There's Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One

by Stephanie Taylor

  Holly leaves her dishes in the sink and wakes Pucci from his afternoon nap so that he’ll follow her out the front door. Sunlight filters through the treetops overhead, and the rush of the ocean is near. She walks through the dense foliage near her house, and Pucci bounds ahead of her as he always does. Marco is back on her side of the island, flapping and squawking as he moves from tree to tree. He picks up Holly’s trail on her way to the beach and follows overhead like an avian drone.

  “You see what I’m up against?” she says to Pucci and Marco, pretending that her words are of interest to them. “My mother doesn’t care; selling the island right out from under us won’t mean anything to her.”

  Pucci dodges under a bush, his hind end sticking straight up in the air.

  “Pooch!” Holly calls, whistling. “Come on out, boy!” With some reluctance, Pucci backs out of the bushes, giving his body a firm shake. He makes a run for the water.

  The broad expanse of white sand unfurls before them, tall green palm trees bending to reach the water like graceful ballerinas. Pucci runs from sand dune to surf, dodging happily as he ducks in and out of the cool water, but Marco sees the immense beach before them and picks a high branch to observe it all from. He squawks at Holly.

  “What’s up, Marco?” She stops under his palm tree. “You can fly yourself around this island like you own it, but you get to the sand and chicken out?” She watches him affectionately, hands on her hips, head tipped back so she can see him from beneath the brim of her cap. “Okay, off you go, then,” she says, pointing at the thick trees behind them. Marco gives a flap of his wings and takes off for the safety of the shady mangroves.

  Holly follows Pucci. She kicks off her sandals and digs her toes into the sun-warmed sand. She pulls the bill of her hat down to protect her already freckled nose, breathing in the smell of the ocean. Her grandpa was right, of course: all she needs to do is take in the natural beauty of the island. The ability to wander freely over this giant lump of sand, miles of blue sky overhead, is all that she needs in life.

  Each step on the beach reconfirms her history with this place, and each breath of the tangy salt air reminds her of the oneness she feels with her island. It’s a sense of peace and companionship like nothing else; no living, breathing man or person gives her the feeling of being rooted to something the way that Christmas Key does, and the gratification she gets from working with her neighbors to improve their home is like the whipped cream and cherry on top of it all. As her grandpa said, maintaining it all is daunting sometimes, but there’s nothing on earth she’d rather do.

  Holly takes off her t-shirt and shorts, drops her hat on top of the pile in the sand, and chases Pucci into the ocean. He pants joyfully when he realizes that his mistress is in the water with him, and he keeps pace with her, paddling alongside Holly with his front paws as she dives under the surf, letting the water swallow her whole. As the waves push her to and fro, she rolls over onto her back, and stares up at the cloudless sky.

  When she’s done swimming, she carries her clothes in her hands and lets the hot sun overhead dry her hair and bikini. Holly takes the long way around December Drive by foot, following Pucci over sandy paths and through undeveloped plots of land as she makes her way back to the B&B. Just before she reaches the road where she knows she’ll run into her neighbors, she stops on the sand to put her shorts and t-shirt on over her dried bathing suit.

  This freedom to swim and roam on her lunch break—to commune with nature and the island’s animals at whim—has infused her with a visceral love for her surroundings, and it leaves her feeling even more territorial about Christmas Key than ever.

  Holly crosses through the lemon grove behind the B&B, waving at two of the triplets as she ducks into the lobby. She’s ready to answer some emails.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Coco,

  I received your message and I understand your intent. Please feel free to do as much research and financial investigating as your heart desires. I’ve walked through the mangroves and counted the cabbage palms, and I’m ready to keep moving—towards progress. I’m ready to battle you endlessly to hang onto the only home I’ve ever known, which also happens to be the most magical place on the planet.

  Holly

  She hits ‘send’ and then answers her ringing desk phone.

  “Christmas Key B&B, this is Holly.”

