The Corner of Forever and Always

by Lia Riley

  “Oy,” Tuesday quipped, trying to ignore the unnerved sensation in her stomach. “This sounds serious, Doctor.”

  “Here’s the truth, honey.” Pepper rested her hands on Tuesday’s shoulders. “I’ve never seen Beau Marino look happier than when you happen to be occupying the same airspace.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You’re in luck, pretty lady!” Tuesday plucked J. K. Growling’s leash off the coat hook. “I’ve got just enough time to squeeze in a quick stop at the dog park en route to the library!”

  The Boston terrier scrambled for the bedroom at breakneck speed.

  “Hey, hey, hey! Wait just a second.” Tuesday chased after her, addressing the wiggly lump under the unmade pile of blankets. “Nap time’s over. Up and at ’em. We both need the exercise.” Plus she had to clear her head. Pepper’s parting words about Beau had fogged her common sense.

  She made Beau happy? She passed a hand over her mouth as if to wipe off her stupid grin. No way. Impossible. But her sister was one of the smartest people she knew.

  What did it all mean?

  J. K. Growling whined and wheezed as she was unceremoniously uncovered and clipped to the leash. They walked the few blocks through the bright, breezy autumn weather, past the workman cementing the bronze Davy Jones bust back onto its post in Everland Plaza, the dog statue Judge Hogg had attempted to steal before being run out of town during the summer.

  Through the wrought-iron fence, Doc Valentine, Rhett’s father, held court at his usual picnic table, playing Scrabble with other regulars as their dogs ran amok in a happy pack.

  “Want to play?” he called, adjusting his ever-present red bow tie. “We’re starting a new game.” He was a stern sort of fellow, but he had gradually warmed to Pepper and now treated her with a courtly politeness.

  “Thanks, but I’m not a big Scrabble player.”

  “We take all sizes,” the General added, patting his hefty belly with a guffaw.

  Tuesday smiled but backed away slowly. “I’m not a big Scrabble player” was code for “if I never play that horrible game again it will be too soon.”

  On some level she understood the appeal and had spent many winters playing it against her sister back in Moose Bottom, but therein lay the problem. Because the reality was that she’d spent many winters losing at Scrabble. Her spatial sense was nonexistent and her spelling skills atrocious. She was one of the few people who thanked the Sweet Baby Jesus for autocorrect. Otherwise she’d never even bother using the words “definitely” or “privilege.”

  Plus, it was a universally accepted fact that die-hard Scrabble players liked little more than gloating after a big win.

  A prickly sensation spread across the center of her back as she wandered over beneath the expansive shade of a hundred-year-old oak. She rolled her shoulders and turned. Nothing there. Not even the General’s pet alligator, Fido, was in sight.

  Huh.

  She picked up a twig and threw it for J. K. Growling, who sat and watched it fly overhead.

  “You’re meant to get that,” she said.

  J. K. rolled onto her back with a wet sigh.

  The prickly feeling returned. This time she counted to three before whirling. A shrub shook past the dog park fence, one low branch bouncing in a direction opposite to the wind.

  Someone was watching her.

  “Come on, lazy bones.” She popped the leash on J. K. and gave the Scrabble Squad a hurried wave before heading out the gates and around to investigate. She’d lived in New York long enough not to take bullshit behavior. Assertiveness had its uses. Time to root out the lurker.

  “Hello?” She bent down. “Anybody home?” It was a little silly to address foliage. Sillier still when the green vegetation yielded no answers. What did she expect? It wasn’t like Beau Marino would be crouching in there with a rose.

  Her stomach turned. Of course not. What a stupid idea.

  Better to get moving to the library before it closed. Aha. She sighed in relief. There was a logical explanation for why that disturbing mayor thought had wormed into her mind. She was off to check out books on influencing others, interpersonal communication without conflict, all with him in mind. As she turned to walk, a white flicker caught the corner of her eye.

