Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel (2 page)

The petite older woman clutched her chest in surprise, then cut loose with a long string of Portuguese-laced obscenities. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one day, Mona.”

“I was just happy to see you.”

Imelda Silva, who had once been the family’s private housekeeper and was now the B and B’s cook, shook her head and marched through the foyer on her way to the staircase. “I’ve been working for your family for twenty-five years. You and I both know you’re not happy to see me. You just want me to do something for that fruity mermaid group of yours and the answer is still
não
! I’d rather fix the toilet in the Dolphin Suite! And you, Rowan.” Imelda pointed an accusatory finger in her direction. “Stay out of the butter pecan ice cream. It’s the topping for tomorrow’s waffles.”

Mona looked hurt as she watched Imelda trudge up the grand staircase. “What is
wrong
with everybody this year?” She sighed loudly. “Everywhere I turn, it’s just one bad attitude after another! What happened to the joy and delight of the biggest week of the whole summer season? Why aren’t people filled with excitement?”

“We’re tired.”

“Ha!” Mona narrowed her eyes at Rowan. “We are the people of Bayberry Island, my dear, caretakers of the mermaid, the sea goddess of love. This week is nothing short of sacred to us, to our way of life. We have no time to be tired.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Mark my words, honey. If we don’t perk the hell up around here, we’re completely screwed.”

*   *   *

It took some fast-talking, but Ash had managed to bookend his business on Bayberry Island with two weeks of vacation. He’d needed the time to think, untangle the minutiae in his mind. As it turned out, there were quite a few details to sort out once a person decided to rip up his life and start all over. Eight solo days on his boat—four out and four back—would go a long way toward clearing his head.

Though nobody back at the real estate development firm Jessop-Riley knew it, Ash had already decided that the Mermaid Island deal would be his last. He never considered himself a spiritual man, in fact quite the opposite; but even he couldn’t ignore the signs that it was time to move on. For ten years now he’d been a freelance closer for big developers, and the underhanded bullshit the job required was getting old, leaving him hollow and burned-out inside. Even before his best friend Brian died, he’d known he was done.

And this particular deal—a hotel-casino-golf-marina monstrosity—smelled worse than the usual Jessop-Riley venture. Sure, Ash would go in there and convince the mermaid worshippers to let go of their land for less than top dollar, but then he was done with this part of his life. He wanted out. The only question was how, exactly, he would go about pulling the plug.

No matter how he decided to do it, Ash’s life was about to take a decidedly different turn. At the time of Brian’s death, he had been chairman of Oceanaire, a nonprofit foundation dedicated to marine conservation and education. In his will he stipulated that Ash would take over as chairman. He couldn’t refuse his best friend, but Ash also saw it as an opportunity to kick-start changes in his life. Obviously, saving the oceans was a much nobler cause than the pursuit of wealth. Ash had more than his share of money, anyway. What he didn’t have was his lifelong best friend, a meaningful relationship, or anything close to a higher calling. And once he pulled out of his retainer agreements—with J-R and a whole slew of East Coast developers—he could give his full attention to Brian’s passion.

Nothing would bring Brian back, of course, but Ash had come to see that his dearest friend’s request that he lead Oceanaire had been his last, great gift to him. If Brian dying in the small-plane crash had taught him anything, it was that life shouldn’t be taken for granted and he should stop wasting it on a soulless job that meant nothing to him.

He checked the wind once more and glanced to the northeast. The white jib of the sailboat was pulled taut, luminous against a rolling purple-gray sky. Most of the sun was obscured by the storm clouds now, though at that moment, a pinpoint of light tracked the tiny dot of his sailboat as it cut through the vast sea, and the wonder of it took his breath away. Ash had always thought the foul-weather sea and sky were among the most gorgeous sights Mother Nature had to offer. It was Brian who had long ago pointed out that like many women they’d known, nature could be at her most beautiful when angry.