  “Holly Baxter? This is Wayne Coats from NBC’s Wild Tropics. Am I catching you at a good time?” The voice is smooth and tinged with the crisp edge of good breeding and an expensive boarding school education.

  A surge of adrenaline flows through Holly. In her hand is a heavy ballpoint pen, poised over a pad of paper. “No, this is a perfect time,” she says, steadying her voice.

  “Good, good. Listen, we got your application and we’re interested in having you go through the interview process for Wild Tropics. I wanted to talk to you a bit more about what we’re looking for, and what we’ll need from you.”

  “Okay, excellent.” Holly scribbles on her pad of paper to make sure the pen is working. “I’d love to hear more about the project.”

  “Wild Tropics is our newest reality show, as I’m sure you know, and we’re hoping to make it a combination of Survivor and The Real World, but set on a tropical island. The contestants will have challenges to complete, but we want to plop them down in a place where they have no ties and no resources and just watch them assimilate. We want to explore some of the bigger themes like individual versus community, and sort of watch them rise above adversity. And I think Christmas Key would be a fascinating setting for the show. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m interested.” Holly grins, dropping her pen as she switches the phone from one ear to the other.

  “Well, it would certainly be beneficial to you as an island looking to boost tourism. Wild Tropics could put you on the map in a big way. As an added bonus, every reality show spawns its own set of devoted followers who want to see where their favorite shows are made.”

  For the next ten minutes, Holly listens as Wayne walks her through the details of the network’s vetting process. She chews on her lip, taking notes and smiling.

  Fiona is walking by the window of her office as she wraps up the call, and Holly waves frantically, trying to get her attention. Fiona keeps walking like she doesn’t see her.

  “Right, that sounds good,” Holly says to Wayne Coates. She grabs a pink eraser from the drawer of her desk and pegs it at the glass pane that separates her from her friend. Dr. Potts jumps in surprise when the eraser hits the window. She leans in, cupping her hand over her forehead and squinting until she spots Holly.

  Holly waves her in as she wraps up the call. “Great. I’ll wait for your email. No—thank you,” she says into the phone, watching Fiona as she steps into the office.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Fiona is breathless. “I’m on my way to work.”

  Holly sets the phone on the desk. “That was a guy from NBC.”

  Fiona waits, her face blank.

  “You know, from Wild Tropics?”

  “Right! Oh my God!” Fiona sits down in Bonnie’s empty desk chair, resting her oversized straw purse on the floor by her feet. “I forgot about that. What did he say?”

  “I filled out the application as soon as you sent me that article about the show looking for a location, and I included all of our social media links and some background info on the island. He said he thought it was ‘charming’ and ‘potentially perfect’ for the show.”

  “Hol, this could be just what you’re looking for!” Fiona says, sitting on the edge of her chair, hands over her heart. “I’m totally freaking out! Can you imagine the publicity we’ll get if they make that show on Christmas Key?”

  Holly shakes her head. She’s in shock just thinking of the possibilities.

  “You need to tell Coco to cease and desist with her plans to pave paradise and put up a parking lot, because this could be a serious game-changer.”

 
“I know,” Holly says, her hands falling to her lap. “I’m kind of in a daze here. And some of the people from the network want to fly out and visit the island.”

  “Do you have to run this by everyone at the next village council meeting?” Fiona scratches at a mosquito bite on her freckled upper arm.

  “Yeah, I still need to figure out how to present it.” She waves the thought away. Ultimately, the choice is hers to let the cast and crew use the B&B, and each islander can decide for him or herself whether or not they wish to be on camera. That will be an individual decision, but if she invites the show to film there, then it’ll happen whether she gets a majority consensus or not. There is the potential for a major backlash that could make the whole process really uncomfortable for the production team, but Holly knows her neighbors well enough to know that some of them will be tickled at the thought of being a part of a reality show. And it hasn’t even happened yet, so she’s not going to start worrying about it when they’re still in the interviewing stage.

