There's Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One

by Stephanie Taylor

  “The Christmas Key B&B!” Wayne says, pointing at it. “I love it—it looks exactly like the pictures you’ve posted.”

  Holly smiles and pulls into the lot behind the building to park. She loves seeing Wayne recognize things from her photos on Instagram and Facebook, and so far the group seems impressed with the island. “Let’s head in, and I can show you the accommodations we have for your crew if you decide to come to Christmas Key.”

  They take a quick tour of the B&B. Holly shows them the dining room and goes over some of the logistics for dining and ordering specific foods to be delivered to the island, and then they spend an hour driving through the wooded areas, admiring the scenery. The crew has a run-in with Marco on the steps of Christmas Key Chapel when he takes a strong liking to Leanna, but she laughs it off, stepping into the entryway of the church so that the bird ends up landing on Holly’s shoulder instead of her own.

  “Marco is totally domesticated,” Holly promises, reaching out a hand for him to climb onto so that he’ll vacate his perch on her shoulder. “Here you go, buddy,” she says to him, resting his talons on the railing outside the church. “We’ll be right back.”

  “So he’s like the island pet?” Leanna asks, eyeing Marco.

  “More like the island boss,” Holly says.

  They duck into the tiny chapel with its steeply-pitched roof. The stained glass windows throw prisms of color around the small room, and the tall trees outside keep the building shady and cool inside.

  “This is a nice spot,” Wayne says, examining the pews. “Who oversees your ministry?”

  “Our last full-time pastor was Alfie Agnelli, but he passed away a few years ago. His widow, Maria, is still with us on Christmas Key,” Holly explains, her hands clasped in front of her. “Since then it’s been a quiet spot for reflection. Some of us come on Sundays pretty regularly to observe and to have a quiet moment, but it’s been a long time since we had anyone here to give a sermon.”

  “Hmm,” Wayne says, running a hand over his scratchy facial hair. He looks at Leanna and the other men, eyebrows raised. “Okay, good to know. And you said there was another bar, another restaurant, and a couple of different beach locations, right?”

  “Yes, we’ve still got more to see,” she promises. They head back out to the carts, twigs and dried leaves crunching under their feet. “We’ll just follow Holly Lane here around the bend, and we can hit the Jingle Bell Bistro.”

  “Now what’s the history of the Christmas theme? I’m curious about this street sharing a name with you,” Leanna says, sliding back into the front passenger seat. “Is that purely coincidence?”

  Holly gives them the broad strokes of the island’s background, describing her grandparents, the way Frank had purchased the island and created a holiday-themed paradise for his granddaughter and for his wife as she battled cancer, and how she now presides over the island as mayor and shares the property with her mom and her uncle. The word “uncle” catches in her throat for a second, its sound still foreign in her head. She’s never had an uncle before. Holly glances in her rearview mirror and sees Buckhunter in his cart behind her. They’ve been so busy planning for the NBC visit that she hasn’t let the word properly sink into her skull: uncle, uncle, uncle…Buckhunter is actually family. And it feels good to have family with her on the island again. The notion that she alone is responsible for the success or failure of Christmas Key can be overwhelming, and knowing that there’s someone else who has a vested interest in making the island into something great is comforting.

  The sun touches her skin as it breaks through the tall trees, and the beauty of her island fills her with so much joy and pride that for a moment she doesn’t even care whether or not they ultimately decide to come to Christmas Key to make the reality show, because the word family warms her from within.

  So much has happened since July’s village council meeting that it seems like six months have passed instead of one. Holly takes her place behind the podium for the August meeting, her sapphire blue bikini hidden under a lightweight black dress and short black leggings. She’d wanted to dress nicely enough to both greet the NBC execs and lead the village council meeting, and she flushes now, remembering the purple-bikini-under-a-white-dress incident from the last meeting. At least that didn’t happen while five NBC execs were sitting in the crowd. She takes a sip of water from the glass on the podium and prepares her thoughts.

