Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two

by Stephanie Taylor

  “I always figured he had a real first name.”

  “Oh, yes—he does. And a different last name.”

  “What?” The room spins and Holly grabs the edge of the table to steady herself. There have been so many—too many—surprises in the past six months, and finding out that Cap isn’t really who she’s always thought he was might be the thing that pushes her over the edge. “Who is he?” She needs to hear this.

  “His name is Caspar Braun. He is also German, but he will not want you to know that. There are secrets here, Holly, and you need to handle them carefully,” Heddie warns.

  Holly sits still, digesting this information. “But…Cap…he doesn’t sound German,” she protests, as if this answers any of the questions that are zipping through her brain like jolts of electricity through power lines.

  “He spent many, many years sailing around the world, as he’s told you. He speaks several languages,” Heddie says. There is a note of protectiveness in her voice that surprises Holly. She’s not sure if it’s borne of national pride, or from a decades old romance that, perhaps, never really ended. “By the time he landed on this island, there was virtually no trace of the man he’d been before.”

  “How did he end up here? How did you?” Holly sputters. She is thrashing around, searching for meaning. From the corner of her eye, she sees Carrie-Anne come from the back room, tying her own holiday-themed apron in a bow behind her back. Carrie-Anne and Ellen talk quietly behind the front counter, discussing the day ahead in muted tones.

  “How did any of us? And why?” Heddie asks gently, her thin eyebrows arched. “I fell in love with the wrong man once and came here for escape, then fell in love with the wrong man again. This must be my lot in life,” she says, reaching a thin hand across the table and wrapping it around Holly’s. Heddie’s hand is cool, her crepey skin soft to the touch.

  Holly nods, trying to understand.

  “Please use this information wisely. It has the potential to hurt people.” Heddie looks into her eyes, begging silently for agreement.

  “I promise,” Holly says, wrapping her own hand around Heddie’s. She squeezes reassuringly, not tearing her gaze away. “I promise.”

  “I take it there’s more,” Holly says that afternoon, slinging her bag onto a stool at the slab of wood that serves as a counter at Jack Frosty’s. Buckhunter has two long pieces of sanded wood rigged up on the side of the bar that looks out onto Main Street, and when patrons feel like people-watching, they choose a stool facing the busy street so they can greet their neighbors as they snack or have a drink.

  Fiona is already sitting on a stool, a glass of chardonnay catching sparks of light from the late afternoon sun. Next to her wineglass is a pair of big, black sunglasses and a notepad. She’s wearing a black sweater and a pair of dark jeans.

  Holly looks her up and down. “Are you dressed like Jackie O., or a Bond Girl?”

  Fiona glances at her own outfit. “I was going more for La Femme Nikita,” she says, frowning. “Serious sleuthing calls for serious fashion.”

  “That’s a lot of black for the tropics, but you do look fabulous,” Holly admits, signaling Buckhunter. “Are we drinking?”

  “Is Rudolph a red-nosed reindeer?”

  “Oooh, fashionable and on-theme. I’m impressed.” Holly points at Fiona’s wine glass and holds up her index finger so that Buckhunter will know she wants the same thing. “So whatcha got?”

  “Well, a couple of things.” Fiona grins wickedly. “But I feel like an order of onion rings would really help to jog my memory when it comes to the details.”

  “Isn’t that what the notepad is for?” Holly gestures at the pad of paper.

  “But the doodles don’t make any sense when I start to get weak from low blood sugar,” Fiona argues, fanning herself with a plastic-covered menu.

  “I told you that’s too much black. You’re going to have a heatstroke,” Holly says, picking up another menu and waving it at Fiona like a fan.

  “It’s December. And all I wore in Chicago was black. I can handle this.”

  “Suit yourself, doc.” Holly shrugs and turns to look for Buckhunter. “Hey, barkeep—can we get an order of onion rings, two ice waters, and the fan turned on overhead, please?”

  “Coming right up,” Buckhunter says. Holly watches her uncle cut through the tables in the open-air bar, grabbing empty glasses and shouting out greetings to the handful of people who’re sitting around at the low tables.

