Pawleys Island Paradise boxset, Books 1 - 3

by Laurie Larsen

  Jeremy went motionless and felt his eyes widening as he stared at Neil.

  “I had a few. And you're one of them. Jeremy, you're one of my best success stories.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “No, no. Thanks for recommending me, Neil, but no, I'm not interested.”

  Neil's forehead creased, his lower lip protruded a little bit. “You don't want to be seminal? You don't want to help influence others to overcome challenges and be successful? I have to tell you, I'm surprised at that, Jeremy.”

  His palms were starting to sweat and his breathing was a little labored. “I'll help however I can. But not to be featured. I don't want to tell my story and I don't want to be made public. You understand. But I'll help organize the other offenders and drive the reporter around. Uh, what else …?” He was grasping at straws now.

  Neil's mammoth face twisted into a pained expression and it about killed Jeremy to know that his refusal had caused it. Everything about the man was big. He had big emotions, big disappointments, big pride and big hope. So far, Jeremy had worked hard to fulfill all the goals Neil had set out for him. But this … he really didn't want to do it.

  “I have to say that's very disappointing, Jeremy. You are a role-model, whether you know it or not. You have a story to tell, and I want you to have the chance to tell it. I can't force you, of course, but my job is to rehab you. To get you out of your comfort zone, to try new things. I know you can help others. And isn't that one of our values? To help the community and make things better? I really thought you bought into all those values. You said you did, back when you first got released.”

  A sinking feeling hit Jeremy's stomach. Neil was using the ole guilt trip on him. Of course he believed in the county's probation values. Of course he'd memorized them and recited them when Neil ordered him to. He was trying his very best every day of his life and he'd never allow himself to fail again. He looked up at the big man before him and realized that he couldn't tell him no. He admired him too much and Neil had been too good to Jeremy to disappoint him.

  “I don't want to talk about my crime. I've tried hard to work through that and …”

  “No, no. The focus is on your transformation, your new story, how you're making yourself a success. Very little about why you were in jail.”

  “I'm not what I'd call a success …”

  “Not yet, but you're working hard, aren't you? And look at it this way, it might generate some interest in your work. You might get some orders out of this. That would be nice, wouldn't it? Call it free advertising.”

  Jeremy took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Well, if you're gonna be stubborn, give me the card back.” Neil held his huge hand out across the desk.

  Jeremy looked down at the card. “I'll do it.”

  The transformation was instantaneous and real. An immense smile jumped onto Neil’s face. He got up and came around, pounding Jeremy on the back in his excitement. Jeremy choked and concentrated on keeping himself from flying across the room.

  “That's the man! Good job. I knew I could count on you. You're going to be very seminal, I just know it. Great.”

  They spent the next ten minutes discussing Jeremy's progress. Then, Neil advised, “I'll include your name on the list to the magazine. The reporter …” he waggled his finger at the card Jeremy was still holding in his hand.

  “Emma Jean Slotky,” Jeremy read.

  “Yes, she'll call you at your cell number. Make sure you pick it up, now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jeremy got to his feet and they shook hands again, their standard good-bye.

  Neil checked Jeremy's folder a last time. “Oh, it's your turn to drug test today. You know the drill.”

  Jeremy nodded and ducked out the door. A few steps down the hall, he heard Neil's call, “Oh uh, Jeremy?” He headed back, stopped in the doorway, eyebrows raised.

  Neil rubbed his own chin and pointed at Jeremy's. “The article includes some pictures. How about you make some time to shave, huh?”

  Jeremy groaned and nodded. As he made his way to the receptionist's desk for his little white cup, he seriously considered accidentally/purposely losing his cell phone.

