Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  Bonnie clucks sympathetically, touching her Lucille Ball curls to make sure they’re still in place. “Damn. That Cap Duncan sure caught us with our pants down, didn’t he?” She shakes her head, resignation written all over her smooth, carefully made-up face. “Okay,” she sighs. “I’ll just go about my business like things ain’t all catawampus around here. If anyone can challenge your position, then I guess anyone can. But it doesn’t mean they’ll win.” Bonnie is getting warmed up, the resignation replaced by determination. “I just don’t see how someone who sits around here like a bump on a pickle all the livelong day thinks he’s got a chance in he—”

  “Bon,” Holly grabs both of her friend’s hands and gives them a tug like she’s shaking out a bed sheet. “Focus. Breathe. One thing at a time.”

  Bonnie looks into Holly’s eyes for a beat and takes a deep breath. “Got it. Go take care of business. I’ve got this handled, honey.”

  Wayne Coates and Leanna Poudry are waving at Holly from the entrance to the bar. The five young crew members who arrived with them are checking out the scene from behind Wayne and Leanna, hands in their pockets as they take in the older crowd.

  “Hey, welcome to the Ho Ho!” Holly says with a grin. Like Bonnie, she’s already decided to act like nothing out of the ordinary is happening on the island. “We’ve got Jimmy Buffet manning the bar over there,” she says, pointing at Joe Sacamano in his Hawaiian shirt. “And Lucille Ball on the dance floor next to Thing One and Thing Two,” she adds, nodding first at Bonnie, then at Emily Cafferkey and her dad, Jimmy, in their matching Cat in the Hat t-shirts.

  “We came as ourselves…I hope that’s not too much of a disappointment,” Wayne says, his eyes skimming the islanders’ rudimentary costumes.

  “Of course! I mean, we’re not really dressed to the nines ourselves. The pickings are pretty slim around here for costumes—but we like to have fun.”

  “Yet another reason why we chose Christmas Key, Mayor.” Wayne claps her on the shoulder, a look of wry amusement on his unshaven face. “Now, I was told there’d be pumpkin rum. Can you point us in that direction?”

  Holly walks the crew over to Joe, where he lines up seven shot glasses on the bar and starts regaling their guests with the details of how he made this particular batch of rum. This distracts their guests long enough for Holly to slip away.

  Frank Sinatra is singing ‘Witchcraft’ over the speakers, and Millie Bradford sashays around her husband, Ray, on the dance floor, a tall, sweaty Screwdriver clutched in her right hand. Ray and Millie are known around the island for their enviable, decades-long love affair, and it’s easy to see when they look at one another that they are still each other’s biggest fans.

  “Hi, Millie,” Holly says, turning sideways as she passes them to avoid bumping into the dancing pair.

  “Hi, sweets,” Millie says, puckering her lips and blowing a kiss. She’s wearing a handmade lei that’s heavy with tropical flowers, and a long, sleeveless shift dress. It looks like she’s dressed for a luau.

  Ray raises a meaty hand in Holly’s direction. “Hello there, Mayor Baxter!” he calls to her, eyes twinkling.

  She blows a kiss back and leaves them to their dancing.

  “…he has the right to challenge her, but the man really doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” Bonnie is saying to Wyatt Bender. Wyatt, who spent his career sizing up opponents and opportunities in the oil field, is now sizing up Bonnie as a potential opportunity on Christmas Key. His eyes graze her ample bust as she talks.

  “For all we know, the man might have a head for business. We haven’t heard a word from him yet about his intentions,” Wyatt drawls, his Texas roots oozing from every pore.

  “Like hell we haven’t!” Bonnie says, her face flaming with indignation. “The man’s intentions are to find a drink and run his damn mouth!” In all the years Wyatt Bender has been spending his winters on the island, Bonnie’s taken the bait from him every time he throws it out.

