“For women?”
“It’s not a phobia,” he added almost defensively. “It’s a choice. One I made a long time ago.”
Lily pushed away her empty glass and reached for the second. “I get it. No complications. No strings.”
“Does that make me a terrible person?”
“It makes you a smart person.”
Dean set down his beer, appraising her with a new light in his eyes. “You, too?”
Lily nodded, trying not to think about Luc. “Afraid so. Also by choice.”
“Somehow, you don’t sound as sure as I am.”
“I was in a relationship with someone. It got . . . intense, so I ended it. Badly.”
“Were you up front with the guy?”
“Luc—his name was Luc. And yes, I was. He knew I wasn’t looking for anything permanent. He just kept forgetting. Things would ramp up, start getting serious, and I’d have to bring him back to earth. For a while things would smooth out, then all of a sudden he’d start dropping hints again, talking about honeymoon spots, or what our kids would look like. I just couldn’t keep hurting him—so I ended it.”
“Badly.”
“Yes. Very badly.”
Dean was quiet for a moment, staring at her and chewing thoughtfully. “You need to stop beating yourself up,” he said finally. “You’re allowed to want what you want. If the guy kept pushing after you were straight up about what you wanted, he can’t blame you. And you shouldn’t blame you, either.”
Lily nodded gloomily. This was starting to feel like a date—or a therapy session. “Can we talk about something else?”
She reached for her glass, surprised to find it empty. When had that happened? Dean noticed, too. He waved Salty over, ordering another round and a crab ceviche to share. The band had taken a break, promising to return when they were rehydrated. The sudden quiet felt awkward. Lily feigned interest in a gull tottering hopefully up and down the deck railing, relieved when Salty finally arrived with their next round of drinks and an enormous martini glass heaped with crab, tomato, and cilantro.
“Perfect timing,” he said, setting down their food and an extra stack of napkins. “Show’s about to start.”
Lily peered over his shoulder, but the bandstand was still empty.
“No, no, not that show.” Salty jerked his head toward the bandstand. “The real show.” He pointed toward the beach then, to the bloodred disc sinking toward the edge of the sea.
Until that moment Lily hadn’t noticed that the noise level had dropped to almost nothing, or that virtually every eye in the place was trained on the horizon. It was a thoughtful, reverent kind of quiet, like being in church, but outdoors. All along the deck, as well as along the bar, patrons had turned their gazes to the glorious spectacle taking place on the horizon. Awe, Lily realized with a jolt of something she couldn’t begin to put a name to. Awe for something that happened every single day.
For the next ten minutes no one at the Sundowner moved or spoke. Out on the beach, people stood at the water’s edge, arm and arm, hand in hand, children perched on their father’s shoulders, all watching, waiting, as an orb of liquid fire slid steadily lower, turning the clouds to flame and the sea to quicksilver. How long had it been since she’d watched a sunset, treated it like a miracle? Had she ever?
Lily watched until the last sliver of crimson had melted into the sea, surprised and delighted when the crowd burst into applause, accompanied by raucous cheers, and even a few whistles. Her eyes stung with a sudden rush of tears. She blinked them away before turning to Dean.
“Is it always like this?”
“Every night. Best show on the island, and it’s absolutely free.”
Before she had time to think better of it, she closed her hand over his. “Thank you,” she murmured over the slowly dying applause, embarrassed by this sudden gush of emotion. He’d planned it, of course, but she didn’t care. In fact, the evening might just go down as one of the best dates ever—if it were a date, which it definitely wasn’t.
TEN
Dusk settled softly over the beach, cooling the air and casting long blue shadows over the deck. The dinner crowd had gradually thinned, replaced with guests looking for a taste of weekend nightlife. Dean picked up his beer and the forgotten ceviche as the band reappeared, motioning for Lily to grab her drink.
“The gang’s starting to show up. Let’s go meet a few people.”