  * * *

  Emma Jean Slotky gathered her laptop, notebook, pen, purse and 20-ounce water cup and pushed back from her desk. It was time for an assignments meeting. Working for a magazine was her dream job, but she had to admit next time, she needed to dream a little bigger. Like a full-color glossy in a big city that could afford a huge staff, expense accounts and elaborate travel. Working for Seminal Magazine was fun, but it was right here in Myrtle Beach where she was born and raised and counting her, the entire staff was only seven people. Two writers, two editors, the art director, the distribution manager and the secretary. Money was always tight. Budget cuts were a way of life, as were the fear of bankruptcy. But the job made good use of her English degree and her love of writing. It was a kick to see her byline every week. And it was better than working at the Piggly Wiggly.

  Peggy, the associate editor kicked off the meeting, discussing the specifics of the next issue. Emma jotted down a few notes while Peggy covered each article planned. Then, Peggy got to Emma's main assignment for the issue and Emma perked up.

  “Emma, you're going to be the primary writer on the feature piece this issue. The article will run 1000 words, eight photos and span five full pages over the centerfold.”

  Emma smiled. It sounded prestigious and she chuckled at Peggy's attempt to make it seem like a big deal. But the reality of it was, there were two writers on staff and they had a weekly mag to fill. One or the other of them had to take the feature piece every week and Peggy usually split it evenly with Brad. Emma would write the article and take the pictures, then Peggy and her assistant editor would do the layout and proofing. Shortly after, it'd go to print. Then, on to the next issue.

  Peggy went on, “I reached out to the county Adult Probation office. I got three ex-offenders who are turning their lives around and making a successful re-entry to society.”

  Emma looked up from her notes and blinked. “Wait. Ex-offenders? You mean prisoners? Ex-cons?”

  Peggy nodded.

  Emma cleared her throat. “You mean you want me to interview three prisoners? Are they violent?” She glanced around the room to see if anyone shared her discomfort.

  Peggy flipped through her spiral notebook. “Two are men, one woman. And none of them were convicted of violent crime. If you want, you can meet them with the probation officer present. I'm sure he wouldn't mind that. Of course, time's of the essence, and it’ll be slower to schedule if you need to rely on him being free. That man sounded busy.”

  Peggy slowed down to stare at Emma for a moment. “Are you uncomfortable with the assignment? We can't drag our feet on this, you know that.”

  Emma hesitated. How could she ever expect to move up the reporting ladder to a more prestigious magazine if she was afraid to take on the challenging, potentially dangerous stories? If she turned this one down, she'd be stuck reporting on fashion shows and poetry readings her whole career and Brad would get anything that pushed the envelope. “Of course not. It sounds interesting.”

  Peggy bobbed her head, that problem avoided. “Good.” She handed Emma a folder. “Here's the info from the probation officer with the three subjects' names and limited info. Feel free to do some internet research on them. Then, move forward with the interviews and photos.”

  When the meeting was over, Emma went back to her desk and fired up her internet browser. There wasn't much on the first two. The woman subject had started a non-profit community theater project for children. One of the men was spending all his volunteer hours helping at prisons, sharing his experiences of incarcerated life and traveling all over the country to make a difference in the lives of current prisoners.

  The third subject built handcrafted wooden furniture and was offering his finished pieces for sale at craft fairs across the state, as well as taking custom orders. She glanced at ima
ges from his sparse website. The man had talent. She'd take some pictures of his finished creations to include in the article.

  She Googled his name, Jeremy Harrison. Weeding out the numerous stories that didn't apply to this particular Jeremy Harrison, she zoomed in on a local newspaper article detailing his arrest and trial. She studied the details and a tremble slithered down her forearms to her hands.

  “Harrison and Son?” she murmured to her monitor. “Wait,” she used her finger to scan the article for details. “Ten years ago …”

  She snatched her laptop and purse and left.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of her parents' house. Knowing it would be unlocked, she stormed through the front door. “Dad?” she yelled, figuring he was home. He was always home; he was unemployed.

  His voice rose above the din of the TV in the basement. She headed for the stairs.

  “Hi, baby girl.” He waved to her from his recliner, his feet up and the table beside the chair littered with cans and snack wrappers.

