“No,” Marianna all but shouted. “I promised I’d help with the bracelets, and I’ll be there as planned.” Then she rose up on her toes and kissed her Floridian hottie on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Gil. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay,” he said to her, grinning as if he was half undressing Marianna in the doorway. What the hell?
He turned to Ellen and added, “I hope you’ll enjoy your visit to Sarasota. You have such a wonderful sister but, then, I’m sure you already know that.” He was smiling as he spoke, but Ellen couldn’t mistake the steeliness beneath his tone. It was as if he were actually issuing her a warning: Be nice to Marianna, or else.
Who the fuck was this guy?
“Yep,” Ellen said. “I know. Thank you, Gil, and good night.” Then, because two could play that game, she sent him a steady look that was in no way casual or sweet. It, too, held a warning: If you hurt my sister, I’ll crush your bones.
He nodded slowly. Message received.
Then he disappeared into the night.
Ellen crossed her arms and tapped her toes as Marianna watched Gil leave. Once her sister had closed the door, though, Ellen let out a soft whistle. “No wonder you’ve been so secretive lately. Hoping to get lucky with a hot local?”
Marianna’s polite veneer slipped and her eyes flashed with golden fury. Oooh. Maybe she really had interrupted a rendezvous between her sister and the Stud Muffin. For a moment, Ellen was actually impressed. She didn’t know Marianna had it in her.
“You said you’d explain why you were really here,” Marianna began. “I know it wasn’t actually to spend time with me, or you would have told me you were coming.” She exhaled, like it was taking all of her energy not to implode. “This is, of course, your bungalow, so you’re entitled to come down whenever you want, but why now?”
Ellen debated how much to tell her. Her sister had that deep worry gene that would likely kick in at the slightest mention of the truth. It was probably best to delay sharing the actual reason.
She shrugged. “I had a bunch of vacation days. Figured I’d better use some of them.”
Marianna narrowed her eyes. “Everything going okay at the firm?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—with your colleagues and partners?”
“They’re fine.”
“No... other problems? With clients or anything?”
“Of course not. I rock at my job.”
“Naturally,” Marianna said coolly, resentment spilling off her in waves. “So you were—what? Just bored at home and figured it might be fun to crash a party, but you couldn’t find one in Connecticut, so you thought, ‘Oh, my dumb little sister won’t be doing anything... ’”
Ellen had damn well had enough of this inquisition shit, not to mention her sister’s insecurities. “I told Jared that this was a sucky idea,” she murmured. She snatched her purse, stepped back into her sandals, and reached for the handle of her carry-on bag. “Never mind. I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Ellen, don’t be so dramatic. This is your place. You can’t stay at a hotel. If anyone should leave, it should be me.”
Ellen rolled her eyes. “Who’s the one being dramatic now? We both know you can’t afford to do that. Besides, I promised you this bungalow for the summer, and I’d never go back on my word. Sorry I sprung an unexpected visit on you. I didn’t think you’d get so bent out of shape. I just wanted to, uh... see how you were doing.”
“You mean you wanted to check up on me.”
“And a good thing, too, or you would’ve been humping that hot smoldering guy before the night was out,” she joked. “Did you notice he has kind of an Elvis look?”
Marianna didn’t laugh. She didn’t even crack a smile. She just clenched her fists, the same exact way she used to do when she was a toddler. Ellen half expected her to emit that same angry, low-pitched squeal she remembered from their childhood.
“And so what?” Marianna asked, suddenly erupting. “I wasn’t going to sleep with him tonight, but what if we did at some point? Seriously, Ellen, what business would that have been of yours? Huh? You already have everything. The perfect job. The perfect husband. The perfect house. The perfect life. My life is in shambles and you show up here to... to... do what? To lord your superiority over me again? To judge me for all my mistakes, real and perceived? To prevent me from relaxing, even for a few weeks? And to keep me from getting to know people who aren’t constantly holding my past against me? Dammit. Don’t you ever get tired of proving you’re better than me?”
