“Go to bed, lighthouse,” Iannis said, his words breaking into her thoughts. “Waitin’ won’t make it come any faster or make it any easier when the time comes.” He didn’t give her time to respond before he shuffled back into his room and pulled the sliding screen door closed.
***
Charlotte pulled open the inn’s heavy front doors and stared at the ragtag trio of prehistoric fishermen waiting on her oversized wraparound porch. What was she going to do with these three?
She shook her head at the three old men with their proud, weather-beaten faces, each one with enough creases in his skin to rival a hound dog. They were the very definition of old school; walking, talking histories of Greece, complete with the remnants of their gray hair topped with traditional fishermen’s caps. Their eyes were windows to souls that had seen the world in its entirety and accepted—or rejected—the realities within. Not much bothered these men anymore. They fished. The hunted. They laughed. They ate.
“He’s out back somewhere,” she said, as she jerked her head over her shoulder and stepped aside to let them in. “Digging around for tackle.”
Ian was of course out there with him, learning to tie a knot or something, always within arm’s reach of his favorite person, his papou, watching everything his grandfather did with eager interest.
“And where is our grandson this morning?” Stavros asked as he passed by her, tipping his hat. Stavros was Iannis’s oldest friend, and had considered Ian his grandson since the day he looked at her five month along belly, big and round, and informed her of the obvious, that she was pregnant. He came over with nuts and sheep milk yogurt every day after that, swearing by their health benefits—they’d make her baby’s balls heavy. Of course he’d assumed that she would have a boy.
“Out there too,” she said, motioning through the house. “Hopefully not choking on your komboloi beads.” She had to take away the set of worry beads from her toddler three times in the past twenty-four hours, and no matter where she put them the little scamp found them.
“He will not choke.” Yorgos, Stavros’ brother smiled and touched her chin. “He is learning to be fisherman.”
She frowned and shook her head. How worry beads and fishing were connected she’d never know, and didn’t bother asking. “If you say so.”
She turned, and smiled at Tomas, who brought up the rear before she closed the door. Tomas was once introduced to her as their cousin, all three of them, Iannis, Stavros and Yorgos. She never did figure out how that worked and stopped trying to about ten years ago.
The Greeks just considered everyone not immediate family as a cousin, but always family. So she supposed Tomas was her cousin too.
She watched the three of them plod through the house, and had to smile when the they turned the corner to the great room and delighted female gasps rose up from the sea side ladies having their morning tea. The three of them were also incorrigible flirts.
Upon hearing more giggles and outright laughter, she turned from the scene knowing that she wouldn’t have to worry about any of them for another few hours, or at least until Ian’s pull up needed a change.
She headed back to her office. It was the busy season on the seaside and her bed and breakfast was ticking along beautifully with all of the rooms in the main wing full, and the private woodland cabins all booked for the season. Most of her guests were perennial and had been coming here with their families for generations. They knew the area like home and headed off early to the beaches and into town for the day. The woodland cabin renters had all headed off in their boats to go fishing. Diana, her chief cook and bottle washer had seen to all of their needs with her usual aplomb.
Charlotte had inherited the inn and the successful bed and breakfast from her Scottish immigrant mother when she passed away. She’d grown up in the business so didn’t have a problem taking it over and increasing its success when the time came. She had the good fortune to meet Diana when the woman was a guest at the inn, then brought her on staff during the late stages of her pregnancy and early maternity. Charlotte could not do without Diana now. There wasn’t much Diana couldn’t do. She had the same passion for the business that Charlotte and her mother had, and that was something to treasure.
At 55, Diana was a retired powerhouse, a hotel baron’s daughter who had run several of her father’s hotels back in the day. She’d come to Westhaven for some downtime and decided to stay when Charlotte mentioned she was looking for someone to take over the daily operations of the inn during her last trimester. It had been the perfect pace for Diana who had easily taken over the day to day fuss of running the place. She kept Samuel the temperamental chef happy, made sure Agnes and Fran, the mother-daughter housekeeper team didn’t drive each other and the rest of guests crazy, and kept on top of Leo and the other maintenance people so everyone maintained the level of quiet happiness that Charlotte was proud of.
