Flash Drive

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  On her way out the door she stopped to check herself in the full-length mirror in the hall. In her lime green Chico capris and matching sleeveless cropped gingham top, she took a moment to assess herself. From the Lucite heeled sandals with the feathery pom, to the jeweled studded barrette cinching the bottom of her French braid, she was stylishly chic. Fashion conscious women would approve . . . but would a man? A man like the one who’d had a penchant for her rosemary? She wondered if he was single. She wondered if they passed on the street if he’d give her a second glance. And decided that maybe he would.

  She’d lost that haunted look she’d had the last few years that warned others away as she’d crawled into a protective shell to deal with the pain of her parents’ death. In its place was a smattering of freckles over her nose, sun-kissed cheeks and eyes challenging the world again. Yes, she agreed, he definitely would look twice; she’d wink at him to make sure that he did.

  The fashion show and lunch was well attended, and by the time she left to go home her head was spinning with all the names and faces. It never failed to amaze her how many civic-minded people turned out for these events. There were so many good causes to support and the Old Bridge Preservation Society and Communities in Schools were among her favorites. And both committees appreciated her willingness to volunteer her time as well as her generous donations, but there was just something special about Karen, Chris, and Ann. She smiled as she drove through the impressive gates leading into Ocean Ridge. She’d had such a good time. And the chopped Cobb salad had been excellent.

  She looked over at the hand-painted birdhouse on the passenger seat. She’d won the bid on it and of course paid too much. But she couldn’t neglect her garden. Mentally placing it amid her ball gazer and whimsical “spilled flower pot” just off the lower terrace, instantly brought the star struck golfer to mind. How she’d love to have someone like that to come home to. Someone to grill chicken on the deck with, to hold hands with while admiring their garden as the sun set, someone who would smile knowingly at her as he locked them inside their little Shangri-La for an evening of pleasure between the sheets . . . on the couch . . . on the bar . . . against the shower tiles . . . going up the plush carpeted stairs. Hmm . . . all had possibilities. She laughed out loud at her wicked thoughts and then realized with dawning awe that her urge to write had returned. The ceremony had worked! She no longer worried about that damned flash drive.

  As she watched the coffered garage door go up, she mentally rearranged her afternoon and evening. She had to take advantage of this sudden compulsion to sit in front of the computer and see what her muse was working on today. The gardening could wait, so could the laundry. She didn’t have anything to do until five when she was supposed to ride with the Sunset Cyclists. That would give her three and a half hours to write. By then she’d need to get up and get the kinks out. She could hardly wait to get inside the house and get started.

  She didn’t notice the Corvette that drove past as she got out of the car with her new birdhouse held like a prize in front of her. Didn’t notice when it slowed to a crawl at the end of the drive just as the garage door was settling back down. But she did feel a strange pull as she looked over her shoulder at the now closed door. The low rumble of a sports car pricked her ears but by the time she got inside and looked out the front window there was nothing there.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Garrett stopped in front of the house for a few seconds. He simply had to. There she was getting out of a shiny new CRV, grinning as she held a tall birdhouse in her hands. Every nerve ending came to life, and he wanted to jump out of the car and run over to her. Now. He wanted to meet her now. It was everything he could do to force the car forward as the garage door slid down. Despite the air conditioning being on full blast, he felt sweat beading at his temples. He was panting like a dog in heat. He had to get control of himself. And he had to get away before she spotted him.

  At least now he had her address. From that he could go online to the county website and get her name. He didn’t doubt that with a few clicks and access to the right links, his fantasy woman would come to life before his eyes. He’d know all the pertinent information about her five minutes after booting up his laptop. And after calling his researcher, a private investigator he frequently used to check out corporate structures, he’d have the inside story. With luck, by this time tomorrow.

  He drove through town whistling “On the Street Where She Lives,” from My Fair Lady, and laughing at himself. He parked under the beach house and ran up the steps, hardly acknowledging the tempestuous waves that were crashing on shore. A storm was coming in, he’d heard that on the radio, but he didn’t have time to worry about

  that now.

  While his computer came back to life, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and some Swiss cheese slices. He needed a shower, he could feel the sweat drying on his body, but the smell of rosemary coming from his pocket pervaded his senses and gave him purpose. He sat just as the MSN home page appeared. Mere moments later, he leaned back and sighed. Laurel. Laurel Ashleigh Leighton. Perfect. He loved her name.

  What a coincidence that her name was Laurel. He was from a town named Laurel. Like a favorable horoscope, he saw it as a good sign. The more ominous prognostications, he always ignored.

  He Googled her name. Nothing. Hmmm. She was a writer; surely there must be something. He tried Bing. Wiki. Who’s Who. Facebook. LinkedIn. Nothing. Who was she? Why wasn’t she coming up?

  Of course! She probably used a pseudonym. He’d need a hometown to go any further. On a whim he went to Amazon and started typing in random passages he copied and pasted from her books. Sometimes certain lines or character names came up in a search and linked them to a particular book. No such luck. It dawned on him, not for the first time, that maybe she just wasn’t published.

