Unfortunately, she had no idea how to do nothing. Strategic moves, ladder climbing—that’s what she was good at. In the ten years since she finished school, she’d left four different design houses, each time for bigger and better opportunities—better titles, more prestigious labels. It was why she had accepted the Milan job. But then, only a fool would have turned it down. Anyone who knew anything about the fashion industry knew what being tapped by Izzani meant. It was a huge deal, the job every up-and-coming designer dreamed of, and it was hers.
So what was she doing here? She should be getting ready for Milan, not hiding out at some beach house, prowling through a dead woman’s things—and a dead stranger, at that. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should be focusing on her career instead of Lily-Mae. If she was smart, she’d book the first flight she could get instead of waiting for the end of the month. There was nothing standing in her way, no ties left in Paris, nothing for her back in New York now that her father was gone, and certainly nothing keeping her here.
She could pay someone to clean the place out, put it on the market, and just drive away. She could pretend she’d never heard of Sand Pearl Cottage, never stood in Lily-Mae’s bedroom, never read the unsent letter. Except she wasn’t ready to do any of those things—at least not yet. She wasn’t due in Milan for three weeks, which meant she had three weeks to rake through the mess and piece together the story of Lily-Mae Boyle.
But before she touched the first box she was going to need a shower, coffee, and some breakfast.
It was eleven o’clock on a Thursday, and Hideaway Key’s historic downtown was already a hub of activity, its clever shops and trendy restaurants bustling with sunburned tourists and well-heeled locals. Lily strolled down De Soto Avenue’s palm-lined sidewalks, stuffed to the gills after a late breakfast, taking it all in.
It was warm for a walk, but she didn’t care. She was already in love with the tiny downtown, deliciously Art Deco, with its glass-block windows and smooth stucco curves—like something right off an old postcard. The shops catered mostly to tourists, everything from jewelry stores and art galleries to bakeries selling gourmet dog biscuits.
She was browsing the shopwindows, admiring colorful tropical-themed displays, when one shop in particular caught her eye, though whether the attraction had to with the smartly displayed window or the neon pink sign above the door, she couldn’t say. Sassy Rack Boutique. Fun and original. On impulse, she stepped inside.
A gorgeous brunette with a pink and orange scarf tied around her head glanced up from behind the register. She wore a dress of coral silk that fluttered prettily around her tan limbs as she crossed the shop. Lily put her somewhere in her mid-fifties.
“Welcome to Sassy Rack!” the woman chimed with a drawl so syrupy it could only be real. “Looking for anything special?”
“Just browsing, actually. Your windows caught my attention. Whoever does them has a good eye. It’s a really nice mix of colors and patterns.”
“Thanks. That would be me.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Sheila. Sheila Beasley.”
“I’m Lily. So, you’re the owner?”
“I am. I’m also the stock clerk, the cashier, and the window washer.” She rolled her eyes comically. “The joys of being self-employed. So, New York or New Jersey?”
“New York. Is it that obvious?”
Sheila smiled, a shimmer of peach gloss setting off perfect white teeth. “Not very. But it’s kind of my thing, picking up on accents and guessing where folks are from. If there was a way to make money at it, I could give up the cashier job.”
Lily laughed, liking Sheila Beasley already, for her easy smile and throaty chuckle, as well as her unique personal style.
“Hey, stay right there,” Sheila said, holding up a finger. “I just got a shipment of dresses in this morning, and there’s an orange silk wrap that would look great on you.”
It was on the tip of Lily’s tongue to say she wouldn’t be needing any dresses while she was in Hideaway Key, but Sheila was gone before she could get the words out. In the meantime, she browsed the shoe display, eyeing a pair of strappy pink sandals she didn’t need and would probably never wear.
She had just picked up the left shoe when she heard an odd rumble and turned to find a massive orange tabby strolling languidly in her direction. Smiling, she watched as the cat made a beeline for her legs, tail waving like a flag in the breeze. It wove a lazy figure eight around her ankles, then paused to gaze up at her with sleepy yellow eyes. Lily bent down and gave the orange head a scratch, noticing as she did that one of its ears was badly gnarled, one side of its face horribly scarred. He—assuming it was a he—was also missing an eye.
“Poor baby,” she crooned as the cat scrubbed a cheek against her hand. “What happened to you?”
“I see you’ve met Galahad.”
Lily stood, flicking orange hair from her fingers. “His name is Galahad?”
“Sure is.” Sheila scooped the cat up into her arms. “As in Sir Galahad. Because he’s as brave as a lion, poor thing.”
“Poor thing is right. He’s all scarred up.”
Sheila pressed a noisy kiss on Galahad’s head before setting him back down. “You should have seen him when he showed up in the alley behind the store. He was a wreck. Skin and bone, with oozing sores all over him. It was a good month before he’d let me get close. Then another week before I could coax him to eat. After that, I couldn’t have shaken him if I wanted to. He must’ve known I have a tender spot for scarred things.”
Scarred things?
The remark caught Lily off guard, but she decided to let it go. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you questioned someone about, especially someone you’d only met ten minutes ago.