  Holly is usually entertained by their exchanges and by seeing the unflappable Bonnie get flustered by a man, but this time it’s about her, and she’s less than tickled. “If you’ll pardon my interruption,” Holly says delicately, stepping into their conversation. “Mr. Duncan has clearly stated his intentions on his hand-painted sign: he says he has no plans, and I believe he means it. If Cap had his way, we’d all sit around smoking cigars—”

  “And knocking back the scotch,” Jimmy Cafferkey adds, nudging Wyatt with his elbow as he joins the small group. He clutches his chest, still out of breath from his turn on the dance floor with his daughter.

  “—and we’d let the jungle reclaim the island. He’s made it clear that he isn’t a huge fan of my expansion plans,” Holly continues. “And if we don’t figure out a way to corral him, he’s going to make us look like idiots on national television.” Holly gives a discreet nod in the direction of the Wild Tropics crew.

  “Of course, the television production,” Wyatt Bender says, dragging out the syllables of the words ‘television production’ until it feels like he’s trying to turn them into the Preamble to the Declaration of Independence.

  “The crew—well, the first part of it, anyway—arrived today,” Holly says, smiling at Wayne Coates as he holds up a shot glass in her direction from across the bar. “They’re all checked-in to the B&B, and tonight is their first night mingling with the islanders.”

  “This TV show is a real doozy, young lady. Mighty impressive the way you’re taking the bull by the horns and getting us some major exposure.” Wyatt nods at her. He’s not much taller than Holly, but he’s lean and muscled under his crisp Western shirt and Wranglers. His only concession to the overly-warm evening has been to leave his cowboy hat at home, and without it, he looks like a slightly older, more weathered version of the original Marlboro Man.

  “I’d like to take credit for it, Wyatt, but it was actually Fiona who tipped me off about the network looking for a location to do the show.”

  “Well, I’ll be monkey’s uncle if the smartest and prettiest women aren’t living right here on Christmas Key,” Wyatt says, shaking his head over the mug of beer he’s about to put to his lips.

  Holly glances over at Bonnie; she’s watching Wyatt’s mouth hungrily as he speaks. ‘Witchcraft’ is still playing in the background, and the timbre and tone of the music rise and fall in time with Bonnie’s quickened breaths.

  “Speak of the devil,” Holly says. “Fiona and Buckhunter just got here. Excuse me.” She waves at Fiona and leaves Bonnie to her flirtatious, never-ending game of tug-of-war with Wyatt Bender.

  “What in the world is going on around here?” Fiona shouts.

  “This is ludicrous.” Buckhunter's voice is gruff as he looks around the bar. It’s obvious he’s looking for Cap Duncan so that he can have a word with him in private.

  “It’s okay, guys. He has every right to run against me and to call for an election. But I wish he hadn’t done it while we have guests on the island.”

  The opening notes of ‘Thriller’—with its creaky coffin door and ominous footsteps—fills the bar.

  “I’ll catch him when he’s sober and we’ll hash this out,” Buckhunter says over the music.

  “Shhh, it’s ‘Thriller’—we need to dance!” Fiona grabs Holly’s hand and pulls her onto the nearly empty dance floor. Holly follows helplessly, her pigtails swaying in the slight breeze that’s coming in off the water beyond the open-air bar.

  “Are you two seriously going to moonwalk right now?” Buckhunter calls to them.

  “There’s no moonwalking in ‘Thriller’!” Fiona yells back, getting into position.

  Before Holly can protest, Fiona has her following along and doing the stiff-legged zombie dance from the music video. At first, Holly moves half-heartedly, watching from the corner of her eye to see if the television crew is laughing and pointing. But they aren’t, and before she knows it, the music and Fiona’s unabashed joy win her over. Without even a glance in Wayne and Leann
a’s direction, Holly throws her curled, clawed hands in the air to the beat of the song, baring her teeth like fangs at her best friend and then laughing hysterically.

  Holly is about to beg off while Fiona finishes out the song, but as she’s pulling away, Wayne, Leanna, the other crew members, Jake, and Buckhunter join them on the dance floor. Holly is stunned as they all fall into a loose formation and start moving to the music. It takes a few tries for everyone to get in sync, but (fueled by several shots of pumpkin rum and driven a little crazy by the heat of the long day) the ‘Thriller’ dance quickly comes back to the group—at least enough that they can do a reasonable impersonation of the zombies in the music video.