  He went to The Brunswick Beacon site and typed her name in the search field. A picture with a caption and a small blurb came up. She was standing with five other women presenting a check to the South Brunswick Islands Woman’s Club to be used for the Fully Belly Project. The woman’s club website wouldn’t let him access a roster. He thought about calling the president and asking about her, but couldn’t figure out an angle that was believable. Plus, he needed to stay in the wind on this.

  But more than anything, right now he needed to know if she was married. According to the Register of Deeds, the house was deeded in her name only, so that was encouraging. He Google Mapped her, then looked her phone number up as well as the neighbors on both sides. He could call them . . . come up with some excuse. Hell, he could just call her. And explain everything.

  But he wanted better odds than that. He wanted this woman. And for that he was going to have to have more information. He’d learned long ago not to lead with his emotions. Plod steadily. Learn all you could before jumping in. He pulled out his cell phone and called his researcher, offered him double to drop whatever he was doing and work on this now.

  Five minutes later Paul, his P.I., called back, “She’s single.”

  His face flushed with pleasure. “Okay, how the hell did you get that so fast?”

  “I called the pro shop, she plays golf. Golf pros know the lowdown on their members. She’s an 18 handicap, got a beautiful swing and a lovely ass. Nice lady, always tips the cart guy three bucks and a baggie of homemade snicker doodles. They fight over her when they see her coming. Everybody likes her. She inherited the house when her parents died a few years ago. Drives a gold Honda CRV, and helps collect golf clubs for First Tee. No boyfriend that anyone knows of. Plays with the woman’s group on Wednesdays and sometimes on Sunday with three women from Sea Trail. Oh, and she likes to sunbathe behind a screen on her deck—topless.”

  “What?” The idea that she was exposing her breasts where others could see filled him with a jealous rage.

  “Yeah, apparently she’s not fa
miliar with Google Earth. But take it easy; whatever they’ve got loaded is grainy and low resolution. I checked. Seems she’s got a deck off to the side that she thinks is private. Hey, you sound angry, she must be something special.”

  “Yeah. Working on it. You got anything else?” he asked as he typed her address into Google Earth. He had to see for himself. He zoomed all the way in. Yeah, grainy . . . and too far away. No nipple action, but she clearly did not have a top on.

  “Yeah, County’s got a record of a 1969 Firebird convertible being taxed each year. Nominal amount—14 and change. Curious thing is the account carries a credit balance. Two hundred and some.”

  “Nuisance bill. She must have paid it in advance knowing she’s never going to sell it. I do that sometimes. Did you say Firebird convertible?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does it list the color?” The yellow Firebird convertible he’d seen on the bridge came to mind. A blonde in Jackie O. sunglasses had been behind the wheel.

  “Nah. No color showing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nah. Got some calls to make for some hometown stuff, I’ll check in tomorrow,”

  “Right.”

  “Thanks for the bonus.”

  “You earned it with the news that she’s single.”

  “Go get ‘er, tiger.”

  “Gotta meet her first. I feel like a stalker.”

  “Technically you are.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You want me to send Lou or Mike to chat up the neighbors?”

  “No. Let’s not spook her. Just get some background for me.”

  “Will do.”

  He ended the call and took a long pull on his beer. Hot damn. Single. And hot.

  He got up and made his way to the walk-in shower, peeling off his clothes as he went. God, just the thought of that elegant braid and that petite, tight body was making him hard. He had to remember to go back and print that picture from the Beacon. She had lovely green eyes and full curving lips that smiled as if she had a secret. And she did. He smiled. Yes she did. And he knew them all.

  Chapter Thirty

  He couldn’t help himself. He was embarrassed by the pull she had on him. Like a magnet drawn to steel, the attraction was overwhelming. But he drove back to Ocean Ridge to the Panther’s Run Pro Shop anyway, made up a dumb excuse about having lost a club on the course, and asking to borrow a cart so he could search the greens. Carts were coming in and being lined up at the bag drop to be cleaned and put away, as they were getting ready to close the course for the day. Plus it looked like a storm was brewing. He gave the cart guy a ten-dollar bill and promised not to be long then he jumped in the cart and made his way around the course to the back of Laurel’s house where he sat and just drank it all in.

  A light sandstone colored brick, it rose three stories from the ground. It had a full deck running the length of the house, and a flagged patio below that led out to an impressive garden, with walkways sectioning off areas for a double swing, a colorful hammock, a small fountain, an outdoor kitchen, and an entertainment area where contemporary wrought iron furniture covered with brightly striped pads wrapped around a glass-topped table. The landscaping was inspired and appeared professionally done, either that or she was one hell of a gifted gardener.

  His eyes were drawn to the large, arched windows, but the drapes were drawn and he couldn’t see inside the huge panes that were now reflecting the late afternoon sun. With its multi-pitched roof, stacked-stone chimney, tiled roofing with copper accents, and over-sized shutters, it was easily a $750,000 house. Done in the French style with a side turret, it could have been on a hillside in Rouen instead of in this golf community in the lower Brunswick Islands.