  “Dad,” she said urgently. She kneeled beside him, balancing the laptop on her knees. She reached over, grabbed the remote from the arm of his chair and muted it. He frowned at her. “Dad, Harrison and Son, where you worked, was based out of Pawleys Island, right?”

  Her dad stared at her, creases of concentration in his forehead. He shook his head, but she interpreted it not as a negative response to her question, but as his general confusion.

  “Dad, I'm sorry for buzzing in here like this, but this is important. Was Harrison and Son based out of Pawleys?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was the Harrison boss's name?”

  “Hank.”

  “Oh.” Hank. She sank onto the carpet on her rear end, her legs stretched in front of her. Hank Harrison was her dad's boss who underbid their construction estimates, embezzled money, evaded taxes and ran the whole company into the ground. Hank Harrison had caused her dad to lose his job and hit the unemployment line. He hadn't earned a decent salary from a decent company since. Hank Harrison was the one who was a good employer before he suddenly went crazy and started breaking the law.

  It was still the most painful topic in the Slotky family annals. The start of her dad's drinking, depression, counseling.

  “I'm sorry to bring it up, Dad. I know it still hurts. Just forget it. I had it wrong. I was just given an assignment to interview someone about making a fresh start out of prison and his last name is Harrison and he's from Pawleys Island. I thought it was the same guy.”

  Dad grabbed for the remote. “Hank Harrison never went to prison.”

  Emma got to her feet. “Okay. I had the wrong guy.”

  As he turned the sound back on, he said, “Although his son did. His son was the mastermind behind all the problems. Jeremy Harrison.”

  Chapter Two

  The infernal buzz of the microwave alarm reached Jeremy as he worked in the backyard. With a curse, he shoved his goggles to his forehead and carefully lowered his power saw to the ground. Time to stop. Horrible time to stop on this particular project, he'd barely begun. But he had to anyway.

  He was working on a long country kitchen table that seated ten comfortably. He actually had an order for it, so he wasn't just building it for inventory to sell later. He had a paying customer and they didn't come around that often. Last thing he wanted to do was keep him waiting.

  But he had an appointment. With a reporter.

  He sighed and tidied up his work area. The reporter — what was her name again? — had mentioned the possibility of taking pictures of his work in progress, along with a few of his finished pieces. So he better make sure this stuff was camera-ready.

  He quickly completed his task and jogged inside to turn off the timer. He glanced at the notes he'd taken when she called. Emma, that was her name. Best to remember that when she was here.

  He showered, shaved (as per Neil's instruction) and dressed in work clothes — jeans, t-shirt, cowboy boots. No point dressing up, but he made sure they were clean.

  He didn't linger, but returned to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and glanced inside. He could offer her a drink. He had a few choices, Pepsi and a pitcher of iced tea he'd made yesterday. What about snacks? Would she want a snack? He pulled open his pantry and it was practically bare. He shut it. He wouldn't offer a snack, and hope she wasn't hungry. So much for southern hospitality.

  Out of tasks, he took a moment for a silent prayer. He closed his eyes. Father, please be with me today. I don’t feel good about this interview, so I need Your help to get me through it. Keep me focused, keep me calm. Help me know what to say. Amen.

  He walked into the front room and sat, fidgeting. At least he had a straight view out the front window. A few minutes passed and a small gray car pulled up on the street outside his house. A young woman stepped out and flipped her hair over her shoulder. He stared, captivated. The hair was so long and full, it must constantly get in her face. Looked like she'd perfected the move of tilting her head to the side and then back to make her glorious mane tumble behind her without lifting a finger. It was a gorgeous light brunette shade, not real dark, but not quite blond. The color of a sorrel horse's coat.

  He clamped his mouth shut and snorted. Nice job, Romeo, comparing a beautiful girl to a horse. No wonder he had no practical experience with women.

