by A. S. Green
It’s true. I haven’t been able to produce up here like I’d hoped. Maybe the people on this island are right. Too many trips back and forth across the lake have dulled my mind.
“Thanks, Jordan. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. I’m not waiting until September, though. I’ll get you something soon. Something decent.”
“Something amazing, or don’t bother. I’m out, dude. Talk later.”
Jordan clicks off, and I stare at my phone for a good ten seconds before hanging it up. C.C. Knight. The Bluebird. Nashville. Holy shit.
It’s like I’ve been lost at sea and a compass has fallen from the sky. As much as I like my freedom, a little direction in life never hurt anyone, least of all someone like me.
It’s now ten thirty in the morning. I’m still pumped over my conversation with Jordan, which probably explains the exchange I had ten minutes ago with Natalie O’Brien, the girl who works at the Little Bear post office.
“Hey,” she said, tucking her blue-streaked red hair behind her ears. “You got a fax here. Did you know?”
“Yeah. Got a call. Came down.”
“If you’re heading back up to Sully’s cottage right away, would you mind doing me a favor? I got a box of fertilizer samples to be delivered to Mr. March. I figure since the berry farm is only a little past Sully’s…”
“No problem.”
“And can you get a message to the lighthouse, too?”
When I didn’t answer right away, she raised her eyebrows.
See, the thing was, I decided to trust my gut—as well as Doyle’s advice—when it came to Katherine D’Arcy. She may be cute as hell, and she may make me laugh, but I know where she’s from and what that’s all about. There isn’t enough aspirin in the world to cure that kind of headache. If I was going to run into her again this summer, it wasn’t going to be on purpose.
“What sort of message?”
“Can you tell the new summer girl that something came in for her? I tried to call, but something’s wrong with the phone line. I’d send her package with you, but she needs to sign for it.”
Which is why, despite my better judgment, I’m now halfway up the hill, bypassing my cottage and maneuvering the rutted road on the way to the lighthouse. The box of fertilizer samples bounces on my truck seat along with Jordan’s fax.
I figure I’ll get the summer girl errand out of the way first—the quicker the better. I crank the wheel and skid into one of the parking spots in front of the lighthouse. What the hell? I let out a laugh. An actual, out-loud laugh. Calloway would have a heart attack if he saw his house right now.
The whole lawn is littered in white paper towel scraps, empty soup cans, and dozens of what appear to be either white flower petals or broken egg shells. Lucy isn’t outside to greet me.
I get out of my truck and knock on the door, all the while surveying the mess. Even the telephone line that goes into the side of the house is frayed and hanging loose.
From the other side of the door, there’s the sound of footsteps, then a chair scraping across the floor. A voice yells “OW!” then, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
When the front door slowly opens, the summer girl peers around the edge, frowning. She clutches a short, fluffy bathrobe around her sweet body. Her hair looks like a pile of dark brown tumbleweed, and some of it is standing straight out from her head, parallel to the floor.
“Wow, D’Arcy. You look about as good as your yard.” I stroke the two-day-old stubble on my jaw. This girl is one hot mess but seriously entertaining. I know I should mind Doyle’s warning, but I can’t look away.
The expression on her face says she’d like to skewer me, and I have to wonder if I’ve been on Little Bear too long, because this angry little bedhead is getting me all hot and bothered. My gaze drops to the bottom of her robe, which hits at mid-thigh. I adjust the front of my pants and force myself not to think about sex. Two years of celibacy is not helping me here.
“Yeah? Well, no one asked you,” she says, combing the fingers of her right hand through her hair. Her fancy-ass ring catches in a nest of snarls, and her face flushes when she can’t get her fingers unstuck.
I pretend not to notice, which isn’t easy. It’s a miracle I don’t bust out laughing again.
She leans her elbow nonchalantly against the doorframe, trying to act like her hand isn’t actually caught in her hair. The pose makes her look like an old-time pin-up girl, which is totally hot, but I don’t think she realizes it.
