Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649)

Table of Contents

 

“What doves is she talking about?” Martin asked Ellen.

Barry grumbled, “I never saw any fish, just those really annoying screaming meemies.”

“What about the flowers? They were incredible.”

No one said anything until Ellen laughed. “That's why we teach science and you write books. You always did have the best imagination of anyone I ever knew. You'd look at a cloud and see a rhinoceros with a butterfly on its ear.”

No birds, no fish, no flowers? I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride home. I dropped my passengers off at Martin's house. He invited us all in for drinks and dessert, but I said I needed to check on the dogs. And my sanity. I'd print out the camera pictures to prove I wasn't crazy or delusional. Ten minutes later I drove up Garland Drive. The road had no lights, but it was well lit by the moon tonight, I thought. Until I got to my own front yard.

Flowers were blooming. That was nothing unusual for late August, but these were incandescent roses seven feet off the ground, on the lawn, where no rosebushes were planted. They waved and bobbed, as if welcoming me home. Then they separated into individual flames that danced close enough for me to see they were the same oversized fireflies that stung Barry. I kept my hands at my sides. My heart was in my throat.

“Hello. You don't really belong here, do you?”

They didn't answer. They didn't show up on my digital camera, either.

 

“The world-building is the best part . . . The people and places come alive; the fantastical back-story is unusual and fascinating; and the whole of it is definitely something new and extraordinary, and a welcome break from vampires and were-creatures.”

DAW Books Presents
Celia Jerome's

Willow Tate
Novels:

 

TROLLS IN THE HAMPTONS NIGHT MARES IN THE HAMPTONS FIRE WORKS IN THE HAMPTONS LIFE GUARDS IN THE HAMPTONS

(
Available May 2012
)

Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Metzger.

 

All Rights Reserved.

 

 

DAW Book Collectors No. 1566.

 

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

 

 

The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

 

Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

First Printing, November 2011

 

 

ISBN : 978-1-101-54764-9

Celia Jerome lives in Paumanok Harbor toward the east end of Long Island. She believes in magic, True Love, small dogs, and yard sales.

 

You can visit Celia at
www.celiajerome.com

PROLOGUE

W
HERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS? That's the most common question people ask authors at book signings, writers' conventions, and library talks. The stock answers are: the idea fairy, dreams, newspapers, in the shower, or the idea mall, where an author would shop all the time if she had better directions or a GPIS (Global Idea Positioning System.)

But what if the writer's ideas, especially those fantastical, off-the-wall ideas, actually come from another universe where magic abounds? Where trolls and elves and night mares and mental telepathy really exist? What if an author's brilliant visions were nothing but presentiments of forbidden visitors from that unknown, alien universe trespassing on Earth?

Then the world as we know it is going to hell in a handcart, and the author is getting walloped by the wagon as it races past.

CHAPTER 1

I
NEEDED A MAN.

Last time I had a girl, then a boy and a troll. Now I wanted a man, a strong, heroic type. For my new book, of course. I'd sworn off real men for life, or until I finished my next book, whichever came first. After all, I'd known and loved two of the most wonderful, talented, intelligent, adventurous, gorgeous, and sexy men—who weren't right for me. What was left? A dull-as-dirt accountant? Been there, done that. And so what if I was thirty-five? If I ever decided to make my mother ecstatic by giving her a grandkid or two, I could always adopt. That's what she did, with dogs. I petted Mom's crippled Pomeranian, who now appeared to be mine. He sniffed my hand for a biscuit. Dogs were a lot easier than men.

Don't get me wrong, I like having a man in my life. What I didn't like was them taking over my life, or them leaving. Picking up the pieces was too painful, so now my career comes first.

I write books, illustrated graphic novels for the young fantasy reader, under the pen name of Willy Tate instead of my too girly-sounding Willow Tate. Kids love them, reviewers love them, my publisher loves them. How cool is that, getting paid to do what I like best?

I write better in my Manhattan apartment without the distractions of the beach and the relatives and the small-town calamities that seem to occur regularly in Paumanok Harbor at the edge of Long Island's posh Hamptons. I might—just might—be responsible for some of the recent chaos, so the sooner I get back to the big city, the better for all of us. I'll leave the week after Labor Day, when my houseguest goes back to teaching middle-level science at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. I am happy to have my old college roommate here for the week, but I can't write with Ellen in the house. I have to show her around, see that she's entertained and fed, keep her company on beach walks and bar hops. That's what old friends are for, isn't it?

A few more days and we'll both be back at our jobs and the real world. My cousin Susan can look after my mother's other rescued shelter dogs if Mom doesn't get back from saving a pack of greyhounds in the South, if she can't shut down the tracks altogether. Susan is already living at my mother's house, avoiding her own family's disapproval of her wild ways. I don't exactly approve of all the men she drags home either, but I am less than ten years older than Susan, and definitely not my cousin's keeper.