  He watched as she opened the back door of the car, pulled out a canvas bag, and hoisted it over one shoulder. She wore sunglasses to shield her vision from the beach town sun. Although it was November, the sun was present to some degree. She made her way toward his house and he took the chance to observe her appearance. She was medium height, probably five-five or so; medium build, not too thin, not too heavy, but her actual figure was disguised under office clothes and a jacket.

  His heart rate increased and his fingers and toes tingled a little. Not only did he have to do this interview under duress, but now he had to keep his cool around a gorgeous woman. Women were a phenomenon he'd had no exposure to in the … well, in the last ten years. He could count on one hand the number of females he'd actually made conversation with since he'd been released, other than his sister Marianne, his dad's new wife Leslie, and during a quick wedding visit, Leslie's college-age daughter Jasmine and a few other wedding guests. And family didn't count.

  It's not that he didn't like women. He did, at least, he'd done his share of admiring women. Mostly from afar. It was just a simple fact that he'd never been comfortable around them. And whatever practice he had with women, wasn't really with grown women — it was with girls. During his high school and college days.

  Keep his head on. This wasn't a date. It was business. A chance to help with something Neil felt strongly about and potentially advertise his business.

  He stepped over to the front door before she rang it, then counted to five after. Taking a deep breath, he fixed a pleasant smile on his face and opened the door. “Hello!” he said heartily. A flicker of surprise crossed her face and he advised himself to tone it down. “Welcome, Emma. Please, come in.”

  “Jeremy?” she asked.

  “Yes. Jeremy Harrison. Pleased to meet you.” He held his hand out for a shake.

  She was in the midst of crossing the threshold of the doorway. She came into the living room and took his hand. “Nice to meet you.” Her words were mumbled, but her voice sent a shiver down his spine, or maybe it was the contact with her hand. But she was having trouble making eye contact with him. He wondered why.

  She removed her glasses, stuck them in her purse and shook her head again, making her hair shimmer and bounce. He waited for her to tell him what she wanted to do — it was her interview, after all. But a moment of silence stretched into a few and it became awkward as she glanced around the room with a slight frown on her face.

  “So,” he started, “tell me what you want to do. We could sit at the table if you like, or go out to my work space. Or the shed in the back where my finished pieces
are.”

  “Is this your house?” she asked abruptly.

  The question threw him off. “I live here …”

  “Do you own it?” Now she looked him full-on for the first time and he was drawn to her eyes, a brown like the color of cocoa. She seemed intent on an answer and he stumbled on one.

  “N-no, I … don't own anything. It's my father's house, actually, but he got married and …”

  “Hank?” She looked back at him. “Hank Harrison is your father?”

  “Yes.” It was a little unsettling, yet expected, that she knew everything about him and he knew virtually nothing about her. Of course, she had been briefed on his background and his record was public knowledge.

  She dipped her head and her hair took a plunge, hiding her face for a moment before she lifted her chin and it bounced back in place.

  “Could I offer you a drink?”

  “No.” Her answer stung and she must've noticed his reaction because she added, “Thank you.”

  Jeremy scratched his head. They were off to a heck of a start. And he had no idea where to go next. Fortunately, Emma finally gave him some direction.

  “Could we sit together and do the interview?”

  “Yes.” He walked a few steps across the tiny front room to the doorway of the kitchen, then hung back and motioned, allowing her to walk in front of him. She settled in at the kitchen table, put her big bag on the floor, unzipped it and pulled out a laptop. She turned it on. He settled in across from her, working on keeping his breathing steady.

  Her preparations done, she began the interview. “So, I'm here with Seminal Magazine and I'm writing a feature article regarding second chances and success stories in the community following incarceration. Your name was provided by your probation officer. Do you mind if I record this conversation so I can refer back to it later? I have a recording app on my laptop.”

  He looked at it warily. His discomfort increased knowing he was being recorded and she could listen to it over and over. But he'd look like an idiot if he refused. “That's fine.”