Lily grabbed her glass and trailed after him, waiting while he dragged a pair of stools toward the end of the bar. She waved to Sheila, pleased to see a familiar face in the crowd, then glanced at the man to her right. He was sturdily built, with a dark tan, a day’s worth of scruff, and a University of Alabama ball cap pulled low on his brow. As Dean approached he held out a hand.
Dean shook the hand, then gave the man’s back a hearty slap. “Nice to see you getting out again, Captain. I thought you might still be licking your wounds.”
The man’s smile evaporated instantly. “It was one damn point, son. And it was six months ago. You think you might be shutting up about it anytime soon?”
Dean grinned like a cat toying with its prey. “One point in an SEC Championship Game, Bubba. A game, I’ll remind you, my Gators won. So never is your answer. I’m never going to shut up about it.”
The captain sighed and rolled his eyes. “This is why you’re thirty-eight and live alone—because you’re not a nice person.”
Dean ignored the remark. “Speaking of alone, where’s your other half?”
Bubba craned his neck, peering over the bar. “Talking to Haley, I think. I swear to God, they’re like sisters when they get together. I can’t pull them—” He broke off abruptly as his gaze settled on Lily. Lifting his cap, he smoothed down a fringe of sun-blond hair, and then tugged the cap back in place. “And who’s this? Don’t tell me you’re here on an actual date, Deano?”
“This is Lily,” Lily supplied before Dean could open his mouth. “And no, he’s not. We’re neighbors.”
“Ah, should have known better.” He held out a hand. “Eric Hall. My friends call me Bubba, though. Or Captain. I run the dolphin cruise out of Hideaway Marina.”
Lily noted the calloused palm as she accepted his hand. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”
“Captain Bubba’s actually a marine biologist,” Dean interjected with a too-bright smile. “Has a degree and everything, from the University of Alabama. But he doesn’t like to talk about that.”
Bubba hung his head in exasperation. “And . . . here we go.”
Lily had no idea what they were talking about but couldn’t help feeling just a little sorry for Bubba. On impulse, she cut her eyes at Dean, summoning her best Alabama drawl. “It was one damn point, son. When are you going to let it go?”
Bubba snorted as he yanked off his cap, using it to give Dean a swat. “You need to keep this one, son. I like her.”
Dean cocked an eye at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m buying the drinks.”
Lily smiled, batting her lashes prettily. “I’m a trust fund princess, remember? I can buy my own drinks.”
“Yeah, well, just for that I’m not sharing the ceviche.” He turned, eyeing Bubba with mock severity. “And as for you—here comes Drew. You might want to knock off the flirting before you wind up in even more hot water than usual.”
Bubba’s brows shot up, the picture of innocence. “Who’s flirting? I was being polite. It’s how civilized people act, not that you’d know.”
Lily scanned the crowd for some sign of Bubba’s wife or date, but all she saw was a man in madras shorts and Titleist ball cap elbowing his way through the crowd.
“Drew,” Dean said when the man finally reached them, “please control the Captain, would you? I believe he’s got designs on my date.”
Ah . . . Drew. As in Bledsoe—not Barrymore.
Lily smiled as Drew lifted his Titleist cap and smoothed back his hair in the exact same way Bubba just had. He wasn’t at all what she had expected, but the longer she watched the two of them together, the more she saw why they fit so perfectly. With their deep-set blue eyes and close-cropped blond hair, they could as easily have been mistaken for brothers as lovers. She had heard about couples who’d been together so long they started to look alike, finished each other’s sentences, and even adopted each other’s mannerisms, but she had never seen it for herself—until now.
Bubba waved Salty over and ordered a round for the bar as the conversation returned to football, and next season’s prospects for winning something called the SEC. Lily tried to follow the conversation but soon gave up, happy to sip her third Pink Flip-Flop and simply observe the social dynamics of Hideaway’s locals.