Charlotte sat down her desk, the antique Victorian table and chair inherited from her mother, and looked out her big bay window. The Bronfenbrenner family was getting into their luxury minivan. They were such a typical all-American family it was like staring at a post card. Alfred, dressed down from his usual stock market career suit was dressed in cargo shorts and a polo shirt with a man purse in his hand. He opened the door for his stay-at-home wife, Jessica, a debutante Charlotte knew from childhood. Jessica buckled in their two children, a three year old boy, Todd, and one year old girl, Melissa. All the scene was missing was a dog, which Jessica had told Charlotte they had left in a nearby pet vacation kennel.
Their life was exactly what Charlotte had always imagined hers would be, before she realized it never had. She was a single parent, living with her son’s grandfather and fishing buddies while the baby daddy was God only knew where, doing who knew what and with whom.
She’d heard Thyssen left the SEALs after his last deployment, but the information was third hand and unconfirmed from a friend of a friend. As was the fact that he’d gone rogue and was working as a contract killer for the CIA. Avery Green, who could only be described as the Maine’s biggest gossip, told her she’d seen Thyssen up in Canada, stocking shelves in a Walmart. It wasn’t unbelievable. Charlotte really didn’t know anything about Thyssen anymore.
And why was she even thinking about this today? Hadn’t she learned, taught herself not to think about, worry about or even contemplate what Thyssen Skalas was doing? Sheesh. She was a glutton for punishment.
“Miss Jones?”
Charlotte jumped as if caught stealing cookies and stared at her open door. “Yes.” She looked at her maintenance man Leo’s somber face and unusually long bed head hair.
“Didn’t mean to scare ya,” Leo said. He owlishly blinked his washed-out brown eyes. “But, can you follow me out to the shed?” He nodded behind himself. “There’s something I think you should see.”
She stood up from her chair, far too quickly, causing it to thump the wall behind her. “What is it?”
Leo glanced at the chair, then held her eyes for a moment, before he sauntered out the door.
“Leo?” She rounded her desk and chased after his retreating frame. Leo had been born and bred in a trailer park not far from here, the only son of older throw-back hippyish parents, so tended to be a little laissez-faire in everything he did.
She caught up to him as he pushed open the wood shed door.
“Have no idea who he is or where he came from, but—” Leo shrugged and looked down at the body sprawled in the dirt. “He kept mumbling your name over and over.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Charlotte looked down and gasped at what could only be described as a homeless vagabond. She inhaled then clapped a hand over her mouth and nose at the putrid stench wafting up from the man. Stale alcohol, sweat, and five day old rank ass mixed in the air and battered her nostrils. “Ahhh,” she gaped at the long strands of thick black hair that curled around the man’s face and neck before tangling into the biker beard and mustache growing on his face. “Is he . . . al
ive?” She squinted at the greyish pallor to the man’s face, tempted to toe him with her foot to see if he moved.
Leo shrugged. “He’s alive, just . . .”
“Hung over?”
She tilted her head, trying to get a better look at his bushy haired face. He wasn’t one of her guests, that much was for sure. He couldn’t even be a friend of a friend of one of her guests. The man was a train wreck or had been in one.
“Sick maybe,” said Leo. He went down on his haunches and pointed along the man’s body to his face. “Reminds me of myself when I have the flu.”
“What?” She stared at Leo. “Even on your worst day you could never look like this.” Charlotte bent toward the man and peered at his face. He was very pale and sweaty and . . . she squinted, kind of familiar, almost like Ian when he had the chickenpox. She wrinkled her nose again at the horrible smell when the man reached out and grabbed behind her neck.
She screamed and flailed as he forced her down onto his body.
“Miss Jones!” cried Leo. He sprang forward and grabbed her shoulders but the man’s grip on her was a vice.
“Help me, Lucky,” the man wheezed into Charlotte’s ear. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.” He hissed the last words and went limp again in the dirt.
