Max tried to put his arm around her again.
“No.” She stopped him with a gesture. “You can’t do that. You can’t be nice to me. Not if you want me to tell the story.” Because she would cry the old tears again.
He took his arm away.
She continued, “My cousin was Kellen.”
“Kellen Rae.”
“Yes. She came to visit. She realized what he was doing to me. She was determined to rescue me.”
Max’s focus never wavered. “Who were you? Tell me.”
“I was—am—Cecilia. I was a coward, afraid to face him. My husband, Gregory Lykke, the only son of a proud and wealthy New England family. Crazy, all of them. Murderous and cruel.” She reminded him, “You met his sister.”
“She deserved that death.”
“Yes.” Kellen nodded. “Gregory suspected I was going to leave him. He tried to kill me and himself. He killed my cousin instead. And himself. I ran.”
“And lived on the streets and eventually saved Annabella, met me and we fell in love.”
“That’s the whole story.”
“And you kept Kellen’s identification papers through your whole ordeal.”
“I had to keep her papers. She was so practical, and those papers proved she had walked on this earth, gone to school, graduated with a degree, been on the verge of life!” She took a long breath. “I didn’t mean for anyone to think I was Kellen. I mean, not forever. At first I was simply trying to get away from the Lykke family, from Gregory’s horrible sister and his weak mother. Then I found you, and I began to feel safe.”
“And I looked at the papers and assumed you were Kellen, and when you found out, you ran. Ettore shot you, and when you recovered consciousness, you used the papers to join the Army.”
“That made me Kellen forever, because lying to the federal government and the US military would result in jail time.”
“Yeah.” He put the truck in first gear and pulled back onto the highway. “Let’s think on that. Then let me check my connections and we’ll see if we can make all this legal.”
She gave a brief spurt of laughter. “Of course. Your connections!”
“One more question—there’s no one else left alive in the Lykke family, right? After Gregory’s sister died, that was it?”
“They’re all dead. A scourge wiped from the earth. They can’t hurt me now.”
40
Kellen hung up the phone after talking to their daughter. “Rae sounds great. Happy and not missing us at all.” She was surprised to feel vaguely hurt about that.
“Rae is a happy, well-adjusted child who has bounced back from every trauma in her young life.” Max sounded comforting, as if he understood her feelings. Spooky, to be so well attuned after so brief an...acquaintance.
Kellen looked across the broad coastal plane to that place on the horizon where the resort rose like a fanciful medieval castle with towers and turrets and colorful waving flags. “There it is.”
The golden stone glowed in the sunlight, and she smiled. She knew from her time as assistant manager that the shoreline swept either way from the resort’s main building: on one side, a long beach with groomed paths making their way down to the sand, on the other, cliffs rising over the Pacific Ocean. Three long wings filled with guest rooms reached out from the central castle structure. The Di Luca family had built here in the fifties, laying out paths for bikes, for walking, for ATVs. On the grounds, guest cottages of various sizes clustered here and there, surrounded by privacy fences.
Now, in August, the resort hummed with people and activities. Buses carried hikers and amateur botanists toward the mountains where they would enjoy guided tours. Whale watching boats left the Yearning Sands dock once a day, weather permitting, and a stream of bicyclists passed their truck going the opposite direction, and all of them had numbers on their shirts.
“Maniacs,” Kellen muttered.
That earned her a startled glance from Max.
“Bikers,” she added for clarification.
Max looked even more confused.
“Never mind,” she said. She was still mentally scarred by those steep downhill runs and narrow, rutted paths with the Cyclomaniacs.
“Where first?” Max asked.
She looked at him.
He laughed; he knew the answer. He headed toward the resort maintenance buildings and her best friends in the world, the people she’d served with in the military, the people she’d hired when she became Yearning Sands’s assistant manager. He parked in front of the three-bay garage, and she was out of the truck before he’d come to a complete stop.
She slammed through the metal door and found herself surrounded by hydraulic lifts, air compressors, welders, tire storage and enough steel tool cabinets to supply Lockheed. She took a deep breath of tire-and grease-scented air and wandered back toward one of the resort’s tour buses, where five legs protruded from beneath the chassis; Temo didn’t have his prosthesis on.