A sudden gust of wind forced Ash to return at least some of his focus to the wheel and prepare to jibe, though it was a task he could probably accomplish in his sleep. He had complete faith in his skills as a sailor and in this boat. He’d inherited the thirty-two-foot classic cruiser from his grandfather, who had taught him to sail. Over the span of twenty years, Ash and Brian had survived many a hairy Atlantic storm in the
Provenance.
She was big enough to handle rough seas while maneuvering with speed and grace. That’s why Ash couldn’t help but laugh at what he was about to do—fake a breakdown and send out a distress call for a tow, an embarrassment he hadn’t suffered since he and Brian were inexperienced kids.

If Brian were alive, he’d be the only person Ash would confess his devious methods to. Brian would disapprove, as he usually did when hearing about Ash’s job, but he would laugh until he cried at this particular story.

As he turned the boat, Ash’s own laughter died. It had been six months, but Brian’s absence still felt like a knife twisting in his gut. Well-meaning people assured him that time would lessen his sense of loss, but he couldn’t see it happening. Because Ash was an only child of parents long dead, Brian had been more family than friend, and now that he was gone, Ash knew how it felt to be truly alone.

It felt like being a tiny speck afloat in a vast foul-weather sea—only without the bright pinpoint of light to keep him company.

Bayberry Island popped up on the horizon about two nautical miles from his position. The winds were picking up right on cue, coming in at thirty-two knots from the northeast. The next big gust should do it, Ash figured—one blast of heavy air hitting directly into the mainsail and his staged breakdown would be under way.

Leaving Martha’s Vineyard that morning under engine power, he’d drained most of the oil and then let the engine run until only about ten minutes’ worth of gasoline remained in the tank. Then he’d loosened the rigging enough that the doctored chain plate would rip out of the deck, leaving the boat crippled in the water. Yes, whoever came to tow his sorry ass to Bayberry would look at him funny, wondering how a novice idiot who didn’t know enough to buy gas and perform basic maintenance could end up with a beauty like the
Provenance.
But he decided it was the best way to pull this thing off. His plan was to arrive on the island as if by accident, oblivious to the fact that it was the eve of the island’s blowout party week. He welcomed the worse-than-expected storm, since it added a dash of drama to his predicament. He was going to milk it for all it was worth.

Ash would be the proverbial stranger in the storm, a rich guy with a busted-up sailboat who just happened to wander into the Safe Haven Bed-and-Breakfast looking for shelter, a rich guy willing to pay a boatload of money to an innkeeper barely making ends meet. He figured ten thousand should do it, an amount that was too much to pass up but not enough to balance the B and B’s books. From that point on, his objective would be simple: He’d use his proximity to the Flynns to convince them to sell their hilltop property and private cove, because without their centrally located acreage and beach access, the two-hundred-thirty-million-dollar project was dead.

As always, Ash had done his research. He knew the best way to infiltrate the Flynn family was through Rowan, the daughter. She was the one who had the most to gain from selling and was the perfect target for his seductive sales pitch. Ash knew that Rowan had sulked home after a disastrous romance with a man who stole what was left of her family’s money, and she now ran the B and B, the family’s only remaining business venture. But Ash figured after twelve years of living and working on the mainland, the choice to come home hadn’t been one she’d made freely. If he could flirt with the lonely Miss Flynn enough to remind her that life was passing her by, she might guilt her mother into dropping her opposition to selling. Within hours, Ash would have cashier’s checks drawn up and delivered. The marina, golf course, hotel, and casino would go forward, making a whole lot of people, including Ash himself, even richer than they already were.

And by the time Rowan Flynn and her family realized they’d been set up, Ash would be long gone.

“P
lease take him home, Clancy.” Rowan whispered her plea out of politeness, though she needn’t have bothered. Her ninety-one-year-old neighbor was deaf as a dinghy. “He’s gonna frighten the guests again.”

