far end of the lobby. Mom had kept office supplies inside, and I hadn't looked there. Or had I? I couldn't remember. Grief had a way of tangling the thoughts in my brain.
I walked over and lifted the lid. I pawed around amongst pens and a ream of paper, extracting a medium-sized box. Closing the lid of the chest, I set the cardboard box on the hotel reception desk and opened the flaps. The little red-and-white recipe container was indeed inside.
Grinning, I placed it on the desk and paused. There was another box. I opened it, and nestled inside heavy padding was a beautiful statue of two flamingos. The figurine, about eight inches tall, was an expensive, handmade Lladro porcelain sculpture from the 1930s. The birds were a pale pink and elegant, not tacky and neon-colored like so many Florida baubles. This had been my grandmother's, and while I'd been fascinated with the statuette as a child, I'd never, ever been allowed to touch it.
Until now.
It would look beautiful on the shelf behind the front desk in the reception area, next to that art deco table lamp.
I carefully set the fragile statue on the shelf. If only I could run the hotel myself, I knew it would be the coolest place on the island and would draw art deco lovers and history buffs from around the world. I had so many ideas. I just had to build the courage to really stand up to my sister.
As I was about to close the box, I spied a stack of black-and-white composition notebooks. There were five in all.
I extracted one and ran my hand over the thick cardboard cover. Flipping through the pages, I saw my mother's neat, loopy cursive filling every line. I turned to the first page and gasped as I read a snippet.
DEC. 10: I can feel my baby girl kicking. Not much longer now! I've put on a lot of weight and keep eating cartons of ice cream. I just don't care, though. I feel amazing, if a little tired. I can't wait to see her tiny face and meet this new person. She's going to be brave and beautiful like Nicole. And maybe, just like me. I feel pretty damn brave, raising two girls by myself after Brendan walked out on us,
that drunk S.O.B. Strike that—I don't just feel brave, I am brave.
My chest tightened as I checked all the notebooks. All were filled with Mom's words. Which meant these were journals. Did Nicole know about them? Probably not. A pang of guilt shot through me, as if I were invading Mom's privacy by reading her innermost thoughts.
That was silly. Mom probably would have wanted me to read the journals. Right?
The idea that my mother had written so much made me want to shirk work and spend the rest of the day on the sofa with a cup of coffee reading. Maybe some of the many questions about life would be answered within these pages.
In her attempt at giving me a good childhood, Mom had never talked about the obvious difficulty of being a single mother. I never learned much about my dad, who'd been an alcoholic and up and left after nine years of marriage while Mom was pregnant. Looking back, it seemed as if I'd been kept in the dark my whole life.
The thought of finding out what Mom really felt dredged up old feelings of anger. I'd never quite forgiven her for getting so upset and making me feel so guilty about having sex with Leo that winter break. It was a grudge that faded over the years and after Mom's death, but now that I'd seen Leo again, all the old hurts and arguments resurfaced.
And memories.
"But I love him!" I wailed, my sixteen-year-old voice hitting shrill and piercing notes. "We had sex! Lots of it! So there! My period's late, and if I'm pregnant, I'm keeping the baby."
Mom rolled her eyes. "You don't even know what you're saying. You're too young for that. You don't know what love is. You have more important things to focus on, like college. You'd better hope to God you're not pregnant, young lady—"
The front door of the hotel opened, sending a strip of bells attached to the doorknob into a jingling riot. A grinning couple with multiple bags and suitcases swept inside, so I closed the journal, scooped up the others from the box, and stuffed them in my tote.
"Welcome to The Beacon." I smiled warmly at the couple, recalling more of my mother's words.
Never keep a guest waiting.
I'd read Mom's journal later.
Chapter 8
Sugar Rush
LEO
There was nothing like taking my aggression out on a lump of innocent dough.
With my hands covered in flour, I kneaded the thick blob against the stainless-steel counter. Punching it softly, my broad knuckles disappeared into the elastic substance. Between the hot oven and my assault on the dough, I'd worked up a sweat.
It was troubling how much space Jessica occupied in my mind since seeing her earlier on the beach.
She hadn't been happy to see me. But why should she have been? After we found out she wasn't pregnant, I'd let Dad to talk me into joining the military. Then I'd disappeared from Jessica's life.
I hadn't fought for her, and I should have. There was no way she could have known I'd intended to come back for her. I figured it would be a couple years, tops. Those plans had gone to shit.
The heels of my hands pushed the dough into the counter as if it had offended me.
The first year I was in the Marines, I'd blamed my dad for persuading me to enlist. Well, I'd blamed Jessica too, on the really bad days, figuring if she hadn't had the pregnancy scare, things between me and the old man wouldn't have blown up like they had.
But when I was in my second year, I'd actually become grateful to both of them for leading me to my true calling. Joining the Marines had made me a man. I'd been proud of what I was doing over there in Afghanistan, of fighting the good fight for democracy. I'd believed in all that.
Then Steve died, and I was wounded.
I glanced at the clock over the bakery door. I'd been kneading for ten minutes. It was time to put the dough in the proof box. It was seven at night, and I was trying out new recipes for the menu, trying to keep my hands and mind busy.
Sleep wasn't an option tonight. Sleep was something to be feared. Sure, I still had the bottle of Ambien, but I wasn't going to take it while here in Palmira. Imagine if I ended up at Jessica's in some zombie-like state? Or worse. Jesus.
