Awash (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 6)

by Dawn Lee McKenna

  “Yeah,” Maggie said.

  Gray stood up, then carefully closed the trunk. He turned around and looked at her, then looked over her shoulder. “Here comes your mama with another bag,” he said.

  He looked back at her, and she squinted up into his eyes, those gentle brown eyes that Maggie felt held all the kindness and wisdom in the world.

  “I love you, Sunshine,” he said.

  “I love you, too, Daddy,” she said back.

  Maggie went home to feed the chickens and Coco and Stoopid.

  She was happy to see them, and wrapped her arms around Coco’s vibrating neck for a moment, inhaling her fur and her adoration, but there was a weight in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. A dread and a growing sense of sadness that felt a lot like impending loss.

  Coco gave Maggie her “go-with” face when Maggie packed an overnight bag and started to leave, but Maggie decided to leave her there. Stoopid wasn’t much of a rooster at the moment, with his idiotic cone and his drip bottle of water, and someone needed to watch over things. Maggie also felt a need to be alone.

  Wyatt had suggested that Maggie sleep at his house that night.

  “Is this another one of those over-protective things where you whine about me living out in the wild?” Maggie had asked him.

  “No, this is one of those testosterone-driven things where it makes me feel all macho and proprietary because you’re in my house while I’m gone,” he’d said.

  She and Wyatt had a quiet dinner on his back patio, then she followed him out to the driveway as he got ready to leave. He tossed his bag in the passenger seat of his truck, shut the door, then turned around to look at her.

  “The spare key is taped under the grill,” he said.

  “What kind of Sheriff leaves a key on the back patio?” she asked him.

  “What kind of burglar thinks a Sheriff would do something that stupid?” he asked back.

  She smiled at him, and he smiled back, but then the smile faded. She saw him looking at the bruise on her cheek.

  “I’ll give you a good reference for Piggly-Wiggly,” he said quietly.

  “Okay,” she said. He stared at her, and she grew uncomfortable. “Stop looking so serious.”

  “Stop looking so sad,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  Maggie looked away. “Nothing. I’m just worn out.”

  Wyatt took a moment to answer. “Okay, we’ll leave it at that, despite the fact that it’s untrue.” He put his hands on her face. “You’ll tell when you’re ready.”

  Maggie nodded, and covered his hands with hers. She wanted him to stay. She wanted him to hurry up and go.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon,” Wyatt said.

  “Okay.” She looked up at him. “I love you, you know.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said, but he wasn’t smiling. “I love you, too.”

  Maggie worked up a smile, then he kissed her goodbye.

  She stood in his driveway for a few minutes after he’d pulled away. A sense of aloneness settled in around her, and she was a little sorry she hadn’t brought Coco. Or even Stoopid.

  She walked out to the back patio, carried the last of the dishes into the kitchen, and washed them by hand even though Wyatt had a dishwasher. She looked out the window as she washed, stared out at nothing in particular, and thought.

  She wiped down the counters, distractedly wiped down the patio table, swept the kitchen floor, and thought.

  She sat out back, in the porch swing where she and Wyatt had been sitting just a short while before. She stared out at the night, so many snippets of the last few months and the last few days swirling and drifting around in her head, and the growing sadness was joined by fear.

  She got down next to the grill, felt for the key, and pulled it out. Then she sat back down on the swing and turned it over and over in her hands, trying to forget about leaving, trying to get up the courage to do it.

  If she walked out that door, she would lose someone she loved. She wasn’t sure who. But it would break her heart.

  Maggie stood in Boudreaux’s driveway for several minutes. The palm trees rattled in the wind, but everything else was quiet.

  She breathed deeply and slowly, afraid to move forward, unwilling to run away. One way or another, everything was about to change, and for one of any number of possible reasons, she would mourn that change. But she knew, in the part of her that was willing to admit unwelcome truth, that this moment had been ushered on its way the first time she’d walked up this driveway last summer.

  Finally, she pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket and dialed.

  “Hello?” he answered smoothly on the second ring.

  “Hello, Mr. Boudreaux,” Maggie said.

  “Hello, Maggie,” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure if you were still up,” she said. “I was wondering if I could come by.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “I’m still up,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “In your driveway.”

  “I’m on the back porch,” he said.

  Maggie couldn’t think of anything else to say so she hung up. She took a deep breath and headed down the oyster shell path that led to the back yard. When she turned the corner, he was standing at the porch rail near the steps. He turned to look at her, watched her approach. He was wearing a pair of khaki trousers and an aqua blue chambray shirt that matched his eyes.

  “I didn’t hear your car,” he said.

  “I walked. I’m spending the night at Wyatt’s,” she said.

  “I see,” he said quietly, then stood back as she came up the stairs.

  When she stepped onto the porch, she watched him see her face. His was without expression.

  “What happened?” he asked her quietly.

  “We arrested the rapist I was looking for last night,” she said.

  “I heard about the arrest, but I didn’t know you’d been hurt.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said.