Ellen set down her purse, kicked her sandals off again, and sat back down on the sofa. She exhaled and inhaled half a dozen times before replying, surprised by how much those accusations hurt. “How long have you been keeping that tirade inside you, Sis?” she whispered. “Ten years? Twenty? All your life?”
Tears clung to Marianna’s eyelashes, and Ellen could see her trembling. Sure, she’d known her sister’s list of grievances against her was long, but it was the intensity of her anger that took Ellen by surprise. Marianna wasn’t mildly pissed off at her, in that usual sibling way. Tonight, she was livid with rage.
In answer to Ellen’s question, her sister just shrugged and turned away. “Sorry I snapped,” she said, bolting toward the hallway. “I’ll go make up the second bedroom for you... or for me, if you’d rather sleep in the master.” Marianna took several more steps in the direction of the bedrooms.
“Please stop.”
Her sister stopped and turned to face her, but very slowly.
Ellen took another deep breath. “I didn’t come here to judge you or check up on you or in any way make your life miserable, okay? I came because—” She paused. “I was kinda banished here.”
Her sister’s eyes widened in alarm. “Are things with Jared—”
“Oh, yeah... no. It’s not him. Jared and I are fine. What I mean is that I’m having these, um, odd health issues. And my doctor, my husband, and my partners in the firm all thought I needed to ‘relax’ somewhere.” She grimaced. “So, actually, my perfect life isn’t so perfect at the moment.”
Marianna finally dropped her sullen stare and looked genuinely concerned. “What kind of health issues?”
Much as she didn’t want to go into details, Ellen told her briefly about the panic attacks and a few of the symptoms she’d been experiencing whenever she’d have an episode.
“Problem is, I still don’t know the triggers,” Ellen admitted. “Maybe it’s work. Maybe it’s my lifestyle. Maybe it’s me. But it’s been confusing as hell. Only thing I know for sure is that I have some sort of problem. Dammed if I know why, though.”
“I can see how that would be frightening for you,” Marianna whispered. “You should stay here at the bungalow. Okay?”
Ellen nodded. “Just until I get my shit straightened out. But it shouldn’t take more than a few days or a week at most, right?”
Her sister eyed her doubtfully.
“Well, anyway, we can coexist peacefully for that long, can’t we, Sis?”
Marianna didn’t look any less doubtful, but she finally cracked a tiny smile. “To tell you the truth, Ellen, I have no idea... but I hope so.”
~*~
I shouldn’t have been so stunned that my sister barged into the bungalow unannounced and invaded all of Siesta Key with her big personality. That was just Ellen’s way.
What surprised me, though, was that—after my outburst the night of her arrival—she gave me a lot more space than usual. I had a work schedule set up with Joy and the gang, and once I’d basically explained to her about the B.E.A.D.S. project, she seemed to accept that I had a role to play somewhere other than Bungalow #26.
And for her part? Well, Ellen was a natural and instinctive leader. She could create order out of chaos simply by standing in a doorway and looking irritated and imposing. Everyone in the room would straighten up and fall into line, like the Von Trapp family children from The Sound of Mu
sic whenever their stern father, the Captain, walked in.
I wasn’t entirely sure what Ellen did while I was at The Beaded Periwinkle making jewelry, but I knew she’d quickly become recognized by the other Siesta Sunset visitors. She inhabited the shuffleboard deck by the outdoor pool and lounge as if she’d built that area herself. I heard from Mr. Niihau that she’d reconnected with a handful of year-round residents who owned their own bungalows in the complex. And I watched her return from vigorous walks along the beach, no doubt frightening any wayward toddlers into submission with her commanding gaze. That formidable presence was my sister’s superpower.
She wasn’t one to “relax” on cue, though. I caught her sneaking in calls and texts to work a few times, and then telling her concerned husband white lies about how she was “totally taking it easy.”