  “Food is forthcoming. Now dish.”

  “So, I heard back from my Hollywood source, and apparently Other Guy—”

  “As in the other guy who isn’t Jake, Bridget, Chuck Cortwell, or Violetta the hipster?”

  “The one who looks like he should be modeling boxers in a Sears catalog, and yet kind of like he might be mowing the lawn next door? Yeah, him.” Fiona flips open her notepad and scans the notes she’s written on the page. “Adam Hobson. Born in Maryland, moved to L.A. after dropping out of community college. Lifts weights at a Crossfit in Burbank, and met a producer at the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf by his gym. Producer told him to audition for this reality show, and boom—here he is. Twenty-eight, single, possibly straight, possibly not. Who knows.”

  Holly smiles at Buckhunter as he sets a glass of wine in front of her along with the ice waters. The breeze picks up outside and blows through the open-air bar, lifting the ends of Holly’s hair as she takes her first sip. “How did you find out all of this about Adam…Hopkins?”

  “Hobson. And I told you, my Hollywood connection came through. He even sent me a clip of Adam’s Wild Tropics audition.”

  “You’re amazing,” Holly says, setting the base of her wine glass down on the wooden counter with a clink. Fiona’s resourcefulness is impressive. “So now that leaves us with Bridget, and we’ve got nothing on her?”

  “Nothing yet, which is strange, but my guy is working on it. I’ll get to the bottom of this—don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, Fee, I’m just perplexed at how quickly life can go from ‘Eh, everything is fine, no big deal,’ to ‘WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON AROUND HERE?!’—it’s kind of unnerving.”

  “You mean because of Jake?” Fiona reaches for the basket of onion rings as Buckhunter hands them over.

  “Yeah. And Cap trying to oust me from office, and my mother wanting us to buy her out, and, well, all of it. I swear I had things under control and then one day I just…didn’t.”

  “You do have things under control. Don’t kid yourself. Who else whips the entire island into a frenzy trying to save Jake from himself?”

  “But it’s my fault he’s—”

  “Your fault he’s what? Getting romanced by a supermodel? Going to be on national television? Come on, Hol,” Fiona says sternly. “Pull yourself out of the equation here. It’s not your job to save Jake or the world.”

  “Just the island,” Holly says, and she knows this is the truth: saving Jake from possible humiliation and disappointment is really her way of saving the island. Of course she cares about him and his feelings—there’s no question about that. But she suddenly can’t think of a time when she made choices or took action without the best interest of Christmas Key at the center of it all.

  No matter what’s at stake, it always comes back to the island.

  It’s quiet inside of Holly’s house. She’s lying in her darkened living room, feet up on the armrest of her couch with Pucci sitting on the floor next to her. Her hand dangles off the edge and rests on the dog’s furry back, her fingers tracing mindless circles as she pets him and stares at the television. It’s late—almost midnight—and she’s wearing sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt, a crocheted blanket that her grandma made for her pulled up over her body. The things Heddie told her at the coffee shop have been flipping and diving through her brain all day, but she hasn’t shared the information about Cap with anyone, not even with Fiona at Jack Frosty’s that evening. Heddie’s warning to tread lightly is something she takes seriousl
y, and she’ll weigh whatever she finds carefully before deciding what to do with it.

  For the seventh time already since Thanksgiving, Chevy Chase is on her television stapling the cuff of his shirtsleeve to the gutter on the second story of his suburban house. Holly unwraps a Hershey’s Kiss and pops it into her mouth, tossing the foil wrapper in the general direction of her coffee table. As Clark Griswold, Chevy fumbles on his ladder, falling backwards against a tree, then pushing his body upright again so he can finish hanging the Christmas lights. She’s seen National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation more times than she cares to think about, but this year—as she watches Clark Griswold, the eternal optimist—she empathizes with him rather than just laughing at his hijinks. No matter how kooky his desire for an old-fashioned family Christmas seems, and no matter what lengths he has to go to in order to make holiday magic happen for his family, Clark Griswold plasters a smile on his face over and over. Every time something brings him down he pops back up again, ready to face the world.