Dean handed her a fork and placed the ceviche within sharing distance, still sparring noisily with Bubba about division rivalries and out-of-conference strength of schedule. Drew seemed less interested as he tucked into his hot wings and chatted with Salty about proposed improvements to the Gulf Sands golf course, but occasionally his hand would stray toward Bubba’s, the contact so slight it might almost have been accidental.
Lily looked away, surprised by the pang of envy that had suddenly taken root just south of her ribs. Sheila must have been watching them, too. She gave Lily a smile that was warm but a little wistful.
“We all want the same thing, don’t we?”
Lily was about to protest but thought better of it. “I guess. Sure.”
Sheila’s eyes drifted down the bar. “So, you’re here with Dean?”
“Sort of. He’s my neighbor.”
“Lucky girl.” Sheila’s scarf tonight was blue and green paisley, tied gypsy-style over her shoulder-length chestnut curls. Beaded hoops of lapis and jade jangled softly as she spoke. “A little advice—move fast. Every unattached woman in Hideaway Key has eyes in that direction.”
Lily stole a glance at Sheila’s ring finger—bare. “Does that include you?”
“No, sugar.” Sheila shook her head, setting her earrings tinkling like little bells. “Once, maybe, but not now. I’m afraid those days are over for me.”
Something in Sheila’s tone caught Lily’s attention, not sadness exactly, but a kind of resignation that seemed out of character. The moment stretched uncomfortably, the cautionary strains of “Desperado” bleeding into the silence, making Sheila’s words more poignant somehow. There was a story here, she was sure of it, but it was Sheila’s story, and none of her business.
As if sensing Lily’s discomfort, Sheila picked up her glass—one of Salty’s pink specialties—and drained it, then turned a too-bright smile on Lily. “The skirt looks amazing, by the way. You didn’t tell me you had such great legs. Next time we’ll go shorter.”
Lily glanced dubiously at her bare legs, about to reply when a sound that could only be likened to the squawking of an angry crow rose above both the band and the crowd.
“Sweet Mother of Mercy, I thought I’d never get out of the shop tonight.”
“Brace yourself,” Sheila whispered behind her hand. “It’s Rhona.”
“Rhona?”
There was no time for Sheila to answer. Rhona descended in a cloud of patchouli and vanilla, silver bangles jangling. For a moment Lily couldn’t even blink. The woman was like nothing she’d ever seen, draped in folds of bright tropical print, close-cropped white hair standing out from her head like a cloud on a windy day. But that wasn’t the best of it. Behind her left ear, fluttering like the plumage of some exotic bird, bloomed a single red hibiscus.
“It never fails,” she rattled, without so much as a look in Lily’s direction. “I’m just about to turn off the sign when three woman strut in wanting a reading. Three of them, at six o’clock!” Boosting a stool from a nearby high-top, she dragged it over to the bar and plopped down heavily. “I mean, who does that at six o’clock?”
Dean grinned, then elbowed Lily. “Told you we had our share. Rhona is the local fortune-teller.”
“She’s certainly . . . colorful.”
“Yeah, in more ways than one. She’s a hoot, actually. But she can get a little out there sometimes.” He grinned and winked, as if to say Watch this, then leaned forward to holler down the bar. “Rhona, are you telling us the greatest seer on Hideaway Key didn’t know three women were going to show up at her door at six o’clock?”
Rhona swiveled her white head in Dean’s direction, brandishing a finger that nearly caught Lily in the eye. “It’s a good thing you’re better-looking than you are funny, sir. I’ve got housecoats older than that joke.” She paused then, as if noticing for the first time that Lily was seated between them. “Good Lord, girl, you’re the spitting image of a woman who used to live here on Hideaway. She’s dead now, but oh brother, she was something else. The stories I could tell—”
Lily cut her off with an extended hand. “Hi. I’m Lily St. Claire, Lily-Mae Boyle’s niece.”
Rhona stared at her, openmouthed. After a moment she seemed to recover herself, accepting Lily’s hand with a creeping smile that was slightly unnerving. “Well, of course you are. I’m Rhona. Rhona Shoemaker. And ignore your date. He’s a nonbeliever.”