  The older islanders have gathered around the edges of the small dance floor to watch them dance, and when the song ends they break into applause and a round of appreciative hoots and hollers.

  “Good dance!” Fiona says, wrapping Holly in a sweaty hug. “I knew you had it in you.”

  “I didn’t,” Buckhunter says, throwing an arm around his niece’s neck. “She’s kind of young to remember ‘Thriller,’ isn’t she? Maybe even too young to remember when MTV actually played music videos.”

  “That’s what YouTube is for,” Holly shoots back. She bumps Buckhunter with her hip and he lets her go.

  “You damn kids,” Buckhunter growls, teasing her. He’s only a year older than Holly’s mother, but sometimes the seventeen years between Holly and her uncle feel more like forty.

  “Speaking of the younger set,” Wayne Coates says, rubbing his hands together as he approaches, “I was hoping I could talk to you for a second, Holly. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Holly pulls her Dolphins jersey away from her body and blows air from her lower lip up to her forehead to dry the sheen of perspiration. “Of course. I’m all ears.”

  Buckhunter grabs Fiona and pulls her in for a slow dance as Holly follows Wayne to the bar.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s about the show.” Wayne slides onto a bar stool and taps the counter with two fingers like a player at a card table. Joe raises an eyebrow in their direction. “Two of whatever you recommend for someone who just sweated away half of his body weight in the past eight hours,” Wayne says, making an exaggerated face like a panting dog.

  “Two gin rickeys coming your way.” Joe tosses a lime into the air with his left hand and catches it behind his back with his right.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Holly jokes, “Tom Cruise in Cocktail: The Golden Years.”

  Joe smirks as he makes their drinks.

  “So,” Wayne turns to face her, his clean, square hands folded on the bar top. “We’ve run into a bit of a snafu, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh?”

  Wayne presses his lips together. “One of our competitors bailed at the last minute.” He tips his head toward Holly’s and puts one hand next to his mouth like he’s letting her in on a big secret. “He got another acting job. Most reality shows are stocked with moderately attractive wannabe actors, you know. So if they get a bigger gig, then they jump ship faster than a passenger on the Titanic.”

  “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, it’s sort of a rite of passage in Hollywood to make the reality show circuit.” Wayne shrugs, like whaddya gonna do? “Anyhow, this kid got a job as a stunt double on the new Bruce Willis movie.”

  “Bruce Willis is still acting?”

  Wayne gives a hearty laugh. “Believe it or not. And now we’re down a competitor for our show. It’d be fairly easy to grab one of our eager-beaver alternates and slide him into that slot, but…Leanna and I had a different thought.”

  Joe lays down two square napkins and places the gin rickeys on them with a flourish. “Bottoms up,” he says with a wink.

  “Okay, I’m listening.” Holly squeezes her wedge of lime into the drink and takes a sip; the carbonation from the club soda tickles her nostrils.

  “We need someone young—someone fit and competitive,” Wayne explains, stirring his cocktail with the spear that Joe’s stuck through his slice of lime. “It’s a very physical competition, and we need someone who can keep up.”

  Holly’s heart starts to race. She has a fleeting vision of herself racing down the beach to be the first competitor to get her hand-hewn raft into the water and prove that it’s seaworthy. Her tanned, toned limbs race across the television screen in her mind, and she flashes on an image of River sitting in front of his TV in Oregon, watching her swallow live minnows in order to win an extra cup of raw oats for dinner. She’s ready to say yes before Wayne even starts talking again.

  “I want you to hear me out,” he says, interrupting her thoughts. “I know you’re the mayor around here, and this show is only happening because of you, so I need to acknowledge how important you’ve been to this production already.”

  Holly picks up her drink and swirls it around in the glass, smiling. One of her light brown ponytails fall over the cheek that’s closest to Wayne while she tries to imagine his next words.

  “I think this show is going to be great simply because we’ve got a killer location and a solid premise, but I think it will be even more appealing if we mix in a local and toss them into the competition. What do you think?”