  Heddie Lang-Mueller is at the desk next to Holly—as she is at every village council meeting—narrow shoulders squared, face authoritative and attentive as always. Bonnie is at the front of the crowd in the B&B’s dining room, and Jake is seated on the side of the room this time, staring at the meeting agenda with such intense focus that he looks like he’s reading a mystery novel. Wayne Coates, Leanna Poudry, and the other two men from NBC are lined up against the wall in dining room chairs, their clothes and posture standing out like beacons of light on a dark sea. Each and every villager eyes them with suspicion and curiosity as they enter the room.

  The islanders file in, waving across the room at friends and neighbors. Holly waits. Buckhunter has a spot in the front row next to Fiona, and he winks at Holly encouragingly. Cap stumbles over to a chair and settles in a seat at the back, a flask in one hand, his long hair and beard unkempt. Like a ripple of wind through the trees, everyone cranes their necks to cast glances at him, making meaningful eye-contact with one another as they turn back around to face the front. Cap belches loudly and the sound echoes through the B&B’s dining room. Holly and Bonnie widen their eyes at one another.

  “I’d like to call to order the village council meeting for August twentieth,” Holly says quickly, hoping to pull everyone’s attention away from Cap. She waits as Heddie jots down notes for the meeting minutes. “May I have a show of hands of the registered voters in attendance, please?” Haltingly, hands go up to half-mast. Faces are placid and unyielding; from looking out into the crowd, Holly knows that there’s been talk. They are obviously anticipating being called to vote on something important, and in an instant, Holly realizes that it might have been a mistake to spring the idea of a reality show and the news that Coco wants to sell the island on them while the NBC producers are in the room. She pushes on.

  “Thank you,” Holly says, nodding to indicate that they can put their hands down after Heddie has counted everyone. “I want to re-cap last month’s exciting events, and to let you know that while our visit from the fishermen was—ahem—eventful,” she says with a smile, “it was also successful. I can’t even tell you how proud I am to live on Christmas Key anyway, but to see you all come together in a pinch means the world to me. I couldn’t have pulled that off without every single one of you.”

  She pauses, letting her eyes drift around and take in the faces of her neighbors. It occurs to her as she stands before them that she is looking at a group of incredibly complex and wise human beings, a group whose total life experience surpasses and exceeds hers in ways that she can’t even imagine. Having to tell them that she’s going to do something that they may not agree with is suddenly something that she doesn’t want to do. But she’s here, and the NBC execs are here, and it’s time to open up—about everything.

  “Because I know you’re all as invested in our home as I am, I’m hoping that this piece of news will be reassuring instead of upsetting,” she says, holding onto the edges of her small podium for balance. “But I think everyone deserves to know that my mother has expressed a desire to sell Christmas Key. She’s secured the interest of a corporate entity that would like to turn it into a five-star resort with the capacity to hold eight hundred guests.” She stops there, letting the news sink in.

  The triplets turn to one another instantly, gripping each other’s hands. A rush of chatter ripples through the small crowd. Faces fall, eyebrows fly up, and shocked expressions pass from one person to the next like a collection plate in a church. People turn to the NBC producers with angry faces, assuming that they’re associated with the
evil corporate entity in question.

  “I’d like to be heard, Mayor,” Maria Agnelli says unnecessarily, standing up from her usual spot in the front. “This is a goddamned travesty,” she says, pointing a bony finger in the air. A few of the villagers gasp at her language, already preparing for the worst. “Your mother has no heart for this island, Holly. She knows nothing about what we do here, and she doesn’t give a rat’s ass about any of us.” Maria’s eyes well up. “She can’t do this to us.”

  Iris Cafferkey gets up and walks over to Maria. She puts one arm around Mrs. Agnelli’s frail waist, another under her shaking hand. Iris leads her back to her seat and sits her down gently.

  Holly takes a deep breath, glancing again at Buckhunter for reassurance. “Well, I don’t plan on letting her do it.”