“He’s not my date. I just live next door.”
“So, you’re living in your aunt’s place, then, over on Vista?”
“Yes. I’ll be there for a few weeks while I clean the place out. Did you really know her?”
Lily suddenly became aware of Dean’s knee tapping hers with growing insistence, but she chose to ignore the warning. “So you knew my aunt?”
“Well, I don’t know if you could say I knew her, but I knew who she was. We all did. She was a big deal around here, so pretty and so famous. And so sad.”
Lily seized on the word. “Sad?”
Another bump from Dean, harder this time, accompanied by an unmistakable glower. Even Sheila was shaking her head behind Rhona’s back. But it was too late. Rhona had already swiveled around to face Lily, eyes glittering.
“We lived in the bungalow across the street. It’s not there anymore, but back when it was we had a bird’s-eye view of your aunt’s place. It wasn’t all grown-up back then, like it is now. We could look across the street and see smack into her windows.”
Drew ducked behind his beer glass, shoulders hunched uncomfortably.
Bubba groaned and shook his head. “Rhona, hush that up.”
Rhona’s eyes hardened sharply. “Could we help it if the woman left her blinds open? She obviously didn’t care if folks knew what she got up to at all hours.”
Sheila set her glass down hard, sloshing some of its contents onto the bar. “For Pete’s sake, Rhona! The woman’s dead, and this is her niece.”
Rhona’s lower lip jutted petulantly. “Then it’s probably nothing she doesn’t already know.”
The argument continued to escalate while Lily sat numbly on her stool, head jerking back and forth like a spectator at a tennis match. Everyone was talking at once, and all seemingly bent on keeping Rhona from being heard. And yet, despite the noisy protests and the band’s boisterous rendition of “Love Shack,” Lily actually did manage to catch a word here and there, and they weren’t particularly nice words. In fact, they were words her mother might have used.
Men at all hours . . . something to hide . . . drank herself to death.
Lily was still trying to digest what she’d heard when she saw Dean stand abruptly and begin counting out a handful of bills. “Ready?” he asked tightly, as he slid the money across the bar to Salty.
Lily blinked at him, not sure what was happening. Were they leaving? Because of Rhona? Dean said nothing more, just stood there waiting. Finally, she slid off her stool, mumbling her good-byes as she gathered her purse. As she turned to go Sheila caught her by the wrist, pulling her close.
“Sorry about all that, sugar. She doesn’t mean any harm. She just doesn’t know when to keep quiet. It’s a family thing.”
Lily nodded with a pasted-on smile, but couldn’t help wondering what was going on. She had known this handful of people for less than an hour, and yet they seemed hell-bent on silencing Rhona Shoemaker. What was it they didn’t want her to hear?
And speaking of Rhona, where had she gotten to? Scanning the length of the deck, and then the thinning crowd of restaurant patrons, Lily finally caught sight of the red hibiscus disappearing down a short hallway marked RESTROOMS.
“I need to make a pit stop before we go,” she told Dean on impulse. “Go on. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
The truck was running by the time she got out to the parking lot, a cool sea breeze wafting in through the open windows. Lily belted herself in and waited for Dean to put the truck in gear and pull out, but he made no move to leave.
“You shouldn’t listen to anything Rhona says about your aunt,” he said finally. He had both hands on the wheel, his eyes locked straight ahead. “The woman doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.”
“You’re saying she’s crazy?”
He turned finally, his face all hard angles in the moonlight. “I’m saying she’s the kind of woman who’s only too glad to tell what she knows, even if she doesn’t really know it. Her mother was a notorious gossip—Dora was her name. They say she hurt a lot of people by running her mouth, and there’s a little bit of that in Rhona, too. Which is why you need to take anything she says with a grain of salt. Better yet, steer clear of her altogether.”
“So, the things she was saying tonight about Lily-Mae—none of it’s true?”
Summer at Hideaway Key Page 9