When I start to walk into the house, she yanks her hand free, taking several strands of hair with it. Her eyes wince with pain.
“Pretty amazing,” I say with a tsk of my tongue. “One day and you’ve completely trashed the place.”
“We had a little visitor last night.” She surreptitiously flicks the strands of hair outside before closing the door. “It knocked all the garbage cans over.”
I turn to face her. “My boss got hit by raccoons a couple nights ago, too.”
“It wasn’t a raccoon,” she says, shaking her head. Her hair starts to fall more into place. “It was a bear.”
A bear? That takes all the humor out of me. I haven’t seen a single bear in my two years on the island. She’s a city girl. Maybe she’s mistaken. “You’re sure? Maybe you don’t know the difference.”
I’m teasing her. Maybe I’m even being a little mean, but the idea of her running into a bear…
“No need to patronize,” she says, rolling her eyes.
“I’m assuming you knew enough to stay inside.”
“Of course,” she says, swallowing hard.
Thank God for small miracles. “You be sure to call me if it gives you any more trouble.” I rub my hand over my face. Now why would I tell her to do a fool thing like that?
She bites the side of her bottom lip. “I don’t know. My cell isn’t working, and the landline here isn’t too great, either. It’s all staticky.”
I glance over my shoulder toward the door. “Yeah, the line coming into the house looked frayed. The bear must have pulled at it.”
She shakes her head and tightens the sash around her waist. She’s a little terry-cloth hourglass. “No, the line was bad before then.”
“Which means last night wasn’t its first visit. Listen, D’Arcy. It’ll keep coming back if it thinks of this house as a food source. You should keep your garbage inside for a while, or make daily trips to the town dump. Don’t let things pile up. If it gives you any serious trouble, maybe you better call Mr. March. He’s got a .44, and his farm is just up over the berm and down the path.”
“A .44? Like a gun?” she asks.
“Yeah, like a gun.” My stare drops to her lips, and a sweet blush crawls down her throat and under her bathrobe. Fuck, that’s beautiful.
“But don’t worry,” I say. “If you’re right, it’s probably only a black bear, and they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. It’s Lu you’ve got to worry about. She’s got a mind of her own.” I bend down and rub the dog’s head. “Don’t you, girl?”
Before D’Arcy can respond, there’s a scratching at the front door. I open it and Samson bursts in. D’Arcy screams, skitters backward, and hits the back of her legs on the couch. She falls over the arm and lands on her back, staring straight up at the ceiling.
“Whoa. Take it easy.” I’m laughing as I take her hand and pull her to her feet. Sam’s so big and black she probably thought it was the bear.
“It’s only my dog.” I release her small hand, maybe too soon because it hangs in the air between us as if it is still being held. She shakes it out and puts it behind her back.
“That thing is a dog?” Her eyes follow Samson nervously as he chases Lucy around the room. She does have a point, but he’s just a big puppy at heart. He doesn’t even notice as he knocks several books off the coffee table.
“Mastiff,” I say proudly. “Name’s Samson.” I stop him as he runs by and kiss the top of his head. I barely have to bend over. Lucy licks Sam’s
face, then the two of them bark and run outside.
“He and Lu are old friends. Well…oh, um…”
Somehow in the tripping and the standing up again, her robe has fallen open, exposing not only the most perfect cleavage I’ve ever seen, but also a negligee sporting the face of a very yellow, very square-panted sponge. My mind is a garbled mess. I should not be this turned on by a cartoon character, but damn if my body doesn’t have a different opinion.
I figure I have two choices at this point: turn my back to protect her modesty, or step right on up and touch her. But then my brilliant mind lands on a compromise. I step toward her and pull her robe back around her body, tightening the sash. She sucks in a sharp breath.
“Interesting taste in lingerie,” I say, hoping to lighten the situation. I probably should have gone with my first thought and turned my back.
“Can you leave now?”
