Holly sips her beer while she waits, leaning against the jukebox with one hip as she scans the list of songs. She punches a few buttons. Springsteen is always the first thing she chooses at Jack Frosty’s. Without fail, she drops a few coins in and chooses “Glory Days” or “I’m on Fire” or another of her favorites before finding a seat, and Buckhunter always stops whatever he’s doing and just listens to the music for a minute, paying reverence to The Boss before resuming his pouring. She pushes B31 and “Brilliant Disguise” comes on. Buckhunter pauses behind the bar and raises a finger in the air, his head bobbing in time to the music.
“Nice choice. But you seem kind of young for eighties music,” River says as he approaches, picking up his can of Coke from the table where he left it.
“I’m thirty,” Holly says. “Not that young.”
“Still, I’d peg you as more of a Backstreet Boys enthusiast than a Springsteen fan.”
Holly cringes like she’s just bit down on a tart lemon. “That’s terrible. Really.”
River laughs. “Terrible? My kid sister was a huge BB fan. And she loved that Timberlake kid when he was in his boy band.” He drinks his Coke, thinking. “Yeah, you’re right,” he finally laughs. “I’m sorry, that was a really mean thing to say.”
“Yeah, I was never into boy bands. One of the men on the island—he’s gone now, passed away a few years ago—was big into shortwave radio,” she says, taking another drink. “He was always messing around, seeing what kind of signals he could pick up. All we had here on the island when I was a kid was the music that the older people listened to: big band, some jazz, lots of forties and fifties stuff. Anyway, one day when I was about twelve, he picked up a college station from Texas. He invited me over to hear it, and I was hooked. I loved everything they were playing, and when I went away to college on the mainland, I hit every record store I could find. You should see my collection.”
“Lots of Springsteen?”
“Sure. And Madonna and Prince, tons of The Smiths, New Order, O.M.D., Depeche Mode—stuff like that.”
“What about The Cure? Are you a closet goth girl?”
“Totally closeted!” Holly laughs, thrilled to find someone she can talk about music with. She’d had high hopes for Fiona the first time they met up for happy hour on Holly’s lanai, but was sorely disappointed when her new friend browsed through her CD collection quickly and then pronounced herself “more of a classic rock fan.”
“So why aren’t you wearing all black? And moping around?”
“Too hot.” Holly leans back until her elbow rests on the low bar. Her long hair is sticking to the back of her neck, and she tries to catch a breeze from the fans overhead. “All black in this heat is too much for even the most devoted goth girl. And moping is strictly a cold weather activity.”
“I see your point,” River says.
“Now back to this whole bit about me being the enemy. I need to hear what that’s all about.”
“Oh, come on. Josh is drunk! He’s not in his right mind.” River waves the topic away with his hand.
“Whoa-ho-ho,” another of the fishermen says, leaning in to River as he passes behind them. He clamps one hand on River’s shoulder. “You sharing a drink here with the Yanks girl? Never thought I’d see the day!”
“Okay—spill it!” Holly demands, slamming her nearly empty beer bottle on the bar. “What’s the deal?”
“I’m Ed, by the way.” He extends a hand to Holly. “And the deal is that you’re talking to a man who played triple-A for the Mets farm team from 2001 to 2005. Would’ve gone to the majors if he hadn’t hurt his shoulder at the end of his first season.”
“What?” Holly looks back and forth between River and the other man. “Are you kidding me?”
River picks a spot on the floor to look at. He shakes his head. “Guilty as charged.”
“What position?”
“Pitcher.”
“Well, I’ll leave you two kids to hash this out,” Ed says, giving River’s shoulder another slap. “And thank you for a great dinner,” he says to Holly.
“No problem,” Holly says, turning back to River. “Wow, I’m impressed.”
“Naturally. I mean, in my experience, women are generally pretty bowled over by a gimp who bombed out of the farm league a decade ago.”
“I don’t know,” she says, mildly awed. “I actually am kind of bowled over.”
River laughs, looking around the bar. “That must be because you’re island-bound and therefore unable to mingle with a broader cross-section of the male species.”
“You could be right,” Holly says, swallowing the last of her beer. “So what do you do now?”