“We’ll be with you in a minute,” he called.
She squatted down and put her hand on his ankle. “I can wait...Cuauhtemo.”
At the sound of her voice and his real name, the three mechanics’ creepers shot out from under the tour bus.
Temo grabbed her first, hugged her hard.
CUAUHTEMO (TEMO) IGLASIAS:
MALE. 5'7", 150 LBS, FIT. HISPANIC-AMERICAN/SECOND GENERATION. BLACK HAIR, BROWN EYES, SPANISH SPEAKER. MILITARY VETERAN. PROSTHETIC LEG. MECHANIC, HANDYMAN. BROTHER TO YOUNGER SISTER, REGINA. LEADER. FRIEND.
He loosened his grip and asked, “Are you healed?” From last winter and her encounter with Mara Philippi, he meant.
“I’m fine.” Except for the stitches in her arm and the bump on her head, but those weren’t worth mentioning to a man who had lost his leg in action.
Birdie Haynes rolled over on her creeper and the two hugged, long and hard. Then she punched Kellen hard in the shoulder. “You scared me to death! You couldn’t even text?”
“Somebody stole my phone.”
“Stole your phone? That’s funny!” Birdie wasn’t laughing. Her brown eyes swam with tears.
The two women fell into each other’s arms again.
“Are they crying?” Max had made it inside, and he was doing the smarmy superior man thing.
“Looks like it.” Carson Lennex stood up off his creeper and wiped his hands on a grease rag, then shook hands with Max.
Birdie and Temo: Kellen had expected to see them in maintenance. But Carson Lennex?
CARSON LENNEX:
MALE, 65, IRISH/HISPANIC ANCESTRY, 6'3", 200 LBS, IRON GRAY HAIR, HAZEL EYES, TANNED, ACTOR, MOVIE STAR, FORMER ACTION-ADVENTURE HERO. LIVES ALONE IN ONE OF THE TOWER SUITES FOR MOST OF THE YEAR. RETIRED. ALOOF.
And one more thing—he was violently in love with Birdie.
“What are you doing under there?” Max asked.
“Every time they drive this old bus up a steep incline, there’s a burning odor. We’re trying to figure out where it’s coming from. It makes the tourists nervous.” Carson managed to make it sound like he knew what he was talking about. Did he? Or was he that good an actor?
“Have you checked the radiator overflow?” Max asked. “If there’s a leak in one spot in one hose onto a hot spot, it could cause the smell.”
“That’s a thought.” Temo lay down on the creeper and disappeared underneath the bus.
Carson followed suit.
“May I?” Max offered his hand to Birdie.
She took it and let him help her stand.
He used her creeper to join the other guys, and the three men started thumping, clinking and consulting.
“I suggested the hose theory myself,” Birdie said between clenched teeth. “No one listened.”
“What do you know? You’re merely the head mechanic.”
Kellen hugged her again. “Anyway, who cares? Let them fix it. Where’s Adrian?”
Adrian was the last of the guys Kellen had hired at Yearning Sands, loudmouthed, obnoxious and a good guy.
“Temo’s sister has started accompanying some of the Olympic tours as an assistant. The tour is winding up, and Adrian’s gone to pick her up.”
Kellen grinned. “He’s a good mother.”
“I’m starting to think so. He’s such a screwup, but he really cares for that kid, and Regina is blossoming here at Yearning Sands.”
“I never saw any of that coming.”
“Me, neither.” Birdie didn’t take a breath. “What are you in trouble about now?”
“Nothing! Why would you think that? Well, a little something.” Kellen headed for the little old slope-shouldered refrigerator. “I’d kill for an iced cappuccino.”
“Get me one, too.” Birdie sank onto a chair beside the battered kitchen table. “What’s up?”
Kellen brought two bottles of cappuccino and seated herself opposite Birdie. “Have you or the guys had any suspicious incidents lately?”
“By suspicious you mean...?”
“Snipers shooting at you?”
“You have snipers shooting at you?”