  She was surprised when he reached out and touched her cheek with one finger, as gently as a leaf falling. She watched as his jaw tensed almost imperceptibly, saw his eyes grow cold for just a moment as he touched her chin and turned her head so he could look at her tiny stitches. Then he looked her in the eye, and the coldness was gone.

  “Does Wyatt know you’re here?”

  “No. He’s on his way to Tallahassee,” she said.

  He looked at her a moment. “And you’re here,” he said.

  “Yes.” She felt self-conscious, and looked over at the French doors that led to his office. They were open, and the white sheers drifted back and forth against the porch floor. She looked back at him. “Have I ever told you that you have a very calming effect on me?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I think you’re the only person who’s ever said that to me,” he said.

  She smiled back and shrugged. “Strange but true.”

  “Do you need calming?” he asked her, his smile gone again.

  “I feel like smiling,” she said. “I feel like forgetting about everything out there, and just…enjoying a few moments of peace.”

  “Well. Then I’m honored that you came here,” he said. “I was thinking about having a glass of wine. Would you like one?”

  Maggie thought about that. “Actually, I could use something stronger.”

  He nodded. “Okay.” He put a hand on her arm. “It’s a little chilly out here for that blouse you’re wearing. Why don’t we go inside?”

  She followed him into the den, stopped just inside as he went to the bar.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “A shot of tequila would be nice, actually,” she said.

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Shots of tequila, then.”

  She watched him as he got out two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila. It looked expensive, but she wouldn’t know, really. She hadn’t done shots since she and David had accidentally gone to Shreveport during Mardi Gras.


  “Excuse me just a moment,” Boudreaux said, then went back out to the porch. She looked out, saw him open the mini-fridge. He came back with a lime in his hand. “We might as well do it correctly,” he said as he passed her.

  She watched him slice the lime, then he beckoned to her. She walked over to the bar, and he took her hand, rubbed a wedge of lime on the back of it, and handed her a salt shaker. She took it and shook a bit of salt onto her hand. He did the same with a piece of lime of his own, then handed her a shot glass.

  She took it, waited for him to take his, then they raised their glasses. “To smiling,” he said, and licked his hand. She did the same, and they downed their shots. Maggie had to force the last bit of it down, and thought about dying once she had, but after sucking on the lime for a second, she welcomed the sudden rush of warmth in her chest and stomach.

  Boudreaux smiled at her as he put down his glass. “Would you like some water?” he asked her.

  “Actually, I think I’d like one more,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” he asked her, frowning. “What do you weigh, a hundred pounds?”

  “Somewhere around there,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  He looked at her a moment, then held his hand out for her glass. “Okay, if you say so,” he said. He put it down on the bar and opened the tequila bottle again. “Maybe it’ll loosen you up enough to tell me what’s wrong.”

  Maggie smiled, mostly. “Thank you,” she said noncommittally.

  They drank their second shot, and that one went down more easily for Maggie. She handed him her glass and ate the slice of lime in her hand. When she looked around for a trash can, he held out his hand. She gave it to him, and he tossed it in a small dish on the bar.

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked her.

  She nodded, and he led her to the loveseat facing the window. She sat, and was surprised when he sat down beside her, at a respectful distance but not very far away. He watched her for a moment. She was feeling slightly bolder than usual suddenly, and she held his gaze.

  “I slept in here the other night,” she said.

  “In here?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was restless and lonely and I couldn’t sleep, so I came down here. I slept in your sweater, actually,” she said, and she was less embarrassed by that than she normally would be. She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “I feel safe with you,” she said.

  Those insanely blue eyes stared into hers, and she felt like he could see through to the other side of her. “You are safe with me,” he said quietly.

  “I know,” she said. “Your sweater made me feel safe, too. I know that’s silly.”

  “No, it’s not,” he said. “It’s actually very touching.” She smiled at him, and he gave her a smile back. “Feel free to borrow the sweater any time you like.”

  “Thank you. I’ll wear it on my next date with Wyatt,” she said.

  He laughed then, and Maggie realized it was the first time she’d ever seen him laugh fully, laugh like he meant it. It made her quietly proud. It also made her sad, but less so than she had been thirty minutes ago. She didn’t care for being drunk, but she was grateful right then, for the buzz.

  Boudreaux looked at her. “Are you ready to talk about whatever is weighing on you?”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” she said. “Let’s talk about good things.”

  “Very well. What would you like to talk about?”

  Maggie came up blank. She just wanted a little bit of time. Looking at him there, smiling, relaxed, she just wanted a little bit of time to enjoy being with him. To have things the way they had been, before they became something else.

  “Tell me something about you that I don’t know,” she said then. “I don’t mean some deep, dark secret. Just something that would surprise me.”

  He smiled at her, leaned his head back against the back of the loveseat. “Something you don’t know,” he said to the ceiling, then he turned and looked at her. “Not deep and dark.”

  He grinned at her, and she realized with some surprise that he was a little buzzed as well. She didn’t know if she felt guilty or relieved.

  “Okay,” he said. He thought a moment, stared back up at the ceiling, then looked back at her and winked. “On occasion, I still listen to disco.”