She’s nearly begging, but I’m having a hard time remembering how to make my feet move. “Um, yeah. Good idea. I’ll see you around.”
“I’m sure there will be no avoiding it.”
She’s right. The island is small—ten miles long and three miles wide—and she can’t stay locked up here like some prep-school princess forever. Though it would be helpful if she did. This girl is definitely not good for me, and it goes way beyond her summer-girl status. Just seeing how uptight she is, I can tell she’s definitely a step in the wrong direction.
I turn abruptly to walk out of the house and back to my truck. When I open the door, she calls out from her front doorway.
“Hey…um…Bennet, is it?”
The sound of my real name on her lips makes me jump. I don’t know if it’s the way she says it, or just that I’ve forgotten what it sounds like.
“Why are you here?” she asks, a blush crawling across her cheeks.
I blink. Good question. “Uh…” How much more distracted could I be? I came all the way up here for a reason. “Sorry. Lot on my mind. There’s a package for you at the post office. You have to sign for it.”
“So, you’re like the island message boy or something?”
Or something, I think, laughing again. “I try to be helpful. At some point these people might actually learn to like me.”
I give Katherine a wave, and when I hop into my truck, a new lyric stumbles into my head.
Callisto.
She’s hunting for that boy who got past her.
A lifelong disaster…
Chapter Twelve
KATHERINE
I watch Bennet go. The energy of him still palpable in the room. I’ve felt something like it before. With Andrew. But with him it has always been a low hum, a back-burner simmer. The energy Bennet puts off…it’s a startling, blue-sky thunderbolt. Or a flashbulb in the face. And God help me, I’m just as blinded.
Even the sound of Bennet’s laugh stirs up something warm and melty in my heart, like my whole body is made of chocolate fondue. My shoulders relax, then my arms. Even though he just saw me in Sponge Bob lingerie, this summer might not be so bad. Of course, Bennet could never replace Andrew or Macie, but it would be good to make a friend on this island.
I get dressed and head for the Vega. Lucy comes bounding up the hill from the beach and drops a half-decomposed fish at my feet like a prize.
I groan and open the car door, but before I can get in, she nearly bowls me over. She jumps into the car, settling into the passenger seat like she’s used to this routine.
“No,” I say. “Get out. Come here.”
But she doesn’t move. She actually turns her back on me and stares out the side window.
“Come here,” I say with as much authority as I can. No response.
“Fine.”
She turns in a tight circle on the seat and barks once.
Reluctantly, I get behind the wheel. She whines and bumps her nose against the glass.
“You want the window down?” She barks again.
Closing my eyes, I lean across the passenger seat—amazing myself as I get so close that Lucy’s fur brushes my cheek—and crank the handle. She immediately sticks her head out so far that her shoulders are past the window frame. She sniffs the air excitedly, and the rough pads of her feet paw at the vinyl upholstery.
I turn the key, and the Vega growls then coughs acrid black smoke into the air. The car dies twice in the process of backing up, but then I manage to get it running and pull onto the dirt road.
When I hit the first rut, the visor flips down, showering me in a stack of grocery and gas station receipts. There’s no point picking them up because every thirty feet the tires catch an edge, sending the car bouncing and lunging in unintended directions. One bump launches me six inches off my seat, and I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles burn white.
Lucy curls up in a ball. Then, after one more rocketing jolt, she throws up on the floor.
“GAH!”
I risk taking one hand off the wheel so I can cover my nose and mouth. Three years at college has done nothing to desensitize me to that smell. Oh, man, this cannot be happening. A string of thoughts runs together: This is ridiculous. None of this is going according to plan. I wonder if I can get workers comp. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat ever again. Crap, did she get it on my skirt?
All in all, though, I’m pretty sure I can hold it together so long as she doesn’t start eating it. My aversion to animals has never felt more justified.
Lucy whines and puts her nose between her front paws. A few spine-crushing minutes later, I coast into town, finding a parking spot in front of a building marked Tremblay’s Grocery Store.