But, thankfully, between Ellen’s domain in and around the bungalow and my long daily hours in St. Armand’s Circle with my new friends, my sister and I managed to establish a very hands-off, separate-but-equal routine. We chatted for a half hour every morning over breakfast cereal and, again, in the heart of the evening, after I’d return and collapse onto the sofa next to her, we’d talk for another hour or so, as she flipped through whatever reality TV shows were airing on the networks. We were very much like the proverbial ships that passed each other in the night. And I, for one, preferred it that way.
Gil, too, seemed to sense that I needed a bit of space, although much less in his case. Still, he waited a full week before he officially asked me out again.
We were taking a pizza lunch break from the bracelet making the following Saturday when Gil meandered into his sister’s shop and began chitchatting with all of us. He and I had gotten to have several private conversations since Sunday night’s beach drumming, but they were relatively short. I knew I wanted to spend a lot more time with him and couldn’t keep myself from watching him whenever we were in a room together. I caught him staring at me more than once, too. And smiling.
Today, I detected a purpose in the way he was directing the conversation in the shop. Trying to get at the details of everyone’s evening plans.
Lorelei had a family dinner with her husband and two sons—a birthday celebration for one of her boys.
Joy was getting in a delivery of more beads and having a meeting with Peter Barrett about the upcoming Art Gala.
Abby had been invited to be Joy’s sidekick for this meeting with Peter, but she could only stay for the first hour or so.
“I have a seven thirty date with Lee, the head chef at the Imperial Mandarin,” Abby said.
Gil raised his eyebrows at that.
“Don’t judge,” Abby told him. “You should see what that guy can do with a pair of chopsticks.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know,” Gil said with a laugh. “But I thought you were dating Nick’s friend, Josh. What happened?”
Abby shrugged. “Josh is a regular customer at The Golden Gecko,” she explained to me. “And Nick promised he’d kick Josh’s ass if he didn’t act like a gentleman. Let’s just say, I expect Josh to have a few new bruises this week.”
“Ooh, boy. Sorry to hear that,” Gil said, his jaw tensing. “He didn’t try to push you into—”
“No, no,” Abby assured him. “He was just a little too grabby. I could’ve taken him.”
“Well, if you’re looking for truly gentle soul, just say the word and I’ll set you up with Carter.” He thumbed in the direction of Castaways next door. “You just need to be open to the idea of a younger man... ”
Abby blushed. “Younger by a year or two, maybe, Gil. But I must be seven or eight years older than sweet Carter. I think of him too much like a little brother.”
“It would crush his tender heart if he knew that,” Gil teased. “But if you ever change your mind, let me know.” Then he turned to me. “Plans with your sister tonight, Marianna?”
I shook my head. Joy, Lorelei, and Abby all knew that Ellen had come to town, but I didn’t dwell on how unenthusiastic I was about being alone with her for any long stretches of time. Gil, however, had seen Ellen and me together. I knew he’d immediately recognized the tension between us.
“There are a few nice beaches nearby that you might want to see,” he suggested. “Both Sanibel Island and Venice Beach are really pretty and worth a peek, if you haven’t been there yet.”
I admitted I hadn’t been to either.
“Well, clearly, all this work you’ve been doing at the hands of my slave-driver sister has cut into your Florida sightseeing time. Let me know later if you’d like to trek out to one or both soon. I can drive you.”
“Hey!” Joy said, lightly slugging her brother. “Don’t talk smack about me, mister.” But then she turned to me and I couldn’t miss the speculative twinkle in her eyes. “Maybe you should let this big know-it-all drive you to a few places in the area. Sarasota is beautiful, but there are a lot of lovely spots along the Gulf.”
The way the Canton siblings were talking made it sound like Gil was simply offering to cart me around to a few nearby towns, the same way he might take a pal grocery shopping or his mother on an errand run. But Lorelei and Abby weren’t buying the act. I couldn’t miss Lorelei’s amused laugh or Abby’s quick wink in my direction.
And, the first opportunity I had to be alone with Gil, I decided not to play coy. I let him know that a visit to any beach he suggested would be fun for me. And that I was free that night.