“I hung the orange silk in the first dressing room,” Sheila told her, steering the conversation back to business. “I grabbed a couple of other things, too. I don’t get many redheads in the shop, so I went a little crazy with colors. Try them on and let me know what you think. And if you need a different size, just holler.”
Lily slipped into the dressing room and kicked off her shoes, then looked through the pieces Sheila had chosen. She was more than a little impressed. Every item was one she would have chosen for herself, the most flattering styles for her body shape, the ideal palette for her coloring. She had also known what sizes to pull, another hallmark of a pro. Pros knew body types: how to disguise nature’s shortcomings and accentuate her gifts. It was what clothes were all about, after all, making a woman—or a man for that matter—feel good in the skin they were born with.
She was pulling on her third dress when Sheila tapped on the door. “Hey, sugar, I don’t know what you’ve got on, but whatever it is, take it off and try on this suit.” A tiny teal two-piece appeared above the door. “I just found it in a box in back, and I swear it’s got your name on it.”
Lily eyed the swimsuit with something like panic. “I cannot wear that.”
“Why not? What do you usually wear?”
Lily poked her head up over the three-quarter door. “I don’t.”
Sheila quirked one dark brow. “Well, now, I’m guessing that makes you pretty popular back home.”
Lily couldn’t help giggling. “It would at that, but I meant I’m not really a beach person.”
“Not a beach person?” Sheila clucked her tongue. “Honey, I don’t know who your travel agent is, but you might want to get your money back. You just happen to be standing two blocks from the most gorgeous beaches in the state of Florida.”
“I just meant—”
Sheila broke the tension with a toothy grin. “I’m just teasing. I know what you meant. Now, try the suit. It’s going to work—wait and see.”
Lily eyed the swimsuit warily. She was going to be here only a few weeks. She didn’t need a swimsuit—and certainly not one that fit in the palm of her hand. But the color was
wonderful, and the faux-leather fringe and turquoise beads were fun. Against her better judgment, she shimmied into the thing, then turned in a slow circle before the mirror.
It was an awful lot of skin—an awful lot of very white skin. Still, it was flattering. The teal set off her fair complexion and red hair, and the high-cut bottoms lengthened her legs. The top was a problem, though. She tugged at the triangular patches, hoping to stretch the coverage, but no matter how hard she tried the tiny halter seemed to reveal more than it concealed.
“Come on out and let me see,” Sheila hollered through the door.
“Not on your life!”
“Doesn’t it fit?”
Lily bit her lip as she took another look at the rear view. “It’s cute, but it doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
“Hang on.” Lily heard the receding slap of sandals, followed by their reapproach. “Try this.”
Lily slipped on the gauzy cover-up, then reassessed. “Better. But I’m still not coming out.”
“Fine. As long as you’re in there, here are a few more things to try.”
Before it was over Lily left Sassy Rack with a swimsuit and cover-up, several skirts, two breezy little dresses, shorts, tops, flip-flops in a rainbow of colors—and a practical, if slightly ridiculous, straw hat. She had no idea where she’d ever wear any of it—certainly not Milan—but the shopping was fun, and it had helped take her mind off what was waiting for her back at the cottage. But now playtime was over. It was time to find the nearest market, stock up on staples, and then get to work on those boxes. Three weeks would be up before she knew it.
FOUR
Lily dropped her armload of shopping bags onto the bed with a sigh of relief, then shook the blood back into her fingertips. The groceries were still in the trunk, waiting to be brought in, but she had wanted to find the orange silk and hang it up first. If she didn’t, the thing wouldn’t be worth wearing.
It took a bit of rummaging, but she finally managed to locate the dress, loosely folded and wrapped in pink tissue. Shaking out the folds, she pressed the silk wrap to her body and sidled toward the mirror, swearing softly when her foot snagged on something and nearly sent her toppling. Dropping to one knee, she groped blindly beneath the bed until she came out with a long, flattish box. It had seen better days, its corners taped, its flaps battered and creased, as if they’d been opened and then refolded on themselves again and again. Her hands hovered briefly as she pondered what might be inside. Shoes, maybe, or winter clothes, packed away and forgotten.
She was about to pull back the first flap when she heard what sounded like the front door. Had she left it open? She couldn’t remember, but with her arms full of bags it was certainly possible. Head cocked, she listened again but heard nothing. Then it came again, accompanied by a faint rustling and the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Easing from the bed, she tiptoed to the hall and peered around the corner, then took a sharp step backward—the natural reaction to finding a complete stranger standing in your living room with an armload of groceries.
Dark-lashed green eyes met hers, amused and free of threat. “Howdy, neighbor.”
Lily blinked rapidly, still trying to process the man’s presence.
“I was just on my way over,” he added, clearly unaware of her distress. “I was coming to introduce myself when I saw your trunk open.”
Lily eyed him with one hand on her hip, her adrenaline level gradually returning to normal. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Introduce yourself.”
“Oh, right. I’m Dean. Dean Landry. I live next door.”
“No one lives next door.”