But not taking the Ambien meant there would be nightmares. I'd have to white-knuckle through them. Or there was plenty of shit to do besides sleep. Paperwork and orders and managing the contractors...
Details raced through my mind. In its first months, I needed to shepherd the bakery toward success to prove something to my father—if I even had that long. I shuddered thinking of the shitty possibilities if I was caught for what had happened back home. How had I even done it? Screw the war, and screw this PTSD.
I picked up another loaf of already proofed dough and nestled it into a greased pan. Shifting toward the hot oven, I opened it and slid the uncooked bread inside.
Stepping back, I wiped sweat from my brow. It wasn't like it was necessary for me to go through this charade of doing everything himself. Dad could have easily brought bakers from New Orleans and hired someone to oversee the building's renovations. But the old man said he wanted his son to build this with his own two hands, start this bakery from scratch like he had so many years ago after leaving the Marine Corps.
Well, that was fine. And, as I'd already realized, the timing was good, given what had happened back in New Orleans. Eventually, Dad's company would send a manager to handle the day-to-day operations, but for now, I had to admit it was satisfying to work toward a tangible goal, to lose myself in doing a job and doing it well.
I fucking hated when Dad was right.
It never ceased to amaze me how macho the old guy was—when the family business was croissants and shit.
And now, I was the same way: a tattooed, muscled ex-Marine who was also a baker. I chuckled whenever I thought of Steve's face the first time I revealed I could bake a perfect beignet.
"What the fuck is that?" Steve had hooted.
He'd also laughed when I'd told him I'd only slept with one woman.
"V, you gotta get out more, dude. Next time you get leave, hook up with the first girl you see and try to forget about Jessica," he’d implored one night as we talked under the vast Afghanistan sky. "Or, if you can't do that, write to her. Apologize before it's too late. Christ, propose to her. It's like you haven't moved on."
It was true. I hadn't. And now it was probably too late to salvage what we had.
There came a knock at the back door, tearing me from the memories. Wiping my hands on the apron, I ambled over and unlocked it.
I wasn't sure what surprised me more: that Jessica was standing there, or that she looked even more beautiful than earlier.
She wore a light blue skirt that ended just above her knees, a white polo shirt, and gold sandals with little straps that snaked up her ankles. Her sun-kissed hair was loose and tousled, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves as if she had taken a swim in the ocean and let it air dry. Jesus, I wanted to gather her hair in my hands and kiss her until she couldn't breathe—because I sure as hell couldn't in her presence.
"Well. This is a surprise," I said gruffly, trying not to stare at her bare legs, which were sleek and shiny like she'd just rubbed oil on them. Trying to ignore the desire she ignited, I opened the door wider, but a waft of coconut-vanilla scent hit my nose and all hope of overlooking her sexiness was lost.
She flashed a small smile at me, her lips all shiny with gloss. "Hey. I wanted to come by. I owe you an apology for running off like that today."
"S'okay," I said. "Come in."
She stepped past me. "So, this is your new place?"
Her perfume or shampoo or whatever she put on her skin mixed with the scent of baking bread, and the combined smells fired up all the pleasure centers in my brain. I flexed my fingers, wanting to take her into my arms and press my nose into her hair so I could inhale. Nibbling on her neck would also feel amazing. I imagined she tasted like pure sugar—just like she had all those years ago. Lifting her skirt and caressing her thighs today would be even better.
I licked my lips, recalling h
ow we couldn't keep their hands off each other. We'd had to do it all behind our parents' backs, of course, but it had all felt so right, like we'd known each other forever.
The night we lost our virginity, I'd snuck into her room. She'd lit a candle and greeted me wearing just a white tank top and little white shorts. Her legs were velvety, and I couldn't believe my luck as she pulled me toward her, down onto the bed. And when she looked at me with those sparkling green eyes as I took off her clothes, I'd melted.
Surrendered my goddamn soul to her. Never had I seen anything so beautiful.
"Leo?"
I shook my head. Dammit. I'd zoned out again.
"Sorry. What was your question?"
"What's the name of your bakery going to be?"
I stood straighter, trying to summon my military focus. "Sugar Rush, that's the name. You like it?"
"Love it. It's beautiful. Unusual."
"I'm not sure if you remember, but that's the name of my family's bakeries in New Orleans."
"Right. Chicory coffee, croissants, and beignets. Sugar Rush."
"You do remember."
"Yes." Her eyes burned into mine.
"Yeah, my dad wanted to open a bakery here for all the tourists."
Jessica nodded. "There's lots of them, that's for sure. More every year."
I folded my arms, trying to play it cool. I could only let her see the cold, professional exterior I'd become so good at showing the world. "I like it here, though. There's something special. Maybe it's the architecture, or the blue skies and tropical plants. I dunno. Makes me happy."
I shrugged and grinned, and it seemed to coax a genuine smile from her. Then there was silence, and Jessica held my stare with her green eyes. Her expression revealed nothing of her thoughts. Why had she knocked on my bakery's back door after dark? What the hell did she want?
I untied the apron from my hips and pulled it over my head. My T-shirt rode up a little as I did so, exposing my stomach to the warm bakery air. I got a little thrill when I spied her glancing at my body.