“Oh my God!” Charlotte scrambled up from his body as Leo hoisted her by the seat of her pants. She flapped her hands and shook her fingers as if trying to shake a spider from her finger tips. “It’s Thyssen!” she shrieked, staring at Leo and pointing.
“Who?” Leo looked between her and the man on the ground. “Thyssen? Who the hell’s Thyssen?” He leaned over the body and frowned.
Iannis was suddenly beside her. “What is all the fucking screaming about?”
Ian was suddenly thrust into her arms. “Mommy, you fuckin’ screamin again?” Her toddler patted her face. She stared at him, trying to form words into some kind of reprimand for his language, but could only heave out multiple squeaks and heavy squawks.
“Who the fuck is that?” Stavros was now there pointing at Thyssen’s body with his unlit cigar. “Thy?” He looked back and frowned. “What’s the matter with him?” He lit the cigar and blew out a disgusting puff of smoke.
“Good God, Stavros—” Charlotte coughed and put her hand over Ian’s nose. “Don’t add to the stench.” She waved her other hand and coughed again.
Yorgos leaned in and peered at Thyssen’s body. “Looks like your boy.” He looked at Iannis. “What’s going on with his hair—why the fuck is it so long?” He leaned over and held up a handful. “What the hell happened to him?”
Iannis put the cigarette in his mouth to one side and leaned down to Thyssen’s limp body and hoisted him up. “Joined the Navy.”
Thyssen briefly opened his eyes and focused on his father. “The Stop.”
Everyone stared when he crashed back onto the ground.
*****
Lucky?
Thyssen concentrated on the familiar muffled voices that filtered into his unconsciousness. His father. Stavros. Yorgos. Tomas. They all spoke Greek so Lucky must be nearby. They all always spoke Greek when they didn’t want others to understand what they were saying.
“Our boy is mixed up with Pavlos’ family.” Stavros.
“Fucking hell.” His father.
“When was the last time you talked to him, Pavlos I mean?” Yorgos.
“Montreal. Maria.” His father.
“Jesus Christ.” Stavros.
“English please boys.” Lucky. Finally Lucky. Thyssen’s mind relaxed and he tried to open his eyes. He wanted to see her. He needed to see her. Bright light needled his irises, forcing him to close back his lids.
“Jesus Christ.” Yorgos, in deliberate English.
“Sorry I asked.” Lucky mumbled somewhere near his ear. Thyssen inhaled the sweet smell of fresh strawberries. Lucky always smelled of fresh summer strawberries. It was the soap and bath cream she used, from that store down in Winchester. He inhaled again and let the scent fill his head.
“Then this is his way of revenge.” Stavros again, in Greek.
“Send him to the Bitch. Let her sort him out in Greece.” Tomas.
“Boys, English!” Lucky again. He wanted to smile, and turned his head toward her voice.
Lucky. He heard his voice in his head but didn’t think he’d said anything out loud. His mouth hadn’t moved and his tongue was heavy. How long had he been here? His face felt light, like after he’d shave, and he no longer felt his hair around his ears.
“She can protect him. Make peace with Pavlos. Give that jackal something he wants and he’ll go away. And the Bitch always has something he wants.” Tomas again.
Lucky? Thyssen tried again. He was damp. Everywhere. The fever that had been raging in him before must have broken. He didn’t feel hot and cold anymore. Just wiped out tired. “Water?” This time his voice croaked so he knew he spoke out loud.
“You awake, boy?” His father.
Thyssen cracked open his eyes again, this time to Iannis’ hard face frowning down at him from beneath his beaten up fisherman’s hat. “No,” his words scraped over the cracked glass in his throat; at least it felt like cracked glass lodged in there. “Lucky?”
“Just left.” His father nodded over his shoulder.
Thyssen blinked at the wobbly door frame, forcing his eyes to make it come into focus. “The baby?”
“Baby?” his father’s eyes darkened. “Your son’s a kid now idiot.”