  Holly uses her free hand to dig into the bowl that’s wedged between her hip and the couch cushions. She fishes out a fistful of popcorn and shoves it into her mouth, still petting Pucci with her dangling hand. Holly snorts as the Griswolds’ yuppie neighbors doubt him at every turn. She watches as the people Clark invites into his home bungle his plans and try to talk him out of his vision, their own agendas disrupting the flow of Clark’s plan for a perfect Christmas.

  When the popcorn bowl is empty, Holly sets it on the coffee table with a thud and rolls onto her side, tucking a throw pillow under her ear.

  She watches with amusement, laughing at Cousin Eddie and the slapstick jokes as she does every year. But when Clark’s boss is delivered to his house wrapped in a bow Holly sits up, her blanket slipping to the floor. “This is it, Pooch. This is it exactly,” she says out loud to the dog. Pucci looks up at her with big brown eyes, the crocheted blanket covering his hind legs and tail. “Even though Clark Griswold feels like everyone is working against him,” she explains, holding out one hand at the television, “he keeps doing it anyway. And do you know why?” She looks down at her dog. Pucci puts his head on the rug under the coffee table, ears still perked up. “Because it brings him joy, and he knows that once everything comes together, it’ll make everyone else happy, too.”

  Holly stands up and walks over to the kitchen counter where her phone is plugged in. She unhooks it from the charger and pulls up River’s number. It’s only about nine-thirty on the west coast, and she listens to the ringing as she waits for him to pick up. When he finally does, she blurts out, “I’m Clark Griswold. I’m him. He’s me—I mean, we’re kindred spirits.” She digs the remote out of the couch cushions and clicks the television off. The light from the kitchen filters into the room, and the smell of the frozen pizza she baked in the oven for dinner lingers with the scent of microwave popcorn layered over the top.

  “He’s probably a little hairier than you are, but I’m listening.” River sounds amused on the other end of the line.

  Holly paces around her living room, the glow of her phone screen lighting up her face. The corner where she puts her Christmas tree every year is still empty, and she makes a mental note to dig out her decorations and start on the house. “I’m watching Christmas Vacation—”

  “As one does at this time of year.”

  “—And I realized this time that I wasn’t laughing at Clark Griswold because I actually feel for him. He’s busting his hump trying to hang lights and make the perfect turkey—”

  “Speaking of turkeys…”

  “—Yeah, they’re still alive. Stop interrupting,” Holly says. “Now, listen. Sometimes people are against him, and sometimes he’s his own worst enemy, but he always keeps his eyes on the prize.”

  “Okay…right,” River says.

  “And no matter what obstacles get in his way, he plays the long game.”

  “All right, I’m seeing the connections now. I am curious if you’ve been drinking, but I can agree that there is a certain Griswoldness to your laser-sharp focus when you decide to do something.”

  “Thank you,” Holly says. As the words crossed her lips she wondered whether they sounded crazy, so it feels good when River gets her thought process. “And no, I’m not drinking. Hey, can you hurry up and get here already?”

  “Next week, Griswold. But you have to swear you won’t kick the crap out of a plastic lawn Santa in front of everyone, or I’m leaving again.”

  “No promises.” Holly smiles to herself. It’s all going to be fine: River will be there soon, and she’ll figure out whatever it is that Heddie wants her to know about Cap. Somehow a plan for what to do with the wrap party that they’ve invited Jake’s family to will materialize, and Fiona will dig up some information on Bridget.

  And before she knows it, just like Clark Griswold, she’ll figure out how to turn a hostage situation into a party.

  Chapter 21

  The old denture equipment has been removed from the space where Scissors & Ribbons is going in, and—thanks to Jimmy Cafferkey and his ladder—a week after the ladies met to sip champagne and celebrate the salon space, the windows are sparkling and clear. Eighteen people are gathered in the empty shop, its tile floors swept clean and mopped, the harsh florescent lights changed out for softer bulbs. Millie Bradford has a red bandana wrapped around her short hair, and she’s wearing a yellow t-shirt and a pair of overalls flecked with dried paint.