Rowan’s brother slowly approached the old man, his palm outstretched as he tromped up the steps and crossed the wide porch. “Come on now, Hubie,” Clancy shouted. “There’s no need to be waving that sword around. You don’t want your daughter bailing you out of jail, do you?”

“
What
?”

Clancy increased his decibel level. “I said, you don’t want to go to jail, do you?”

“I’m too old for jail! And anyway, she took all the knives out of the house, so the sword’s all I got!”

“I’ll walk across the road with you.” Clancy spoke directly into the man’s ear and pried the decorative antique weapon from his hand.

“How am I supposed to defend myself?”

Clancy supported the old man by the elbow and gently guided him down the steps to the circular drive, where he walked around the police vehicle. “Let’s get you home before the storm hits, okay? How about a lemonade?”

“
What
?”

“LEMONADE!”

“Why the hell are you shouting at me? Damn you Flynns!”

Rowan followed along, reaching Clancy as he handed off the sword with the flair of the track star he’d once been. “Be back in a minute,” he told her.

“At that speed, it’ll be more like an hour.” Rowan cleared her throat and called out, “Have a nice evening, Hubie!”

“We’d all be filthy rich by now if it weren’t for you!” Hubie tried to wrestle free of Clancy. “I’ve always hated you Flynns! You think you own the whole island and everyone on it! Always have!”

Poor guy, Rowan thought. Sure, he was a total pain in the ass and even slashed the tires of the family’s ancient Subaru last week—which was why his daughter removed the knives—but her heart went out to him. She’d known Hubie since she’d been born, and all he wanted was to live out his remaining days in comfort. This was his once-in-a-lifetime shot at striking it rich, along with everyone else who owned property on or near the cove. Every one of them hated the Flynns at this point, and Rowan couldn’t blame them.

Her family was being ridiculous about the whole thing. They owned three hundred prime acres at the island’s highest elevation, right in the middle of the cove, plus the entire beach. Clearly, the developer couldn’t do a thing without this land, and the interesting dynamic that had existed with her parents for decades had taken center stage in the land battle. To say Mona wore the pants in the marriage was an understatement. She also wore the jockstrap and controlled the checkbook. On more than one occasion in the last year, Rowan had heard her father say that he rued the day he agreed to put Mona on the title to the house and land. And now Mona forbade Rowan’s father from even meeting with the developers to discuss selling. Their disagreement got so heated about eight months ago that they’d decided to separate. What a mess.

Her elderly neighbor glared at Rowan over his shoulder, offering up one last smirk as Clancy guided him through the front gate. If it could still be called a gate. There was a time when the twin twenty-foot-high scrolled wrought-iron structures provided the kind of grand entrance this place deserved. These days it was little more than a heap of corroded scrap metal, an irony that didn’t escape Rowan. A gate that had once kept out the riffraff now kept Rowan mindful of her own servitude. Hey, at least everything around here was decorated in the same style—shabby-as-shit chic.

Rowan sighed heavily and turned back to the house. Who was she kidding? Even if the B and B broke even this year, there would be no extra money to make repairs. Her family was delusional if they thought keeping things the way they’d always been was the answer, let alone possible. If the decision were hers to make, she would have accepted the developer’s offer without giving it a second thought. It sure would have made things easier. No fighting with the neighbors. No endless zoning hearings and council meetings. No money worries—ever again—for every member of the Flynn clan and generations to come. Not to mention she could go back to New York and resume her real life.

The sky began to rumble, and Rowan’s eyes followed the storm clouds. She decided to walk around the southeast end of the house, where she could get a look at the open water and sky. Bayberry Islanders didn’t put much stock in satellite TV weather reports and Web sites. The mood of the ocean, smell of the wind, and dance of the clouds were always more accurate.

As she rounded the corner, Rowan averted her eyes. She took a wide berth around the screened-in side porch, giving some privacy to the canoodling couple on the old glider sofa, a piece of furniture long dubbed the love magnet by her family. They were the only festival-week honeymooners at the Safe Haven this year, though surely not the only ones on the island. The Mermaid Festival was pretty damn romantic, after all. For those who believed in true love.