Thyssen closed his eyes. Fuck. How did he fuck up his life this bad? He couldn’t have screwed himself any more if he’d tried. “I’m in trouble.”
The image of David Andropoulous, or The Stop, emerged large and dark in Thyssen’s mind. The image was the second before Andropoulous turned and smirked at him, and then fired a round into Thyssen’s Kevlar-clad chest. The Stop had caught him sleeping, and like the professional he was and Thyssen used to be, had pounced on the opportunity and injected him with a dose a lead, or at least tried to if not for the vest.
Never let them get ahead. Never let them get into position. Stalk them quietly and kill them quickly. When the hell did he forgot that piece of military code, or stop practicing it? Fuck.
“No shit.” Tomas, Stavros and Yorgos all looked down at him, each one exactly as he remembered them.
“You have Pavlos’s brand on you,” said Stavros. He pointed at the ship tattoo on Thyssen’s shoulder. “You working for him now?”
Thyssen glanced at his father before he struggled to sit up in the bed.
“You carrying out his contracts?” said Iannis. He pulled out a cigarette from the crushed pack in his hand and shoved it in his mouth.
Thyssen blinked around the semi-familiar room. It was one of Charlotte’s guest rooms. He’d been in it before but she’d changed some of the things. A long time ago, now feeling like a life time, he and Charlotte had fun, making love in every room in this place. He looked silently back at his father. “Yes.”
His father spoke around the cigarette. “That ain’t why you joined the Navy.”
“I know that.” Thyssen ran a hand through his hair. It was cut.
“Don’t you dare light that,” said Charlotte as she marched back into the room, her eyes on Iannis.
Thyssen’s heart stopped as he watched her glare at his father as she pushed past the other men and plunked down a glass of water and bottle of pills beside him on the table. She looked him straight at him for a long moment, her gray eyes boring into his for an ageless second.
Thyssen said, “Lucky, I’m—”
But Charlotte turned her back and left the room.
Iannis looked down at him after she slammed the door. “You have a lot to answer for.”
“Ya.” He stared at the quivering door. She was still beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Every goddamned thing he wanted in life and managed to totally screw up. He held onto his side and shifted on the bed. Vest or not a bullet still fucking hurt. He opened the bottle of pills and shoo
k out a few before he downed them with the water.
“Now,” said Stavros. He set down a chair beside the bed and nodded to Thyssen. “Let us hear the story.”
Thyssen glanced at his father, who stood tall and crossed his arms. “Ya, talk.”
He wasn’t getting out of this. Thyssen let his mind ramble over the pile of shit mess he’d made of his life over the past three years. He didn’t want to explain it all, but knew he had to. It was time, though coming clean with his father and ‘uncles’ would be much easier than facing Charlotte and—he closed his eyes—his son. Could he even call Ian his son? He’d been a shit father so far.
For over two years, he’d been on such an incredible high over his success in field operations with the SEALs. He’d been golden as a special operations team member. With incredible field stats and an earned reputation as a rock solid soldier, he easily handled the pressures of combat, and the high stress of his team’s back to back missions in some of the most dangerous places on the planet. Then, things started to change, stall, and he found himself increasingly frustrated with Navy brass and military politics, who due to global politics and foreign policy constantly had his team in holding patterns for missions.
Hurry up and wait. Five times his team busted their asses to get into a hotspot only to be told to stand down. Anger at having to stand against the enemy with nothing but your dick in your hand turned into resentment which quickly turned into cynicism then apathy. He started not to give a shit. He stopped thinking straight, waivered in decision making, and started second guessing himself.
Eventually burn out rushed in.
The Navy put him on leave and he went home to Charlotte. Disillusioned he’d questioned her announcement that he was going to be a father.
Thyssen looked out the window, away from the other men in the room, men who always stepped up when he had run and stayed away. He didn’t want to tell them the rest of his story, which till now only he and his military shrink knew the full details of. His pussy decline into complete burnout had been a two-year downward spiral that ended him in a mental health discharge from the military.
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