  Fiona picks up her purse and slides her phone out to check the time. “I’m stoked to hear what happens next, but I need to get to the office and open up. I’ve got an appointment with Mrs. Agnelli in ten minutes, and she’ll cuss me out if I keep her waiting too long.”

  “Okay, go and check some blood pressure,” Holly says, blowing her a kiss. “And thank you again for sending me that link—you totally hooked us up with this opportunity.”

  “Sure. No problem. Glass of wine tonight?”

  “I’ll call you, okay?”

  Fiona stands up, the keys to her office in one hand. “Sounds good, chica.”

  Holly watches Fiona through the window as she crosses Main Street, and replays her conversation with Wayne Coates in her head while she waits for Bonnie to come back from lunch. What chance do they have, really? She isn’t even sure if they’re the only island currently under consideration, but how many places could they possibly find that are both wild and tropical, yet still semi-populated and developed? Wayne said they want an island that’s inhabited, and he thinks the Christmas-theme would be a perfect backdrop for the show, but…she’s not sure. She chews on a pencil, inhaling its woody scent absentmindedly.

  Her computer chimes softly, and she clicks on her email. Nothing new there. In the background she has another screen open, with the island’s Facebook account on one tab and the local weather report in another. There’s a message notification on Facebook; she opens it and sees River’s name.

  I’ve started this message about eight times, just so you know. I tried “Bonjour, Mayor!” and “Dear Holly,”…and then “Hey, how are you?” But it all felt cheesy. So I’m just launching into it. Anyhow, what’s new? We got home safe and sound, and no one threw up over the side of the boat this time. I really missed the rainy weather here (haha) and there’s no way I miss the sun, white sand, fishing, or, you know…you. Hope you’re doing well. Before I erase this whole thing again, I’m just going to hit “send.”

  Holly reads and re-reads the message, tugging on her lower lip as she does. It’s weird to think that three months ago, her days were happy but nondescript, each one running into the next with only stunning sunrises and tropical sunsets to bookend them. But now—now things are getting interesting. She has a producer from NBC casually calling her desk phone and the potential exposure that a reality show might lead to, and an incredibly handsome former baseball player messaging her from across country just to say that he misses her. The stuff with Coco is less thrilling but by no means less exciting, because the anticipation of her mother’s next move is keeping her on her toes.

  Hey yourself, stranger. I’m great—actually, more than great. I just got a call about a reality show that’s looking for a tropical island to shoot on…and whadda you know? I know a tropical island that would make for a pretty freaking amazing backdrop to a reality show! So there’s that. And then some cute guy from Oregon just sent me a message on Facebook. Plus the sun is out, and I’ve already been to the beach today (no dolphin sightings to report). So yeah, things are really good. But it would be nice to have someone to walk the beach with other than Pucci and Marco…

  She sends her return message pinging across the miles. Bonnie hasn’t come back yet, but she’s probably just running late or grabbing an afternoon coffee. Holly shuts her laptop cover and sets her sunglasses on top of her head; she’s going to talk to Buckhunter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Buckhunter isn’t at the bar yet to prep for happy hour, so Holly gets in her cart and heads back to her side of the island to find him. Her neighbors are out and about on Main Street, running letters to the postal box in their plaid shorts and sandals, and waving at her from slow moving golf carts. She waves back, bumping onto the unpaved road of Cinnamon Lane in her own cart.

  As she swerves under low-hanging palms, Holly thinks through what she wants to say to Buckhunter. Actually, it’s less what she wants to say, and more what she wants to know. Her mother has never pretended to be a fan of Buckhunter’s, but seeing them talking at the dock made Holly feel like there must be a piece of the puzzle that she’s missing altogether. She pulls into her own driveway, skidding to a stop and kicking up a cloud of dust in the process.

  “Buckhunter!” Holly calls, leaving her purse and baseball hat on the bench seat of her golf cart. “Leo! I see your cart—I know you’re here!”

  “Hey there, Mayor,” Buckhunter says, stepping off his deck and into the grass. He moves like a mildly curious tortoise. “What can I do ya for? The good doctor isn’t here, if that’s who you’re after.”