On the back lawn, Rowan smiled at the kids from the Seahorse Suite, who were involved in a rules-free version of croquet. It was the same kind of game she’d played with her brothers and her best friend, Annie, when they’d been children. Even the language was familiar.

“You’re cheating, you doofus!”

“I am not! You’re too stupid to even know the rules!”

“Mom! He’s cheating!”

The parents held hands from their Adirondack chairs, tuning out their bickering kids. As Rowan passed them, she smiled politely but kept her distance. One thing she’d long ago learned about the bed-and-breakfast business: If the guests wanted conversation, they’d ask for it.

“Oh, you must absolutely love living here,” the mother said, noticing Rowan and grinning up at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a place so charming and quaint. Our friends back home, the Woodwiths from Akron? You might remember them? Well, they recommended this place.”

Rowan slowed her pace. “That’s very kind of them. We always appreciate recommendations.”

The dad chuckled. “Yeah. The place reminds me of camping, only a lot more expensive.”

“Roger!” The wife dropped his hand and smacked his forearm before she looked up at Rowan again. “Ignore him. He’s just mad because there’s nowhere to play golf.”

“That’s okay,” Rowan said. “Maybe at some point there will be. A Boston company wants to buy up this whole cove and build a resort.”

“No!” The wife straightened in her chair. “But that would completely ruin this place!”

Her husband snorted. “Little late for that.”

“Roger!”

Out of the corner of her eye, Rowan saw the two young women from the Tea Rose Room trying to open the door to the carriage house. It took every bit of patience she had left not to groan and roll her eyes. “Would you excuse me, please?”

“Of course,” the wife said. “But we’re a little worried about the storm. We checked Weather.com and saw a severe thunderstorm warning.”

Rowan had already started to walk across the lawn. She glanced over her shoulder to answer. “Oh, we get summer squalls all the time—just part of life on Bayberry Island.”

“Of course,” the wife said, sounding unsure.

Her husband lowered his voice. “You can get rained on in a campground for a lot less than two seventy-five a night.”

“Roger!”

“I’m just sayin’.”

Rowan had already started to jog toward the carriage house, horrified that one chick was giving the other a leg up so she could peer into the first
-
floor windows. Rowan wondered which part of the
NO ENTRY—PRIVATE RESIDENCE
sign they didn’t understand.

“May I help you?”

“Oh, snap.” The blond woman lost her balance. She landed on her butt in the crushed shells of the walkway and they both scrambled to regain their composure.

“We were just looking around.”

Rowan nodded. “Unfortunately, this is not a public area.”

The brunette put her hands on her hips. “But it’s part of the B and B, right? I mean, it’s near the house.”

Rowan took a deep breath, hoping the rush of oxygen would stop her from using her very favorite bad words. She couldn’t wait to tell Annie about these two women. “At one time, yes, this building was the mansion’s carriage house.”

“But not now?” The brunette looked puzzled.

“Uh, no.” Rowan felt her eye twitching again. “The residents of Bayberry don’t often rely on horse and buggy for transportation these days. The upstairs was once the living quarters for the footmen, but since the 1930s, when automobiles became commonplace, it’s served as a private apartment. And right now, it’s
my
private apartment.”

“You don’t have to get all snarky.” The woman’s eyes suddenly flashed, and she pointed in the vicinity of Rowan’s left knee. “OMG! She’s got a sword!”

“What?” Rowan looked down and realized she was still carrying around Hubie Krank’s weapon. She tried not to laugh. “Oh, that.” She raised it high and brandished it theatrically. “It’s just for decoration.”

“Like, whatever.”

The girls reached for each other and nearly tripped over themselves racing across the lawn and down the steps leading to the beach. Rowan was beginning to worry about whether they had some kind of inner-ear disorder that affected their balance.

“I need a drink,” she muttered to herself, lowering the sword.

“That bad?” Clancy patted her shoulder.