  An illustration rested on the grass. A doodle of a dragon. No, not a doodle. The attention to detail was painstaking. That took real talent and didn’t deserve being abandoned on the ground. She swiveled her head right and left, gaze scanning for any signs of Flick. Not only did the girl appear to have an affinity for dragons, but this image bore her unmistakable style—so much raw talent. Tuesday brushed her hand over the inked scales, the menace in the creature’s glare. Sketching such powerful animals must give Flick a way to snatch back a semblance of control in her otherwise powerless situation. So why abandon it as if it meant nothing? Impulsively, Tuesday rolled the illustration into a tube and tucked it in her bag before walking up the front stairs. She’d have a few more questions for that kid the next time they ran into each other.

  The Everland Library was an old repurposed mansion, three stories tall and with enough detailing to resemble a layered wedding cake. Tuesday tied J. K. Growling to a lamppost and went in.

  “We’re closing in twenty minutes,” the librarian said to Tuesday as she entered.

  “No problem. I know exactly what I need.” She beelined to the nonfiction area having already researched the titles she needed.

  After she gathered her selections, a glass case at the far end of the aisle caught her gaze. She walked closer—a display about the old Roxy Theater. The old playbills caught her attention, plus a few masks, two scripts, and a diorama of the interior.

  “Sorry, that installment went up last week. Wonderful, isn’t it?” Cedric Swift stepped beside her, removing his glasses to give them a quick swipe on his 221B BAKER STREET T-shirt.

  Some whispered Cedric had a screw loose, but she never found him to be anything other than perfectly British, always apologizing unnecessarily when not making self-deprecating comments or huge understatements like “it appears a bit wet” when there’s a “torrential downpour.”

  “I’m devastated it closed.” She leaned close enough that her breath fogged the glass. “Look at the stage. That chandelier. So many wonderful details.”

  “Yes. It doesn’t seem right it’s going to be condemned.”

  Her jaw dropped. “What?”

  “The fire department is requesting that it be torn down.”

  “No!”

  Cedric sighed. “There’s not enough people in town to justify restoring such an icon, more’s the pity.”

  Tuesday studied his face as if seeing him for the first time. Sure the accent was appreciated, but he’d also struck her as a little forgettable, lanky, ginger, and studious with his wire-rimmed glasses and bookish demeanor.

  How wrong she’d been. While his face was a little on the studious side, his jaw was square and his eyes straddled an intriguing no-man’s-land color between blue and green. His hair, cut in a traditionally conservative crew cut, erred on the thick side and was the shade of burnished copper. Good Lord. He was a male version of a dirty library fantasy.

  And her surprise at his looks was met with a surprise of even greater magnitude…She wasn’t attracted to him. In fact, as she studied his earnest, thoughtful features, another face rose in her mind. One more serious and prone to scowling. A mouth not given to easy smiles. And eyes that weren’t warmed by any suggestion of green but remained firmly rooted on the cooler end of the color spectrum.

  “Are you trying to decide whether or not to laugh?” he asked. “Because I assure you it would be quite all right. Everyone around here seems to have that reaction to me.”

  She blinked, struggling to regroup. “No, no, nothing of the sort. But I do have to ask, why are you here, in Everland? It’s not exactly on the academic beaten path.”

  “Depends on the field. I happen to specialize in the Age of Sail, from the Battle
of Lepanto straight through to the Battle of Hampton Roads, and want to write the definitive account of Redbeard’s legacy.”

  She cut to the chase. “Is the treasure real?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been long dismissed as rumor. A fool’s errand.”

  “So is that a yes or a no?”

  He gave a rueful grin. “I rather consider myself something of a great fool.”

  She rubbed her hands. “Any theories where X marks the spot?”

  His smile increased in size. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “Too busy leapfrogging through piles of wealth?”

  “Not bloody likely.” He made a scandalized noise. “It belongs in a museum to be appreciated by future generations.”

  She dropped her hands to her sides. “Let me get this straight. If you found a buried treasure, you’d stick it in some dusty museum?” She’d more likely than not fill a bathtub with gold and roll around it in before throwing a huge party for everyone she had ever met.