“Other than fish? I fish some more. Professionally, that is. Mostly in competitions up and down the west coast and in Alaska. And I help to run a non-profit for foster kids in Oregon. We put together sports teams and run tournaments for kids in the system.”
“Okay, that sort of impresses me too,” Holly admits, frowning.
He shrugs easily. “Now that you know my deep, dark secrets, goth girl, are we going to be able to put our differences aside and make nice?” He runs his hands through his hay-colored blonde hair, leaving it disheveled and sweaty.
“Maybe. As long as you don’t tell me that your favorite band is Limp Bizkit.”
“A Bizkit reference? Nice. Actually I’m more of a Creed fan. Throw in a little Nickleback and some Buckcherry…”
Holly pretends to gag at all of the nineties bands he’s tossing out. As they laugh, Ed drops by with two shots of whisky; he hands one to her and one to River.
“Drink up, young people.”
Holly thanks him and clinks her tiny glass against River’s, knocking it back without hesitation. The entire bar breaks out in a loud cheer.
River holds his shot glass aloft, toasting the crowd. “You ever played catch at night?” he asks her from the corner of his mouth, his eyes still on the other people in the bar.
“As in baseball?”
“Yeah. Like with a ball and a mitt.”
“I used to play with my grandpa sometimes, but never at night.”
“Do you think you could still get your hands on a couple of mitts and a ball?”
“You’re serious,” Holly says, her forehead creasing as she tries to read him.
“Completely. Look at that moon out there—if we played on the beach, it would be like playing on a lit up field at night.”
Holly looks over at Bonnie; they exchange a glance across the crowded bar. Holly can tell that she’s having a great time talking to Bill. Poor Josh sits at the tiny table between his dad and Bonnie, his forehead pressed against the table top as he sleeps off his jet lag and beer buzz.
Before she gives herself a chance to overthink it, she’s saying, “I guess I can look in the storage closet back by my office.”
“Great. Should we grab a few more people to play?”
Holly flushes. She isn’t sure why she assumed that it would just be the two of them. “Of course. Yeah. Let’s get a group.”
River closes out his tab with Buckhunter while Holly searches for Fiona to see if she wants to join them. Ten minutes later, they’ve got Jimmy and Emily Cafferkey, Fiona, Cap, and two of the fishermen, and they’re planning a golf cart caravan over to the beach while Holly heads back to the B&B to try and dig up some dusty equipment.
The sound of the fishermen and locals getting to know each other ebbs and flows under the lights. For a moment, Holly feels alone in the center of all the action as she watches everyone gather their things and make plans. Buckhunter expertly tosses bottles and pours drinks, keeping a steady stream of conversation going as he works. Some of the older islanders stayed away this evening, but there’s a good crowd at Jack Frosty’s mingling with their guests over margaritas and beers. In that instant, it all feels surreal to Holly. She’s put all of this together, the men are finally here, and she’s about to go and play catch by the light of the moon with a former minor leag
ue baseball player. It all feels right. The only thing nagging at her is Jake.
The sounds around her fade into the background as her eyes seek him out—she can’t ignore the fact that her ex is standing just feet away as she navigates what is turning into an obvious and completely unexpected flirtation with River. But Jake must be in the men’s room, because she doesn’t see him anywhere in the small bar.
Holly tells the rest of the late night baseball crew that she’ll meet them at Snowflake Banks before hurrying out onto Main Street to go and dig around at the B&B. The smile fades from her face when she notices a golf cart idling next to the curb just outside the bar. As she watches, it pulls away slowly, the reflective lettering that spells out POLICE visible even in the dark.
With a flashlight tucked under her chin as she scours the deep storage closet, Holly lands on three baseball mitts and a bat, but no ball. She searches high and low, muttering to herself as she dumps out boxes of old paperwork and sifts through a hodgepodge of items tossed into the closet over the years. In the end, she takes the mitts and the bat and hops into her cart to meet everyone before they start to think she’s changed her mind.
“Any luck?” River calls out as she parks on the sand.
“Three mitts—pretty beat-up, but still in decent shape—and one bat. No ball. Sorry,” Holly says, out of breath as she meets the small group.
