Barefoot Bay

by Vicky Loebel

  “You’re very sweet.” Lane hugged her friend. “But it’s a holiday. They’ll be busy here.” And the ones who weren’t busy would want to go home to their families. “The auction’s going to be shabby-chic.” Lane refused to worry about trivialities. “Between Willow’s catering and the costume displays, we’ll be fine.”

  “Hey, gorgeous.” Lacey’s husband Clay appeared in the driveway. “I’ve been waiting all night for a strawberry blond businesswoman to take me home to bed.” He came forward and offered his arm. “How about it?”

  “Well….” Lacey batted her eyelashes. “Maybe this once.”

  “Night-night.” Lane wriggled into her car, watching the couple stroll away, swallowing a lump of wistfulness. Not so very long ago, she’d had that kind of happiness with Alex, though it had been longer—much longer—since she and her disabled husband had been able to stroll side-by-side.

  Still…she had the girls, a place to live, wonderful friends, almost a paying job. She had the joy of teaching, of watching students blossom when they connected with a dramatic story. Life was good.

  Lane rolled down windows and drove, singing, through the empty streets of Mimosa Key. She had the late-night breeze, the soft caress of humid weather, the croaks of frogs, and chirps and twitters of the night. She had the creak of boats, the perfume of jasmine and gardenia, glimpses of moonlight reflected on the Gulf. She parked the MG, got the mail—just six more years until her husband’s medical bills were paid off—and climbed the long staircase to her apartment, missing the weight of sleeping daughters in her arms, the shampoo-scent of Mima’s baby hair.

  Lane opened her apartment door and froze. Funny. The place smelled different. As if someone had been here. She dropped the bills, edged sideways to her ironing board, and picked up the heavy iron. But unless her intruder had broken in with buckets of bleach and glass cleaner, this wasn’t the scene of a crime.

  Janet. Lane stalked to the kitchen, hit the lights, and glared at gleaming counters and brightly-polished appliances. Janet, I’m much too tired for this crap. Her ex-mother-in-law—forbidden to touch anything while costume restoration was in progress—apparently had not wasted a minute dragging the girls here to attack Lane’s bad housekeeping after the ban was lifted.

  Dammit. Janet meant well. Mostly. She was a generous woman who doted on her grandchildren. But so eternally disapproving. Lane rested her forehead on the refrigerator, half-ready to drive to Blue Landing, collect her daughters, and give her interfering in-laws a piece of her mind.

  But that was crazy. The girls were asleep. Tomorrow was going to be super busy, and Lane was exhausted. She kicked the refrigerator—leaving her footprint on the white door just to show the kitchen who was boss—brushed her teeth in the infuriatingly tidy bathroom, and stumbled to her bedroom.

  Lane discarded tee-shirt and jeans, pulled on a sleep-cami, and stretched out on the freshly laundered bed. The fan was running and Janet—recklessly ignoring the possibility of rain—had left the windows wide open.

  Maybe she’s getting senile. Of course, Lane didn’t want her mother-in-law to suffer a tragic illness, but it would be nice sometimes to think the woman had a flaw. She squirmed under the sheet, stretching, brushing her hand against a warm, muscular…. A paralytic shock ran through her.

  What? Someone was in her bed. What the hell?

  For one instant, Lane hoped it was Janet. She must have decided to sleep here with the girls. But then a man sat up and loomed over her in the darkness. A big, broad-chested, not-wearing-a-stitch-of-clothing sort of man, who rumbled incoherently.

  “What the hell!” Lane didn’t stop to think. She grabbed the old bedside rotary phone and slammed it as hard as she could against the side of his head.

  Chapter Five

  Mike had slept in quite a few rough places. Cots in corners, airplane jump seats, hole-in-the-wall hotels. He’d come awake to air raid sirens, gas-mask drills, and even one or two actual emergencies, all handled smoothly thanks to his Air Force training. But nobody had taught him how to wake up to assault by telephone. Fortunately, he managed to dodge so a blow that might have killed him glanced off his scalp instead. He threw his guard up, trying to see the crazy woman in bed with him.

  “What the hell?” She swung again. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Hey. Cut it out!” He took the blows on his arms, hoping the ringing sound came from the telephone and not from inside his head. At last the woman got tired of hitting him. She scrambled off the mattress, tripped on the cord, and landed against the wall, holding the phone.

  There was a click-click-click of old-fashioned rotary dialing.

  Mike crawled forward and switched on the bedside lamp.

  It was that woman—that Lane woman—he’d helped in the parking lot. The one who’d stolen his uncle’s car. The one whose jeans…well, she wasn’t wearing jeans now...just a sleeveless top and lacy…Mike dragged his eyes up to her face.

  “Hello, Slade?” The look she shot Mike would have sent a fuel depot up in flames. “Deputy Slade? Are you nearby? I have a home invader upstairs at the Mimosa Theater. Three minutes? Great.” She set the handset on its cradle and clutched the phone against her heaving chest. “He’s on his way.”

  “That’s good.” Mike took ID out of his wallet and tossed it to her. “He can arrest you for trespassing.”