Rowan hadn’t heard him approach, but he’d always been light—and fast—on his feet. She grinned at him. “As a matter of fact, yes. It’s that bad. Care to join me?”

“You know I can’t. The usual festival-week craziness has begun. I really gotta go.”

“Right.” Rowan slipped an arm through her brother’s and walked with him toward the back of the house, where he’d parked his police Jeep. “Let me guess—frat guys hurling onto the boardwalk, maybe a couple gettin’ it on in the grass at Public Square.”

Clancy laughed. “If I’m real lucky, that will be on tomorrow’s agenda. At the moment, all we’ve got is a nonpayment for an order of fish and chips at Frankie’s, another lewd behavior complaint out at the nude beach, and a couple of stranded boats, including some Boston blue-blooded douche who forgot to gas up his damn sailboat. From what I hear, the boat’s worth twice as much as my house.”

“A lot of stuff is worth twice as much as your house.”

“Hey, now.”

Rowan laughed, knowing her brother loved his little island shack, though he preferred to refer to it as a cottage. “So, you heard anything from Duncan?”

“Nah.” Clancy used his key fob to unlock the Jeep. “If he got leave to come home this year, we would’ve heard by now.”

“Does Ma know?”

He hoisted a dark eyebrow over one of his deep blue eyes and hopped into the driver’s seat. Rowan smiled at her lanky, handsome brother. Everybody knew she and Clancy were tight. He was just a year older than her and a lot closer to own her temperament than Duncan. Clancy was a goofball and a good-natured troublemaker, while their older brother, Duncan, was as intense and serious as they came. Clancy had been forgiving after Rowan convinced her family to invest all their money with Frederick, and he’d helped keep her from drowning in a sea of self-pity. Duncan, on the other hand, had been full of told-you-sos. “What did you expect, Row?” he’d asked her in a Skype call from overseas. “A lot of dudes aren’t as advertised. You can’t take anything at face value these days. You gotta stop being so damn trusting.”

It probably didn’t help that Duncan was even more distant geographically than emotionally—the last time anyone had heard from him, he’d been somewhere in Pakistan. But that had been several weeks earlier.

Clancy started up the engine. “Ma suspects he’s not coming. She doesn’t talk about it, but I think she’s pissed. This is the first cookout he’s missed since basic training. And she’s worried as hell about him.”

“I know. We all are. And I’m worried about her, too.” Rowan leaned in the Jeep door.

“Her arthritis, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Rowan propped her chin in her palm. “I think she’s in a lot more pain than she lets on. Her hands seem more locked up than usual.”

Clancy nodded. “I know. Her constant stressing out about the damn resort has made it worse, but I’ve already made plans to take her to her rheumatologist appointment in Boston this fall. She’ll be okay, Row.”

Just then, the police radio began squawking about an argument between a tourist and one of the island’s taxi drivers. “I gotta run.”

“Thanks for helping me with Hubie.”

“No problem.” Clancy turned the wheel and smiled at her, letting his eyes travel to her left hand. “So you got plans for that sword?”

Rowan looked down and chuckled. “Maybe I’ll hack some weeds out of the daylilies. Or chase the bimbos around some more. Hey, maybe I’ll go after Frederick!”

Clancy shook his head. “Unfortunately, the SEC beat you to it. See ya, sis. Oh, and you might want to get all the guests in from the beach. Gonna be a real bitch of a storm.”

Rowan watched the white Jeep with the iridescent blue lettering pass through the gate. Slowly, she raised her hand and stared at the curved blade with the tarnished but ornately carved silver handle. Hubie always said he’d inherited it from an English uncle who’d fought in the Boer Wars, a claim no one could verify. But Rowan did know this much—Frederick Theissen was damn lucky he’d been convicted of sixteen counts of fraud and embezzlement and was doing ten to fifteen in the Otisville, New York, federal prison camp, where bitter ex-girlfriends with swords generally weren’t given visitation privileges.