“We can improvise,” River says. He looks around the wide stretch of sand, then points at a palm tree. “Coconuts.”
Emily laughs happily. “Baseball with coconuts?”
“Yep. We need a small one, and it’ll be bunting and underhand throws only, okay? We don’t need to give anyone a concussion.”
“It’s kind of dark over there,” Holly says, hands on hips after passing out the mitts and letting Cap take the bat. He’s standing near the water with the scuffed wooden bat on one shoulder, assuming the position of a batter at home plate.
“I’ve got this covered,” River assures her, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He turns on the bright screen and shines the light onto the sand, scanning around for fallen coconuts.
“Well this is something, isn’t it, lassies?” Jimmy Cafferkey says to Emily, Holly, and Fiona. “Who’d have thought we’d be playing baseball on a whim like this?” Jimmy’s cheeks are pink in the moonlight. A pleased smile lights up his face.
“Found one!” River shouts from about thirty yards away. “It’s just the right size.”
One of the other fishermen—a guy named Steve—claps his hands. “Let’s play ball!”
It doesn’t take long before River has Holly and Emily wearing mitts and standing in a triangular formation with him. And he was right: the moon is so bright that when they stand right next to the water, it reflects off the waves and lights up their stretch of sand. The three of them take turns tossing soft, underhanded throws at one another, the coconut sailing through the air and landing with a firm thud in their mitts.
Holly holds her glove to her nose, inhaling the familiar but long-forgotten scent of leather oil.
“Holly, your turn!” Emily says, lobbing the coconut in her direction. Holly catches it easily. She touches the dry fur on the outside of the fruit, holding it in her palm. Cap is swinging the bat and sharing stories with Steve and Mack, the other fishermen. Jimmy is watching the game of catch with Fiona, and sipping the bottle of beer he brought with him from the bar. Something about the scene—maybe the smell of the old baseball mitt and the memories it conjures, or the way that doing something spontaneous can flood you with joy—brings tears to Holly’s eyes.
“Coming your way again, Em,” she says, tossing it back to her friend.
“Let me in the game, I think I’m ready,” Cap says, shaking out his arms like he’s loosening up to come out of the dugout.
“You gonna keep things on the up-and-up, Cap?” River jokes, talking to him like they’re old buddies.
“As long as you aren’t throwing me any high cheese, slugger. I’m ready to get a knock here.” Cap swings the bat again for good measure.
“This could be a game-ender, ladies,” River says to Holly and Emily. “Have we had our fun with this coconut?”
“Yeah, we’ve had fun!” Emily confirms, jamming her fist into the palm of her baseball mitt. “I want to see Cap hit it.”
Holly steps back and sinks to the sand next to Jimmy and Fiona; Emily joins them. The other fishermen act as de facto outfielders, though it’s clear that they’ve had too many beers and not enough sleep in the last twenty-four hours to do much ball chasing.
“All right, Cap. I’m gonna throw you a knuckleball with this hairy piece of fruit just in case you get plunked. You ready?”
“I was born ready, youngster.” Cap crouches low, bat on his shoulder. He tightens his grip and shifts his feet. On his face is focused determination mixed with total amusement.
“Here she comes,” River says, winging the coconut in Cap’s direction. Everyone watches it sail cleanly through the air at low speed and with no spin. Cap pulls back and then slices through the air with the bat, teeth gritted as he makes sharp contact with the coconut.
They all watch, open-mouthed, as the coconut explodes on contact, shards of shell and husk raining down over the water. Coconut meat and water spray in all directions and Cap puts an arm over his head, covering himself from the fallout.
“Wow, that was cool,” Emily says with awe, leaning her head on her father’s shoulder.
“Gives new meaning to the term ‘spray hitter,’ don’t it, slugger?” Cap says, tossing the bat at River gently.
River reaches out and grabs it by the barrel with one hand casually, plucking it from the air. “Indeed it does.”
“I’ll drop your new friend off at the B&B if you like,” Cap says to Holly. “I’m headed back that way.”
“Thanks, Cap,” she says, giving him a one-armed hug. “And thanks for the game,” she says to River. “That was fun…and unexpected.”