  “I’m not looking for Fiona. In fact, I just saw her on Main Street.”

  “It’s still a little early for happy hour, but you two are already thick as thieves, huh?” Buckhunter chews on the end of his cigar and swirls his coffee around in his tin cup. She stands there, still staring at him but not speaking; he scratches his scalp roughly. “Come on up for a coffee?” he offers, nodding at his porch.

  “I will, if you don’t mind.”

  Buckhunter looks surprised; he clearly hadn’t expected her to accept the offer. “Well, come on, then.” He leads her up to the porch. “Get you anything in that java, ma’am? Cream? Sugar? Splash of whisky? I make a mean Irish coffee,” he says, holding his mug aloft as proof.

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says boldly, sitting in one of his hand-carved wooden chairs, but leaving his prized rocker open for him.

  “Be right back.” Buckhunter disappears into the house. Holly can hear him whistling and banging around in the kitchen.

  “So what’s the nature of this unexpected visit, Miss Baxter?” Buckhunter asks without a trace of sarcasm. He hands her a mug.

  Holly sips the coffee, nodding her approval as she swallows the sweet, rich drink. The whiskey gives her the extra boost of courage she needs. “Thanks for this,” she says, setting it on the wide plank of the chair’s arm. She takes in the thick trees that surround the property. “I guess I wanted to come by and talk to you about my mother.”

  Buckhunter’s body language shifts. He leans back in his rocking chair, holding the coffee cup in both hands like a shield in front of his body. “Huh,” he huffs.

  “I saw you two arguing at the dock, and I want to know what’s going on.”

  Buckhunter shakes his head firmly—just one shake. “You don’t.” He drinks his coffee, eyes fixed on a point in the yard.

  “What do you mean, I don’t? How do you know what I want?” She scowls.

  Buckhunter exhales through his nose. “Your mother is a real gem, Holly. A real piece of work, that woman is.”

  “This is not front page news.” She’s impatient and ready to hear the truth—whatever it is.

  Buckhunter rocks back and forth in his chair, watching her with a steady gaze. “I mean…I was given instructions to keep my mouth shut, which I’ve done for a long time. But you’re a grown woman.” He strokes his gray-blonde goatee. “How much do you honestly want to
know?”

  She pauses, the coffee cup halfway to her lips. How much does she want to know? Is she going to hear some disgusting tale about Buckhunter and her mother? Or worse?

  “No.” She’s up and out of her seat in a flash, nearly knocking the coffee from the arm of the chair. “No, no, no.”

  “Holly,” Buckhunter says, putting up a hand to calm her down. “Hold your horses, girl.”

  But she’s already stumbling down the stairs, trying to block out the sound of his voice. “This was a bad idea, Buckhunter. It was so, so bad. I’ll just go now if you promise to pretend this never happened.”

  “Holly!” He’s right behind her. “Hold on.”

  “Please, no. Don’t say it—I…” She doubles over at the waist, her body physically recoiling from what she thinks he’s about to say. “I swear I won’t tell anyone that I figured it out if you just promise not to say it.”

  Buckhunter’s confusion comes out as a hard laugh. “Tell anyone what? What have you figured out?” He looks genuinely puzzled.

  Holly tries to keep walking, but he reaches out and grabs her by the wrist.

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Buckhunter. I knew this day would eventually come. I feel like an idiot—we’ve been living next door to each other for three years.” She can feel the anger and embarrassment pinching at her windpipe, taking her breath away.

  “Come and sit, Mayor. You’re on the verge of hysteria.” Buckhunter leads her back to the porch, and though she wants desperately to flee, something inside of her collapses and she follows him. He gets her situated in her chair again, facing him. “Now pick up that cup of coffee and take a sip. There, yep, just like that. Get a good swig of it.”

  He watches as she brings the cup to her lips with a shaky hand. Her phone buzzes in her pocket; she ignores it.

  “I can’t hear this, Buckhunter. Please,” she begs, her eyes watery.