“Okay, not right next door, but about fifty yards to the south. Here, I’ll show you, if you’ll take these.”
Wary, Lily took the grocery bags he held out, depositing them on the kitchen counter, before following him out the sliding glass doors.
“Here,” he said, calling her to the end of the deck. “Come stand right here.”
Lily followed his outstretched arm, squinting through a curtain of palms until she caught a glimpse of what he was pointing at. It was like something from a travel poster, twin stories painted the same clear blue as the sky, a pair of wraparound decks, and a roof that gleamed like a new dime in the afternoon sun. But even more impressive than the house was the trellised stone patio stretching down to the beach, along with a massive fireplace that looked to still be under construction.
Lily turned to him, not bothering to hide her surprise. “How on earth could I have missed a place like that?”
“Oh, you can’t see it from the road, only from the beach. And here, apparently, if you stand on your toes.”
“It’s gorgeous, especially the patio.”
Dean nodded his thanks. “One of these days I’ll actually finish it.”
“You did the stonework yourself?”
He puffed up a little, pride written plainly on his face. “I did all of it myself. Every nail and board, from the sand up.”
Lily stole another quick glance. He was tan and tall, with a nicely chiseled face, definitely the type that belonged in a beach house, though in his crisp blue oxford and neatly creased khakis, he hardly looked like the hard hat type. Her eyes slid to his hands. No discernible calluses. No ring, either. Single? It was an awful lot of house for one guy. Or maybe he wasn’t single, just a guy who didn’t do rings. At any rate, it was none of her business.
She couldn’t help wondering, as she turned to go back inside, what he thought about Lily-Mae’s dingy little cottage squatting beside his dream house. Or maybe she was better off not knowing. She wasn’t crazy about being the scourge of the neighborhood, even if that neighborhood consisted of only two houses.
He was still on her heels as she stepped into the kitchen, showing no signs of making an exit. Perhaps if she started unpacking the groceries he’d take the hint and leave. Not that she was eager to tackle whatever science projects might be incubating in the fridge, but the sooner she finished with the groceries, the sooner she could get back to the box in Lily-Mae’s bedroom.
Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to be taking the hint. She could feel his eyes following her about the kitchen, could sense him waiting for something. She glanced up from her bag of vegetables, one brow raised questioningly. “Yes?”
His bland smile was vaguely irritating. “It’s your turn.”
“My turn to what?”
“To introduce yourself.”
“Oh.” Lily flushed at her lack of manners. “Sorry. I’m Lily St. Claire.”
“Good to meet you.” He wandered away then, far too comfortable as he made a brief survey of the living room. “So,” he said finally, hands resting easily on his hips. “Are you packing or unpacking?”
“I’m not doing either,” she answered, fishing a head of romaine and two tomatoes from one of the bags. “This was all here when I showed up. It belongs . . . belonged . . . to my aunt.”
Dean reappeared suddenly from the living room. “The woman who lived here was your aunt?”
“She was. I never knew her, though. She was sort of persona non grata. She and my mother didn’t get along.”
Dean’s face hardened briefly, a fleeting grimace that quickly morphed into a kind of crooked half smile. “Aren’t families wonderful?”
Lily narrowed her eyes. Something in his tone belied the smile, a tinge of bitterness that felt uncomfortable between strangers. Or maybe she’d only imagined it. Either way, she let it pass. If she engaged, he’d only stay, and she really wanted to get back to the box on Lily-Mae’s bed.
He was watching her, waiting for her to say more. When she didn’t, he picked up the thread of the conversation himself. “I think I heard something about her being famous once, didn’t I? She was a model or something?”
Lily stifled a sigh. Apparently, he wasn’t goi
ng anywhere. “She was. Or at least I’ve been told she was. I saw a picture of her once. She was beautiful.”
“It runs in the family.”
He was smiling now, one of those sharp white smiles that made you feel like you were about to be put on a spit and roasted for dinner. She really didn’t have time for this. She had things to do, boxes to unpack.
“Look, I hate to run you off after you brought in my groceries and all, but as you can see, I’ve got tons to do here.”
Dean followed her gaze to the boxes. “I’ll say. So you really don’t know what all this stuff is?”
“No. Like I said, it was here when I showed up.”
He said nothing at first, his attention on arranging cans of clam chowder and minestrone into two neat rows on the kitchen counter. “This is an awful lot of soup,” he said finally. “How long were you planning to stay?”
Lily eyed him keenly. Had she only imagined the too-casual tone? “I’ll be leaving at the end of the month.”
“So three weeks.”
“Yes. I inherited the cottage, and need to figure out what to do with it before I leave for Milan.”
“What’s in Milan?”
“Work,” she answered curtly, wondering why she was getting the third degree.
“Ah.” He was smiling again, like the proverbial cat with the canary. “Might I make a suggestion, then?”
“A suggestion?”
“You said you need to decide what to do with the cottage. Why not sell it to me?”
It took a moment for the words to register. “But you have a house—a beautiful house—right next door. Why would you want another one?”
“I don’t want another one. I want a bigger one.”
Summer at Hideaway Key Page 4