  “How do you suppose you’ll stop her?” Cap bellows from the back of the room. He’s up and unsteady on his feet. “I’m not trying to piss you off again, Holly, because Lord knows I got your goat that day when I called you a little girl,” he says. “But how in the name of Moses do you plan on stopping a hurricane like your mother?”

  Holly ignores his reference to their spat in his cigar shop. “Coco and I have always labored under the impression that we share this island’s interests fifty-fifty,” Holly explains, smoothing her hair back from her face. “But it has recently come to light that we actually do not share Christmas Key evenly, or just between the two of us.”

  The villagers turn to one another, exchanging silent, questioning looks.

  “As luck would have it, there is a third party who holds an interest in the island.” Holly waits for everyone to turn their attention back to her. “It came as a complete surprise to me to find out—though it may not be a surprise to some of you—that Leo Buckhunter and my mother are actually half siblings.” She stops and waits. All around the room, the back-and-forth flutter of meeting agendas being used as paper fans ceases. Sagging biceps flap as people reach out hands to hold on to their neighbors. Maria Agnelli leans back in her chair, eyes rolled heavenward like the Holy Spirit has entered her and taken over her very faculties. From the looks on the faces in the crowd, Holly gathers that she’s not the only one who didn’t know about Frank Baxter’s big secret, though a part of her assumed that perhaps a few of Frank’s cronies had known the truth and had agreed to keep it from her.

  “I know, I know,” Holly says, arms outstretched, palms facing the carpeted floor. “This is quite a shock for some of you, but certainly no more of a shock than it was for me to find out that my grandpa Frank was Buckhunter’s father.”

  The voices in the room ratchet up another notch, filling the room with loud conversation. Heddie looks up at her from her chair, thin eyebrows raised questioningly.

  “There’s not much to write down at the moment, Heddie,” she says as an aside, nodding at Heddie’s meeting minutes, “except maybe and the crowd goes wild.”

  In the front row, Fiona reaches over and pats Buckhunter on the knee. He rises slowly, gathering himself as he prepares to approach the podium. There is sincere hesitation on his face; it’s clear that he isn’t relishing this moment in the spotlight. Holly moves aside, giving him a nod as she cedes the floor to him.

  Buckhunter steps behind the podium. He looks as uncomfortable as a man who’s shown up at an event to give a speech in his underwear.

  “As you all know,” Buckhunter begins. The volume in the room drops to almost nothing. “I make a mean drink. What I don’t make is interesting fodder for gossip. So I’m going to put this out there once and only once, then we’re going to get on with what needs to be done here. Frank Baxter was my biological father. He supported me my whole life, and he moved me here when he fell ill with the sole intention of making sure that Holly had family on the island, whether she knew it or not.” Buckhunter casts her a sideways glance. “Fortunately for her, I forgive her for her sassy attitude, and for her unneighborly habit of hanging her unmentionables out on the line to dry.” The crowd chuckles, though their faces still bear the shock of the news. “I’m also not forcing her to call me Uncle Buck, though it does have a nice ring to it.” More nervous laughter from the villagers.

  Holly takes the first deep breath she’s taken in days. It’s working—Buckhunter is telling their story. He’s charming and straightforward in his delivery, and people are eagerly taking it in. She exhales.

  “Anyhow, let’s get down to business. Holly, Coco, and I all share this island. Coco wants to sell; Holly and I do not. Right now we hold the majority vote, and we’re not interested in any fancy resort with elevators or waterparks taking over here. What we are interested in is keeping Christmas Key pretty much the way it is.” A smattering of applause breaks out in the crowd. “But I’ll let Holly tell you the rest.” Buckhunter slides to the side, holding out a hand as if to invite her back to the podium. He’s obviously glad to be done sharing his private life with the entire island, and he’s going to let Holly take the heat on the next bit of news.

  “So there you have it,” Holly says, smiling at everyone with as much confidence as she can muster. “Who needs afternoon soap operas, right?”

  “All right, mayor—let’s hear it,” Cap calls out, tipping his silver flask back as he puts the mouth of it to his cracked lips.