“Among other things.” Kellen rolled up her sleeve and showed Birdie the healing gunshot wound and the stitches. “Also a few more eccentric attempts on my life.”
“What is it about you, Kellen Adams, that so many people try to kill you?” Birdie sounded as if she was joking, but she wasn’t smiling.
“It’s my charming personality.” Kellen took a long swig of the drink. “It did occur to us—me and Max—to wonder if someone from the war zone had it out for veterans.”
Birdie shook her head. “Since you left, it’s been real quiet around here. The worst thing that happened was when that dumbass texting tourist drove over Russell and into the lobby. He broke Russell’s pelvis and sent him to the hospital.”
“Russell is better?”
“Better. Yes. But not good. Not like he was before. That texting limp prick is wandering around, still texting and killing people.” Birdie had a moment when she realized this wasn’t the subject. “Nothing happening around here to us veterans. It’s been blessedly quiet.”
“Well, hell. I mean—not that I want you all to be in danger—”
“Mighty good of you.”
“—but it would be nice if we could figure out why someone was after me.”
From under the bus, Temo shouted, “I’ve wanted to kill you many a time.”
The two women exchanged glances.
Kellen shouted back, “You’re going to feel pretty stupid when I hide your leg!”
“My prosthesis?”
“No, the leg that’s sticking out from under the bus! Idiot.”
Raucous male laughter echoed across the concrete floor and around the walls.
“Anything else?” Birdie asked.
How did Birdie know? Kellen reached across the table, took her hand. “I wanted to ask...if you would be my bridesmaid?”
41
At 5:30 p.m., Max pulled the truck up under Yearning Sands Resort’s sweeping portico and the doorman, Russell Clark, rushed forward to open Kellen’s door. When he saw her, his smile challenged the sun. “Miss Adams, you’ve come back to us.”
RUSSELL CLARK:
MALE, SOUTH PACIFIC/ASIAN/EUROPEAN ANCESTRY, 47, 5'11", 220 LBS, AUTISTIC. YEARNING SANDS DOORMAN FOR 31 YEARS. LIKES/NEEDS ROUTINE.
Kellen slid out of the truck. “I’m not back forever. But it’s good to see you. Are you recovered from your accident?”
The texting driver had caused an entire redesign of the entry, paid a massive fine—and Russell limped as if every step was painful, yet he beamed at her for her kindness. “I am fine, Miss Adams.”
“Are you going to physical therapy?” Kellen asked.
He bent his head in shame. “I’m supposed to.”
“Russell, I’m disappointed in you. You can’t recover completely without physical therapy and you know Yearning Sands needs you for many more years to come.” She shook a finger at him. “You go to PT or I will speak to Leo and Annie!”
“Yes, Miss Adams. I will do that.” He grinned and looked abashed at the same time.
“Good.” She put her arm around his shoulders and hugged him, then walked into the resort.
Max shook Russell’s hand and she heard him say, “You know you’d never get away with not doing your therapy if Kellen was still the assistant manager.”
“I know. We miss her.” Russell sounded sad.
Kellen stood in the lobby and took one long breath of rarified resort air. Here at Yearning Sands, she had returned from overseas and taken her first nonmilitary job on US soil. In this resort, she had seen stunning beauty and plumbed the depths of black despair, found friends and found treachery, grown strong and almost been killed. Here in this place she had found a family and a home.
Now it was at the end of summer, the high season on the Washington coast, and incoming guests pulled wheeled suitcases and stood in the check-in line. Guests walked into the elevators and out. They stood by the giant exotic floral bouquet in the middle of the lobby and frowned at maps. They sat in the breakfast area enjoying a complimentary glass of Washington wine.
Sheri Jean Haggerty manned the concierge desk; she looked up from a consultation with a guest and smiled at Kellen. Typical of Sheri Jean, the smile looked as if her teeth hurt, but Kellen chose to feel honored.
Three of the staff at the reception desk were new. One Kellen knew, and he gave a broad wave, then returned to helping an incoming guest.
Kellen walked through the breakfast area and toward the long wide sweep of windows that faced west across the Pacific Ocean and north up Highway 1 into Olympic National Park. She put her hand to her heart and sighed.