  From the corner of her eye, Holly sees Jake talking to Fiona and Buckhunter. Jake is a good seven or eight inches taller than Fee, and he’s bending down politely to catch whatever she’s saying. Buckhunter is looking on with a smirk, so Holly knows Fiona must be telling them something entertaining or off-color. She drags her eyes back to Wayne.

  “I think it sounds really interesting,” she says, trying to keep her excitement in check. “It’s a different angle, and you’re definitely getting raw talent here—there are no actors on this island!”

  Wayne slaps the bar for emphasis. “Perfect. We thought so, too. As soon as we saw Jake we knew he’d be an amazing competitor.”

  The hand Holly’s holding her drink in is suspended above the bar, halfway to her mouth. Jake? She couldn’t have heard that right. Did he say Jake?

  Wayne lifts a hand and gives a confident wave to beckon Jake over to the bar. With a nod, Jake finishes what he’s saying to Fiona and heads over.

  “Hey,” Jake says. He signals Joe to let him know he’s ready for a beer. It’s a cocky, self-assured move that tells Holly he’s been waiting for this moment—waiting for her to hear his good news. “What’s up?” Jake asks innocently.

  “I’ve been filling the mayor in on the good news.”

  Jake smiles back-and-forth between Holly and Wayne. “Pretty cool, huh? I’m excited.”

  “Yeah, pretty cool,” Holly says. She’s trying to muster even a tiny drop of enthusiasm. It’s not that she isn’t happy for Jake, but…it’s hard to let go of the image of herself gracing small screens in living rooms all across America.

  “I guess you’ll be able to say that you knew me when, huh?” Jake takes the beer that Joe sets on the bar. “Thanks, Joe.”

  “I guess I will.”

  “I’ll need to work out how to cover my position while we’re filming, but I’m due for some vacation time, so don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m not,” Holly assures him. The fact that the island’s only police officer will be spending the next month or two sleeping in a tent on the beach and trying to spear fish with a pole instead of doing his job hasn’t even crossed her mind. “I’m sure it will work out, even if we don’t get someone to cover for you.”

  “Besides,” Jake says, clinking his beer against Wayne’s gin rickey, “you won’t even notice that I’m not patrolling the mean streets of Christmas Key.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “I hear you’ve got your hands full,” he says, tipping his bottle of beer toward the steps that lead up to the bar. Holly’s eyes follow his motion, and there—shoulder-length, wispy, white hair flowing, thin Hawaiian shirt almost totally unbuttoned—is Cap Duncan. The dark night is like a backdrop behind him, and the twinkling orange lights
around the bar cast a warm, autumnal glow on his smiling face.

  Holly sighs. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Chapter 5

  “I need you here now.” Holly is using her speaker phone as she washes her face in the bathroom sink, hair pulled back with a clip and a headband. She’s attacking the black grease under her eyes from her Miami Dolphins costume with a cotton pad and a bottle of witch hazel while her golden retriever, Pucci, watches from the doorway.

  “Well, it’s nice to be needed so fervently,” River says from three thousand miles away. A fairly constant stream of texts, phone calls, and emails have flown back and forth between them since his first visit to the island three months ago.

  “Things are way more stressful than I thought they’d be,” Holly says, wiping roughly at the skin under her eyes. “Ouch.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, nothing.” She leans into the mirror. “I almost rubbed the skin off of my face—no big deal.”

  “Stop doing that. I like you with skin.”

  “Haha.” She tosses the blackened cotton pad into her wastebasket and digs out a new one from the glass jar on her countertop.

  “What happened to make things so stressful? I thought you were totally prepared for the show to start filming.”

  “I was, but then they got here to set up, and tonight at the bar I found out they lost a contestant.”

  “They lost someone on the boat ride over? Didn’t they have life vests?”

  “No, the guy dropped out—he got another acting gig.”

  “Wait, are you trying to tell me that reality shows aren’t real?” River asks, his voice laced with mock surprise.

  “I guess they want it to be at least partially real, because they asked Jake to fill the guy’s spot.” Holly wipes at her face with a clean washcloth. “Which means we don’t have a cop on the island during filming.”