  “Okay, this next bit of news might feel a little surreal to some of you, but the guests we have here in our midst today are actually the production team for a new reality show on NBC called Wild Tropics.”

  Another ripple goes through the crowd and heads turn to face the five visitors. Wayne Coates raises a hand in greeting as over a hundred sets of eyes bore into him and the other four execs.

  “Wild Tropics is looking for a location just like ours to use as a setting for their new show, and I’ve been in talks with them to see if we might be a good match.”

  “What exactly does that mean, Holly?” Joe Sacamano asks, arms folded across his chest.

  “It means that if they select us, they’ll spend a set amount of time on the island with the stars of the show, and they’ll live among us and film the series. They would be guests on our island just like the fishermen were, and it would give us national exposure and the opportunity for Christmas Key to be come a household name.”

  People lean into their neighbors to discuss this possibility, and Holly sees a mixture of interest and opposition on their faces.

  “How long?” Jimmy Cafferkey asks.

  Holly turns to the NBC producers and nods at Wayne Coates. He stands.

  “It will take us approximately two months to complete the actual filming and any post-filming re-shoots that we need to do. I can assure you,” he says, turning so that he faces the whole crowd, “we would do our best to fit ourselves into your way of life, and that we would showcase the island in the most flattering light possible.”

  “So let’s vote on it,” Cap growls, sipping from his flask again.

  “Actually, Cap, I’m not calling for a vote,” Holly says, holding her breath. “I’ve spoken to our lawyer, and I’ve also been in talks with NBC, so all we need to know is who doesn’t want to participate in any way. Those who don’t mind being filmed will simply sign a release and then go about your business as usual—”

  “Oh, so the rest of us have to hide out? We’ll be made to live like prisoners on our own island?” Cap demands, standing up again. He hikes up his cargo shorts with one hand, still holding his booze in the other. “Who are you to say that we all have to be exposed, young lady? Don’t you think some of us came here to live out our lives anonymously?”

  Everyone in the room turns to Cap. His outburst and behavior are so out of the norm for him that everyone looks as surprised as Holly feels. Men hold their arms across their meaty midsections, jowls resting on their shoulders as they watch him. Women hold crinkled Kleenex to their mouths, patting their neat curls expectantly.

  “We’ve all had lives that you can’t even imagine,” Cap says, swaying as he moves down the aisle towards Holl
y. “There are things in all of our pasts that we’d prefer to keep there, and having some uppity band of cameramen and network execs roaming our island isn’t going to help us do that.” He reaches the front of the room and stops on the other side of Holly’s podium, his face just inches from hers. The smell of whiskey and sweat fill her nostrils as he places a hand on the edge of the podium.

  “Cap,” she says, trying to come up with something that will placate him. “My intention is not to expose anyone. I’m looking into this opportunity that we have to become more visible and profitable, and I’m also looking for ways to avoid becoming a cookie cutter resort. And that does mean that we’ll have to broaden our horizons, but it could also mean that great things will come our way.”

  “You see,” Cap says, staggering backwards as he holds out his empty hand expansively, the other fist still clutching his silver flask. “Our good mayor wants nothing more than to bring people to us, whether we want them here or not. Her own grandfather came here with secrets to hide,” Cap says, looking pointedly at Buckhunter, “and she’s choosing to air her family’s dirty laundry for all the world to see. But that doesn’t mean we have to let her air ours.”

  Maria Agnelli stands up, but keeps a noticeable distance from Cap’s inebriated swaggering. “It’s that Placebook,” she says knowingly. “Ever since that damned thing started, everybody’s got to know everyone else’s business.”

  “It’s ‘Facebook’, Maria,” Bonnie says knowingly, reaching out a hand to touch Mrs. Agnelli on the elbow.

  “Well, whatever it is, all of these damn young people want their face plastered everywhere. I saw it on the nightly news—they’ll tell you everything you want to know, and even some stuff you don’t, as long as you read the nonsense they write about their lives.”