  “Absolutely.” He opened his arms wide. “Preferably right here in Everland.”

  She giggled, charmed by his earnest expression. “Okay, Indiana Jones.”

  “Go on, poke all the fun you want.” He reset his glasses. “But history is more than a bunch of boring names and dates. It’s stories. Who doesn’t like stories?”

  “Huh. You’re right. I never thought of it that way.” She adjusted the colorful bohemian scarf around her neck. “And buried treasure is a story that would draw people in, huh?”

  “Certainly would. Maybe enough to open the Roxy again, too.”

  Their thoughtful faces reflected back from the glass display case.

  “Closing time,” the librarian called.

  After Tuesday checked out her books, she went outside, and there, crouched next to J. K. Growling, was Flick.

  The girl stopped petting the dog and scrambled to her feet.

  “Hey, you!” Tuesday called, reaching for the art in her bag. “I’ve got one of your drawings.” The penny dropped. Flick must have been the one following her today.

  But rather than coming forward, the girl turned heel on her combat boots and sprinted up the cobblestone street.

  Chapter Seventeen

  For the next week, Beau doubled down at work. He put in punishing hours, paid careful attention in subcommittee meetings, made personal visits to each city council member, and read every last one of Janice’s reply alls. Anything to occupy his brain from instant replays where Tuesday straddled his lap and kissed him until his lungs were near bursting.

  Finally came the night when his desk was clear and no unread messages remained in his in-box. “Now what?” He flicked into the spam folder and scrolled. Want a one-night stand and carcinoma? “Maybe? And no,” he muttered, his eyes glazing over the strange subject lines:

  Make four mill dollarz in the next twenty-three hourz!!!

  Enlarge your c*#k.

  Open me or miss out on the best opportunity of this lifetime.

  Only the most best qualitative drugs for your unhappy erectile situation.

  Is the president a secret hippopotamus?

  No use. He highlighted and clicked “delete all” before taking out his wallet and removing the Realtor’s card that Rhett had given him. Meredith Green’s small smiling headshot suggested tenacity. He’d asked around and heard tell she’d done well in a big Atlanta firm before deciding to cut loose and set up a brokerage of her own. He twirled the card through his fingers.

  He kept meaning to ask her out for lunch. And kept forgetting.

  He tossed the card on the desk and glared at the stack of clippings Karen had cut from the Examiner. She made it a habit to share anything that pertained to his office. This week the Letters to the Editor section had been blown up by a barrage of letters from happy visitors to Happily Ever After Land extolling the virtues of the park. All appeared genuine, if a trifle coerced, but he sensed Tuesday’s unseen hand behind every double exclamation mark.

  “Enough.” He rose from his desk and stalked to the window. The town was deserted at this hour, except for the lights farther up Main Street, the local crowd closing down Mad Dawgs. A burger and a beer sounded welcome, but that meant conversation.

  His running shoes were propped against his office coat closet. A better option than sitting on a bar stool or heading home to the empty Belle Mont mansion, the one his parents had signed over to him as a wedding gift in the hopes that he’d fill the many rooms with children’s laughter.

  Instead, he’d managed to fill it with yelling, the sound of broken glass, recrimination, and disappointment.

  He yanked the curtains shut and stalked to the closet, changing into his jogging sweats. His reflection stared from the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the door, and he curled his lip before yanking the hoodie strings tight.

  Better to stay far away from Tuesday. She was everything bright, and he didn’t dare besmirch her with darkness.

  He locked up the office, left the empty building, and ran until the breath tore from his lungs. As his feet pounded the sidewalk, the lights from the windows showcased the lives inside like movie vignettes. Along Forever Lane people were watching late-night television programming, reading a book on the couch, or chatting on the phone, each one a world unto themselves. Their own happiness. Their own sadness. Their own struggles. Their own individual daily triumphs. Some he knew about. Some he’d never know.

  He passed Always Court. Ahead was Love Street. He hadn’t intended to go this way. He ran faster, turning right. Jesus, of course he did. Love Street had pulled him in with magnet-like force ever since he’d left city hall.