So when we finally knocked off for the day a few hours later, Gil said, “Leave your car here and let me drive. Sanibel Island is a bit of a hike for tonight, but we should get an early start sometime soon and go there.” He pulled out his phone and Googled a map of the area. “I’ll take you to Venice Beach right now, though,” he said, pointing to the spot just a bit south of us. “It’s only about forty minutes away. We can grab some dinner there or pick up carryout afterwards and, maybe, take it back to my place.”
I was insanely tempted to say, “Let’s skip the beach and the food and just go directly to your place... ” But I refrained. Ellen’s comment about me “humping the hot smoldering guy” still rang uncomfortably in my ears. And, besides, Gil and I had lost a bit of romantic momentum after the interruptions of the week. Maybe he wouldn’t be quite as interested in picking up where we’d left off.
Before we left St. Armand’s Circle, Gil took me on a quick spin past nearby Lido Beach, and then we hit the road for Venice.
I’d never been to the famed Italian city or even the popular Southern California one, so this was my first Venetian adventure. Like Lido Beach and Siesta Key, the shores of Venice, Florida were stunning and the water was an almost surrealistic blue.
“I’ll never get over that color,” I told him as we strolled along the shore, barefoot, jumping back and laughing whenever the surf would roll in too close to our feet.
“Have you had a chance to practice those deep breathing techniques lately?”
“With my sister and I sharing a bungalow, anything that invites calm is welcome,” I confessed. “But I probably need more than one lesson to master it.”
Gil snorted. “You and I both need more than one lifetime. Most people would, Marianna. But it’s worth practicing, even for those of us who are nowhere near the mastery level yet.”
So, for a half hour at least, we breathed in and out with the tide, sharing little stories about our siblings in between our dance with the waves. It was so easy to talk with him. Effortless, really. Like we’d known each other for years and not merely weeks.
After this, we stopped by a little seafood shack a few blocks from the coast—a spot Gil apparently knew well—and picked up a bag of fresh scallops and another bag of raw shrimp.
“I’ll cook these up for us with some veggies and butter,” he promised, making the return to his place all the more tantalizing.
Gil’s place, incidentally, was a newly built and well-constructed brick townhouse in the heart of Sarasota. The inside was tastefu
lly furnished—uncluttered, clear lines, nicely appointed wood furniture—but the artwork hanging on the walls gave his home true character.
“I know some of these are your creations,” I said, pointing to a couple of canvases that were marked with Gil’s distinctive color combinations and brushstrokes. The way he painted was as unique as his fingerprints. “But some aren’t.”
He nodded as he moved to the kitchen and began grabbing pans and oils and veggies and spices. My mouth was already watering before he even pulled the scallops and shrimp out of their respective bags.
“I’ve been influenced by many different artists. Salvadore Dali, of course, but also far less famous visionaries.” He paused. “There’s a local cartoonist who’s been working the shopping areas for years, and I just loved the caricature he did of Joy and me.”
My gaze followed his to the framed pencil sketch on the far left kitchen wall.
“And then there’s that Lithuanian mask maker.” He pointed toward a carved wooden mask hanging all the way across the room in his den.
“And this?” I asked, motioning toward a drum-like object we’d passed in the hallway en route to the kitchen.
“That’s a doumbek—a Middle Eastern clay hand drum that I got on a trip to New York about ten years ago.”
“Ever bring it to the beach drumming on Sundays?”
He laughed as he tossed a few handfuls of scallops into a sizzling skillet. “I probably should have, but no. I’ve never been gutsy enough to bring a percussion instrument and actually play it there. Can’t think of what kept me from it, though.”
For me, the answer would have been easy—I was simply too self-conscious. But I hadn’t gotten that impression for Gil. At least not with the confident way he came across in public. It didn’t strike me as plausible that there was anything he wasn’t gutsy enough to do. But I should know better than most how easy it was to put on a mask.
Tonight, though, I felt I needed to somehow project real gutsiness, even if I rarely ever felt that way. Tonight, I wanted to prove—if only to myself—that I was no longer that wimpy divorced woman who’d arrived in Florida so wearily just a few weeks ago.
Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) Page 15