  That did take her by surprise, and she laughed. “No, you don’t.”

  “Oh, Maggie,” he said, smiling. “It hurts me when you question my integrity.”

  “I believe you have integrity,” she said, laughing. “I just don’t believe you listen to disco.”

  “Oh, cher,” he said. “Cajuns love three things. We love to eat, we love to laugh, and we love to dance.”

  “I know you love to dance,” she said. “I danced with you at the Cajun festival.”

  “We danced indeed,” he said. “But there was a time, way back when, that I stayed at the clubs all night, so that I could dance to disco. Terrible music, really, but so much fun to dance to.”

  “I don’t believe you,” she said teasingly.

  He grinned at her. “Cajuns also love a dare.”

  He got up and walked over to a mahogany bookcase. There was an expensive and complicated-looking stereo system on the top shelf, and he opened a small case next to it and started fingering through a row of CDs.

  “Let’s see here,” he said to himself. “Ah. This will do nicely.”

  He opened the case, slid the CD into the player, then turned and smiled as he walked back toward her. “I’ll expect an apology.”

  He held out a hand as the music began. Maggie recognized the melody, but couldn’t place the song. “What is that?” she asked.

  “‘I Love the Nightlife’ by Alicia Bridges,’” he said. He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go.”

  Maggie smiled and stood up. “I don’t know anything about disco,” she said.

  “Can you samba?” he asked, as he led her to the middle of the room.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we’re good,” he said.

  Maggie had been surprised, those months ago, to find that Boudreaux was a fine dancer, but she was surprised yet again. He was too much of a gentleman to out-dance her so badly that she couldn’t keep up, but he was clearly in his element.

  They danced, they twirled, and they laughed, and Maggie found herself forgetting about anything that wasn’t in that room. They ended up dancing to three songs, none of which Maggie knew, and finally collapsed back onto the loveseat. Once they’d stopped laughing and caught their breath, he looked over at her.

  “My apology,” he said.

  “I apologize, Mr. Boudreaux,” she said formally.

  “And we will never speak of this outside this room,” he said. “It’ll weaken my reputation.”

  She smiled at him, then dropped her head onto the back of the loveseat and let out a huge breath. “Disco is rough,” she said.

  “What kind of music do you listen to?” he asked her.

  “Gosh. A lot of different stuff,” she said. “It depends on my mood. I like The Civil Wars a lot.”

  “I listen to a lot of different music, but I’ve never heard of The Civil Wars,” he said.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, then arched her back so she could get her phone out of her pocket. Boudreaux watched her curiously as she flicked through her playlists.

  “What’s your favorite song?” he asked her.

  “Uh….that’s hard,” she said. “But ‘Poison & Wine’ is right up there.”

  “Play it for me,” he said.

  She looked at him. “If I do, will you slow dance with me?”

  “A gentleman would never say no,” he answered quietly.

  Maggie smiled, tried to ignore a sudden, small but noticeable creeping of regret seeping past her buzz. “Okay.”

  She clicked on the song, then turned the volume all the way up as Boudreaux stood and held out his hand.

  H
e walked her back to the middle of the room as the music began, then drew her to him, close to himself, but respectfully so. She put her free hand around his shoulder, let the phone rest against his back as they began to dance.

  They were quiet for a moment as the music played, sweet and haunting. Maggie felt his warmth, smelled his quietly elegant cologne, and realized that she felt the sadness creeping back, but also comfort. She wanted the physical contact. She was a naturally affectionate person, prone to hugging and holding people she cared about. She realized, not really surprised, that she cared deeply for this man. She had known it for some time, known it because of her desire to spend time with him, known it because of her reluctance to stay away, even for Wyatt. But she hadn’t necessarily recognized that it was genuine caring, more so than any fascination.

  She swallowed, as she felt her pleasant numbness slip away.

  “This is lovely,” Boudreaux said, very close to her ear. “The song.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly.

  “Sad, but haunting,” he said after a moment.

  “Yes,” she said again.

  His hand pressed gently against the small of her back, and she rested her good cheek against his shoulder. She felt their evening slipping away, and she thought about leaving without doing what had brought her here. She just wanted this. Safety, comfort, familiarity.

  She blinked a few times as her eyes warmed and moistened, then closed them altogether and let herself rest against him. She listened to his quiet, steady breathing more than she did the song, and was almost surprised when it ended.

  “Thank you,” he said, stepping back a bit as the room went quiet.

  “Thank you,” she said, and had to look away, out through the French doors.

  “Do you mind if we step outside?” he asked her. “I’m ready for a cigarette.”

  She followed him outside, momentarily distracted from herself as she watched him take a pack of cigarettes from a small drawer in a side table.

  “I didn’t know you smoked,” she said.

  “I don’t,” he answered. “I quit almost twenty years ago. But every night, I have just one. Will it bother you?”

  “No.”

  He leaned back against the porch rail, bent his head as he lit the cigarette and gently blew out the first plume. Maggie wondered at the control it took for a smoker to smoke just one cigarette a day, but she wasn’t all that taken aback that Boudreaux could manage it. He was ever in control.