Max’s arm reached around her waist and pulled her close. “The best view in North America,” he said.
“It’s true. Every day I—” She caught herself.
“You miss it? I know. The winery location is pretty, but tame. This is wild and breathtaking—like you.”
She faced him and put her hand to his cheek.
He leaned in to kiss her.
A man’s voice called, “Max! Kellen! Welcome to Yearning Sands. What a fabulous surprise.”
Max winked at Kellen, released her and stepped forward to embrace his uncle, then shake his hand.
NAPOLEONE (LEO) DI LUCA:
MALE, ELDERLY, 5'10", 190 LBS, A LITTLE MORE STOOPED THAN THE LAST TIME SHE HAD SEEN HIM. SHOULDER-LENGTH GRAY HAIR, GANDALF EYEBROWS. RESORT OWNER. AMERICAN-ITALIAN WHOM MAX STRONGLY RESEMBLED. GOOD MAN/GOOD EMPLOYER/GOOD HUSBAND TO ANNIE.
“Kellen!” Leo embraced her, looked into her face, embraced her again. “You’ve come back to us.”
“Just for a day.”
“We were delighted when Max texted to let us know you were coming.”
Kellen looked sideways at Max. He must have done that while she was asleep.
Leo continued, “We have the room we save for honored guests. Up in the tower. Kellen, you know the one. I suppose you want to get cleaned up and change, then Annie and I would love you to be our guests for dinner in our suite. She’s having her lie-down now, but she is champing at the bit to see you. Where are your bags?”
“We might need to do a little shopping at the boutique,” Kellen told him. “We’re back from the mountains and looking a little rustic.”
Leo chuckled. “It’s Washington state, dear. No one minds rustic.”
“Cleanliness is an issue, too, Uncle,” Max said.
“Ha! Yes! Go find something comfortable to wear and—” he looked searchingly at Kellen “—can you be ready in two hours?”
“I’m hungry. I can be
ready faster than that.” She had never meant anything so much in her life.
“Excellent. Sheriff Kwinault is on her way with Dr. Frownfelter. We’ll have appetizers waiting for you. Annie and I cannot wait to hear this whole tantalizing story.”
42
Max and Kellen hurried through their showers and dressed in their new casual resort wear that made them look, so Max said, like tennis-wear ads from the 1980s. He struck a pose with an invisible racket.
Kellen shoved at him, draped her sweater around her neck and told him to hurry and shave before the appetizers were all gone.
He chased her toward the window and scraped his stubbled chin across her cheek and went in to shave.
Seconds later, he was back, and she started to chide him for not shaving...then he leaned down and slid his face across hers. “Better?”
“Smooth as a baby’s bottom,” she assured him.
So he had shaved. But he couldn’t have done it in the amount of time she thought he’d been gone.
Where had she been? Caught by the gray? Unconscious on her feet?
She mustn’t let Max know. He didn’t need to worry more than he was. Not about something he could do nothing about.
He offered his arm. “Still hungry?”
“Of course!” She wasn’t. Not now.
“Are you sure? You look a little pale.”
“Show me the crab cakes.” She smiled at him and took his arm.
He led the way, but she knew he was back to feeling solicitous.
They arrived at Leo and Annie’s suite, a spacious, homey collection of rooms on the third floor not far from Annie’s office. Annie’s thin face lit up, and she held up her arms. “Hug me, darlings!”
ANNIE DI LUCA:
FEMALE, WHITE, ELDERLY, HEIGHT UNDETERMINED. UNDERWEIGHT. CURLY WHITE HAIR, BROWN EYES. WHEELCHAIR USER. RHEUMATOID ARTHRITIS. SEASONED RESORT MANAGER. KIND, INTELLIGENT, FRAIL, DEDICATED TO LEO AND YEARNING SANDS.
Kellen knelt beside Annie and on impulse put her head on Annie’s shoulder.
Annie pressed her hand to Kellen’s cheek and kissed the top of her head. “Is all well?”
What Doesn't Kill Her Page 22