“You’re welcome. And you’d better get used to it, Mayor,” he shoots back at her with a wink. “At least while I’m around. ‘Fun and unexpected’ are my stock-in-trade.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jake is helping Iris Cafferkey change a tire on her golf cart in front of North Star Cigars when Holly pulls up to the B&B the next morning after stopping to get breakfast at Mistletoe Morning Brew. He’s crouched with one knee on the hot pavement, sweat already drenching the back of his dark shirt as he cranks the cart up with a jack and assesses the flat. Iris is talking to him animatedly, hands waving in the air as she clucks around Jake, watching him work.
Holly pulls into the B&B’s lot, her tires kicking up sand as she rounds the corner without braking. She has a chocolate donut clamped between her lips and she’s steering the cart with one hand, a paper cup full of hot coffee balanced in the other. Holly doesn’t have time to stop and visit with them this morning, and besides, the memory of Jake quietly leaving the bar the night before while she downed two beers and lavished her attention on River is still fresh in her mind.
“…a severe weather warning for Turks and Caicos, and with it, information about how to prepare…”
Bonnie is pacing around the office when Holly walks in. Her eyes are glued to the screen of her laptop, a weather report blaring from the speakers. “Thank God—you’re here!” she says, reaching for Holly’s coffee and purse.
Holly hands them over and takes the donut out of her mouth, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head slowly. “What’s wrong? What are you listening to?”
“Oh, honey, everything is wrong. And I’m listening to the weather report. There’s a storm brewing near Turks and Caicos.” Bonnie’s eyes are wide and magnified behind her reading glasses. Her perfectly liquid-lined lids flutter in consternation.
“Okaaaay. Well, Turks and Caicos is about seven hundred miles out into the Atlantic, so let’s not panic just yet.”
“That’s not all.”
Holly sits down, rubbing her
eyes. When she’d finally gotten home and into bed after the evening of coconut baseball, it was already well past midnight. “Okay, lay it on me. I’m ready.”
“We’re going to need a professional carpet cleaner to pay us a visit. The Seashell Suite smells like the scene of a gastrointestinal crime. Major vomit-fest.”
“No—is it that guy who threw up on the boat on the way here?” The glimmer of an impending headache thrums steadily.
“No. That guy is in the Palm Tree Pagoda. Old Slugger is in Seashell, and he had a rough night,” Bonnie says, shaking her head. (She’d been more than tickled the night before to find out that River once played minor league ball for Holly’s rival team.)
“River?” Holly asked. “He’s sick?”
“I’ve never seen anything quite like it in all my born days, sugar.” Bonnie grimaces like she’s remembering something heinous. “Bill came down this morning and asked for extra sheets and towels to take up to him, and I’ll be honest: he wasn’t looking too chipper himself.”
Holly inhales deeply through her nose, considering. “You’d think that a bunch of guys who spend most of their time on boats could handle a cross country trip, a forty mile boat ride, and a few beers.”
“You’d think.” Bonnie sits down, busying herself with shuffling papers on the desk. “Oh. And there’s one more teeny-tiny thing.”
“Jesus. What now?”
“Your mother called. She’ll be here at seven-thirty tonight.” Bonnie peers at her boss over the top of her reading glasses. “She said plans changed for Alan with work, and that if they were going to come, it had to be now. She also said they’ll be fine in any room you put them in.”
“But we have a full house!” Holly wails, pushing back from the desk. “We’ve only got twenty rooms, and nineteen of them are booked. If I have to move River out of The Seashell Suite to get it cleaned, then I’ll have nowhere to put my mom and Alan.”
“Yeah, you are in a pickle there, sweetheart,” Bonnie agrees, chewing on the tip of a ballpoint pen. “I’d say your mom could stay with me, but that woman is so cold, I’m afraid she’d use my powder room and freeze the septic tank. I’m pretty sure Coco pisses icicles.” As awareness about what she’s saying dawns over her, Bonnie lets the pen drop to the desk with a clatter. “Oh my God!” Her hand flies to her mouth. “I’m sorry, honey—that’s your mother I’m talking about. I’m not myself this morning, Holly Jean, I swear. Forgive me.”
There's Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One Page 10