I fling open the car door and gasp, gulping down the clean air. Lucy follows me out and sits guiltily on the curb. I’m about to run into the store for cleaning supplies when a girl about my age stops me on the sidewalk. She has red hair streaked in cobalt and tied up in a knot. Her light blue shirt and gray pants look like they might itch.
“Summer girl?” she asks.
“Katherine D’Arcy.”
“Righteous.” She glances down at Lucy, then up at my face. “Lu throw up again?”
“You know Lucy?” I ask with surprise.
She gives me a look that tells me my question is ridiculous. “Everybody knows Lucy, and this isn’t her first rodeo. There are probably paper towels and a bottle of bleach in the backseat of Calloway’s car already.” She bends over and peers in through the back window, cupping her hands around her eyes. “Yep. You got a couple bucks?”
I hadn’t taken her for a panhandler. In my surprise I say, “Sure.”
But before I can reach into my purse to give it to her, she snags a passing boy by the shoulder and stops him in his tracks. He looks about eight years old.
“Simon, this nice lady’s going to pay you two dollars to clean up after Lucy.”
“Thweet!” he says through the gap in his teeth. I hand him the cash.
“See you at the post office,” the girl says to me, then she saunters on her way. I stare after her in surprise. Postal deliveries must be huge news around here.
Before I make my way in the direction of the American flag that’s flying a couple blocks ahead, I glance up at the shop window next to the grocery store where I’ve parked. The sign hanging above the door reads: Art Musique. On the other side of the smudgy window, there are paintbrushes and stacks of paper.
Painting. I’ve always thought I could paint. Isn’t this exactly what Macie wanted me to do? I can practically hear her voice in my head with her find-yourself mantra. I could buy some art supplies and try my hand at some landscapes.
“I’ll be right back,” I say to Lucy and step inside to take a quick peek around. Once I’m through the door, I understand the name of the store. While there are brushes and paper to the right, the left wall is covered with acoustic guitars. In the center of the floor is a drum kit, several cardboard boxes piled high, and a table covered in picks, sticks, sheet music, sketchpads, watercolors, acrylics, and oils.
It’s probably the most beautiful store I’ve ever seen, but I’m completely out of my element and afraid to touch anything.
There is a girl, again not much older than me, sitting behind the counter. Her hair is in dreadlocks the color of sand, and pulled back into a thick ponytail. She’s wearing a purple tube top and a pair of green linen overalls that are way too big for her. Her long, toned arms are speckled with dried bits of clay.
She eyes my skirt and cardigan warily. The back of my neck prickles, so I grab a large pad of paper and bend low over the selection of paint tubes, pretending to know exactly what I’m doing, even though it must be quite clear that I don’t.
“Summer girl?” the girl behind the counter asks in a low, sultry rasp.
I sigh.
“If you want to work with oils, that’s the wrong kind of paper.”
Something behind the stack of boxes taps against the floor, but when I look up, there’s no one there.
“I’m thinking about trying to paint something,” I say. “Are oils easy to use?”
“They’re pretty expensive. You could try acrylic, but if you’re just dabbling, stick to watercolor. And you’ve already picked up the right kind of paper for that.”
The girl goes back to whatever she was doing, which apparently requires her to bend low over the counter and squint. I do the same over the paint table, studying the tiny print on the sticky labels adhered to the brushes.
“I didn’t have you pegged as an artist,” says a deep voice. I jump, emitting an embarrassingly high squeak.
It’s Bennet, and my heart does a weird syncopated stutter at the sight of him. “That’s because this is my first experiment.”
“Well then, I didn’t have you pegged for someone who experimented.”
There is no flirtation in his voice. No sarcasm. Not the tiniest bit of irony. He said it all so straightforward, as if he had actually been trying to peg me as something and had come up with a conclusion that is suddenly now in doubt. I’m not sure I want to know, but I ask anyway. “So…what did you peg me as?”