  Inside Miss Ida May’s Victorian home, the Back Fence ladies huddled around a table, their faces glowing from the screen as they pursed their mouths in collective concentration. He had to laugh. What were those troublemakers up to now? On the other side of the road, Rhett and Pepper sat cross-legged on the living room floor playing Scrabble on their coffee table. Rhett must’ve cracked a joke because Pepper burst out laughing before planting a kiss on his lips.

  He glanced away, stomach churning, a fucking happiness voyeur. The next house was the smallest cottage on the street, like a doll’s house and blue as a robin’s egg and surrounded by a white picket fence. The lights were all off inside. Disappointment skimmed across his chest like a hard-flung stone.

  Tuesday was already asleep, and here he stood like a dumb ass, hoping without fully admitting to himself that she’d be a fellow night owl and that whatever drove him out to these evening streets kept her awake as well. He set his hand on the front gate latch and the night-chilled metal seeped into his skin. What if he opened the gate, walked up, and knocked at the door?

  Would she let him in?

  Would she be happy to see him?

  Would she be the woman who straddled his lap and kissed him to insanity or the cool, collected version who primly crossed her legs in his office?

  Both versions had their appeal.

  No. Dammit. He waved off a mosquito. This madness had to stop.

  He sprinted all the way out to the Kissing Bridge, pausing to suck air and listen to the bullfrog chorus before circling back to Main Street. Instead of Tuesday’s breathless moans, he tried imagining what the town might look like to fresh eyes, say a tourist out for a pleasant weekend vacation. The brick-front stores, the brass streetlights, the attractive window displays held nothing but potential. This town had what it took. If Everland could be chosen as part of the Coastal Jewel campaign, it might be the leg up they needed.

  He slowed for his cooldown, and up ahead squatted downtown’s biggest eyesore, the old Roxy Theater, boarded up these past twenty years. The fire department recently requested to have it torn down, and he understood their reasoning. It was a fire hazard, and every so often Everland or Hogg Jaw High School students broke in to host impromptu parties or get up to trouble. He’d had his first kiss at the Roxy at fourteen.

  He’d bee
n putting off the fire chief’s teardown request in the hopes of returning the old theater to its former glory. As he paused to drag his forearm over his sweaty brow, he froze at the low thump behind the wall. He dropped his hand to his side and cocked his head. The thump happened again. His heart gave an extra thud. Someone was inside. There came the subtle creak of careful footsteps, too big to be a stray cat or rat. He checked his hoodie pocket.

  Shit.

  His cell phone was back at his desk. Calling the sheriff was out of the question. Adrenaline coursed through him. Why not go in? He was fit and could take down a trespasser if it came to that. Most likely it was a kid being stupid…Understandable, because he’d been a stupid kid once, too. But stupid kids shouldn’t risk endangering their lives by accidentally starting a fire, or falling through a termite-ridden floor.

  The front door was boarded over with yellow WARNING: NO TRESPASSING signs. The intruder must have jimmied opened a side window.

  Hunching, he prowled the perimeter. Sure enough, on the west-facing wall, a plywood board had been pried off a window and propped against the foundation. He hoisted himself up and swung a leg over, easing inside. As his feet hit the ground, there was a crash.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. An old popcorn maker lay on its side. For a second silence reigned. Footsteps pounded up behind him, and as he spun, white-hot pain exploded behind his eyes and his knees slammed the floorboards.

  Whack!

  Intense pain shot between his shoulder blades.

  Whack! One more explosion on the back of the head, and nothing.

  * * *

  Tuesday knew she was unlucky in love, but killing the first guy she’d been attracted to in months was going too far, even by her track record.

  “Come on, come on, come on!” She slapped the side of Beau’s face. “Wake up.”

  He groaned, his thick lashes fluttering.

  “Come on, Beau. Yell or something.” Was he breathing? His chest rose and fell—a strong, fine chest, too. She yanked her hand away like she’d touched a hot oven plate and tugged the hoodie down off his head. Her palm stayed dry. No blood.