  “I chose this Tiffany blue color for the walls,” she explains, one palm resting on the front counter that she’s already sanded and repainted a shiny black. “And my shampoo chairs are black with stainless steel bowls. Black isn’t very beachy, but I want it to be functional.”

  Everyone is gathered around, dressed in their own painting clothes, and ready to pitch in when Millie gives them the go-ahead. Cap has joined the group with his hair pulled back in a rubber band, and he’s wearing one of his campaign shirts with the words “If you want it done in a snap, you’d better vote for Cap!” plastered across the back. On the front is a cartoon drawing of a profile that looks like Cap himself with a bird that’s the spitting image of Marco sitting on the man’s shoulder. It’s utterly ridiculous, and Holly turns to Bonnie to give her an exaggerated eye roll.

  “I thought Cap was the man who had no plan,” Bonnie hisses to her. “What could he possibly be getting done in a snap?” They shake their heads and turn their attention back to Millie.

  “I’d like to go all white in the bathroom,” Millie says, pointing at the door to the public restroom at one end of the salon. “And I’ve already done all of the taping off of windows and trim. If anyone’s not comfortable painting, there are lots of other things I’d love help with, so just let me know.” Millie presses her hands together in front of her chest as if in prayer. “I really appreciate all of you, and your help and support. It means a lot to me and Ray to be a part of this community, and I’m really happy to be able to offer something to Christmas Key by opening this salon.” Millie’s cheeks are flushed with excitement.

  “Here, here, Millie!” Joe Sacamano shouts, holding up a paintbrush for emphasis. “Let’s get this job done!”

  “Okay,” Millie says, clapping her hands together. “Let’s do this.”

  The islanders spread out, finding open cans of paint on the tarps that Millie and Ray have spread on the floor. Ray turns on the stereo and a calypso song with steel drums bursts from the speakers. Behind the front counter is a cooler full of soda and water and ice. People choose spots next to the friends and neighbors they want to talk to while they work, and within minutes, everyone is working to turn the beige walls blue. Holly dips her brush into the paint and makes her first swipe. With the window next to her, the strip of paint looks like a color swatch of sky held up next to its real life counterpart. Holly dips her brush into the can again and pulls it up and down the wall smoothly, watching her patch of blue spread across the old paint.

  “Mind if I work here?” Buck
hunter is standing next to Holly holding a can of paint by its wire handle. In his other hand is a well-used paintbrush.

  “Nope. Join me,” she says. “I’m just turning stuff over in my head here, so don’t mind me.”

  “How are things going with Operation Jake?” Buckhunter sets his paint can on the tarp and pries off the lid.

  “Eh. Fiona found out the backstory on all of the contestants except Bridget. There’s really nothing there.”

  “What were you hoping to find?” he asks mildly, mixing his can of paint with a long stir stick.

  “I don’t know. Something, I guess. Maybe some dirt we could use on them somehow.”

  “Sounds pretty vague.” Buckhunter is nothing if not succinct. Always unapologetically a man of few words, he’s prone to making declarations and then sitting back to see what happens next.

  “So what would you suggest?” Holly looks around. Bonnie and Wyatt Bender are painting next to one another on the other side of the room, and Cap is on his knees near the front door, dragging his own angled brush across the top of the trim that runs along the floor. Clearly they’ve suspended their campaigning while they paint (save for Cap’s t-shirt), and Wyatt is using his free time to chat Bonnie up. Holly turns her attention back to Buckhunter.

  “I’m not sure. But I do think you’d be better served by bringing Jake back to his senses than you’d be by trying to cut someone off at the knees.”

  Holly stops painting and stares out the window. The swags of faux greenery dotted with ornaments that stretch from one sidewalk over to the other all up and down Main Street are moving slightly in the gentle December breeze. “Hmm.” She frowns, considering this. “So you mean we need to remind him he’s not a television star and that this isn’t Hollywood?”