  He sat scanning, memorizing every detail of the house and yard until he felt like an intruder, and reluctantly began to turn around and head back. Swinging off the path and into the rough to reverse direction he heard a door opening and looked back in time to see her cross the deck with a pair of scissors in her hand. He managed to maneuver the cart around a tree as he turned back to watch her. She was wearing a sparkly purple bicycle helmet, a bright yellow t-shirt, black athletic cropped yoga pants, and strappy black Crocs, if he wasn’t mistaken. If it hadn’t been for the distinctive long blonde ponytail trailing down the center of her back he wouldn’t have been sure it was her. Except that his heartbeat had accelerated and now outraced his panicked mind as his eyes tracked her over to a group of ceramic pots overflowing with colorful blossoms. He stared enthralled as she snipped and gathered until she had a full bouquet in one hand. Then she turned, looked over at her neighbor’s house and waved at her neighbor who was watering her plants. When she turned back to go into the house he recognized the logo and distinctive lettering on the back of her t-shirt. Sunset Cyclists. An idea formed and then gelled as he put the pedal to the floor and raced back to the clubhouse.

  That night he went online and found the website for the newly formed bike club he’d read about in the paper. Then he emailed the leaders, Charlene and Allen. He asked for the particulars on the next group event and found out that on Saturday they were meeting at the Sea Trail east entrance gate to drive to Southport so they could catch the ferry to Bald Head Island, where they would spend the day biking the trails and sightseeing. He couldn’t have planned a more perfect first date. He signed up even though he had no way of knowing whether she would be riding or not. He knew he couldn’t tip his hand by asking. He’d just have to go and see. It would be incredibly rude for her to be a no-show for their first outing. He smiled as he continued to make plans. The idea that he might actually get to meet her, talk to

  her . . . watch her cute little butt shift up and down all day gave him more happiness than he could have imagined.

  The next day he went to Island Hoppers on Route 17, across from McDonald’s, and picked out a new Sun Drifter. He outfitted it with three gears, a white mesh basket, and a gel seat. He left Steve to get it ready for him while he drove to Shallotte to the Ford dealership, where he purchased a new Edge Limited SUV. Wal-Mart was next. He found the exact kind of bike rack he needed, specifically one capable of carrying two bikes—as he was confident that one day soon he’d be transporting hers, too. Then he spent fifteen minutes trying on helmets. He finally selected one he thought matched hers. If nothing else, he figured it would be a conversation starter. Then he was off to the Tanger’s Outlet in North Myrtle Beach for new shoes and riding pants. She could ogle his muscular thighs and calves while he kept his eye on that lovely rear of hers.

  By the time he got back to the beach house he had just enough time to catch up with the trades he needed to make that day and take a run on the beach. He knew he was sexually charged and that he had to burn off some of the pent up energy. He couldn’t be an agitated man on the prowl, he had to appear laid back and as if just out for a bike ride—a newbie to the club, just trying to stay fit and enjoy the day in the sun. For the first time in years, he prayed for the weather. Instead of praying for a snow day to stay home from school, he prayed for a perfect sunny day, breezy enough so he wasn’t sweating from every pore, yet nice and sunny so they could sit in the sun on the ferry and maybe get to know each other before their morning ride.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he was this excited, the last time he had something this special to look forward to. He added another prayer: that she was making her own plans to spend the day riding with the cycling group on the island. He wouldn’t know until they were boarding the ferry, as he’d been told that some of the riders would be meeting them there, and at that point, he’d be committed. With or without her, he was going to be touring Bald Head.

  He’d just finished his run when the heavy clouds unloaded on him. The sky was streaking with white jagged lines as he ran up the access and took shelter under the beach house. He stood, ha
nds on hips, and watched the grand display as he caught his breath. There was nothing so magnificent as an angry storm on the beach at sunset, and Mother Nature was showing all her colors as the sky darkened and thunderbolts lit up the horizon. It was raw, beautiful, and enervating. He loved this time, and only wished he had his arm draped over a woman’s shoulders. A certain blonde-headed, green-eyed woman.

  After a few minutes, he went inside to continue watching from the windows, he noticed a red light flashing behind him reflecting in the darkened window. He turned and saw it came from his answering machine. He walked over and hit the button. Then took a beer out of the fridge and opened it as he listened.

  “I’m not sure you’re not gonna be happy about this. But your mystery woman has no verifiable income. No job, no income, no debts, only a VISA debit card, balance kept close to zero, no car payment, no mortgage, no visible means of support. It’s as if she was plunked here with a shitload of cash five years ago. She’s awfully young for the community she lives in. Is it possible she could be a hooker or a stripper? Maybe keeping house for a rich sugar daddy who lives

  out of town?”

  Garrett spurted out a stream of beer at Paul’s suggestion. He swiped at his chin with the back of his hand and cursed. It took only a few moments to get Paul on the phone.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” he barked.

  “She’s not spending any money, not using any credit in any way.”

  “She inherited, remember?” he said sarcastically.

  “Yeah, but court records show there was a mortgage at the time, and that the estate she inherited was worth less than fifty grand. And now there’s no mortgage.”

  “There’s any number of explanations, so I’d prefer if you didn’t call her a whore.”