  “Trespassing.” Her face cycled from anger to indignation and back again. “He’s you.” She stood, bringing Mike’s gaze level with her lacy…um…. “I mean, you’re him. The jerk nephew who never visited.” She raised the phone again.

  “Stop that.” Mike caught her wrist and yanked her down to sit on the bed. “Yes, I’m the nephew. And no, I didn’t visit Essie. Our families lost touch when my parents divorced. I haven’t been in Mimosa Key since I was twelve.”

  Lane’s eyes examined him, traveling down his chest, stopping and widening at—well, Mike hadn’t been expecting company when he went to bed. He let her go and wrapped the sheet around his waist. “You want to call that deputy? Cancel the 911 so you don’t get arrested?”

  “In the first place, Slade knows me.” She scooted away but stayed on the bed. “Whether you own this building or not, you’re the one going to jail.”

  “Wonderful.” Something trickled down the side of Mike’s face. He put his hand up and brought it back wet with blood. “What’s second place?”

  “I yanked the cord out when I tripped. The phone was dead the whole—” She squeaked, spotting the blood. “I’ll get ice.”

  “Thanks.” Mike watched her go—long-legged, attractive as hell in her sleep-camisole and underwear—and decided he must not be too seriously injured. He found his jeans and padded behind Lane into the kitchen.

  “I’m so sorry.” She clutched a pile of ice cubes against her chest while rummaging through drawers one-handed. “I can’t find a plastic bag.”

  “Towels work better.” Mike opened the drawer where he’d placed folded dish towels earlier that evening, wrapped the ice, and sat at the kitchen table, pressing the cold compress against his scalp. Lane went out and returned in a thigh-length kimono—all silk, flowers, and seductive curves—that made her look even more appealing than before. Long neck, strong chin, wavy brown hair that begged to be lifted off of slender shoulders. He had the feeling he’d seen her…. “Lane Talmadge.” Now he remembered. “You married that actor, Alexander Talmadge. The one that….”

  Damn. Mike shut his mouth.

  “The one that fell off a catwalk and mangled his spine. Yep, that’s me.” She turned and started opening cupboards, apparently at random. “I’ll make coffee.”

  “You don’t have any.” Mike had just organized her kitchen. He got his backpack from the bedroom and produced a packet of instant decaf. “Try this.”

  “Thanks.” She dumped crystals into the carafe of a drip coffee maker and switched it on.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you,” Mike said. “Aunt Essie’s lawyer, Mr. Garcia, didn’
t mention that you were living here.”

  “He might not know. I mean, he knew we lived with Esther before. My daughters and me. She invited us to move in two years ago, right after Alex…. That is, because we’d been working together to get the Mimosa Community Theater started. When Essie passed away last winter, nobody said anything, so the girls and I stuck around. Aren’t you supposed to be in the Marines or something?”

  Hah. “Air Force. Out this week.”

  Lane poured two cups of coffee. “Sorry, I don’t have milk.”

  “I bought some. It’s in the fridge. I also washed dishes, cleaned the appliances and” —in case she hadn’t noticed— “took out the trash.”

  “The girls are supposed to do those chores. They’ve been on strike this summer because I won’t sign up for Netflix.”

  “Do they also stock the refrigerator?”

  “No, I do. Usually.” Lane blushed pink under her tan. “It’s been a busy week.” She lifted the bloody towel and touched his temple. “C’mon. We better do something about that.”

  Mike followed her to the flat’s single old-fashioned bathroom. She rummaged around and came up with an expired tube of antibiotic cream and two Hello Kitty Band-Aids.

  “I’ll handle this.” He got the first-aid kit from his pack, cleaned the cut, and closed it with a couple of dots of super glue. She’d hit him above the hairline. He doubted the cut would show, but there was going to be an impressive bruise on the left side of his face.

  Lane poked through the contents of Mike’s open backpack: canister stove, food packets, bug repellant…. “How’d you get all this in here?” She took out an emergency blanket that folded to the size of a Hershey’s chocolate bar. “Are you a survivalist or a magician?”

  “Just fond of basic comforts like drinking coffee and not freezing to death.”

  “It’s ninety degrees in Mimosa Key.”

  “Which is why I wouldn’t have packed the blanket if I stopped to think about it. Then the next time I had an unexpected layover in Antarctica, I’d spend a long night shivering.” That wasn’t likely, now that he was a civilian. “It’s also good for keeping off sun and rain.”

  Lane’s face had an appraising quality, as if she’d completed a magazine questionnaire and was computing Mike’s score. He looked away, abruptly conscious that he was wearing nothing but jeans. Which made no sense. He’d spent the entire afternoon shirtless on his boat in front of all Pleasure Pointe without a second thought. Of course, there hadn’t been a sexy kimono-clad woman leaning over his backpack on the boat. Smelling of herb shampoo and Meyer lemons. With flowing waves of hair….

  Lane plucked the miniature lantern from his pack. “Open your eyes.”

  Mike’s eyes were definitely open. He demonstrated, looking her up and down.

  “I mean….” She flushed. “I want to check your pupils for concussion.”

  “OK.”

  “Do you have a headache?” She dazzled first his left eye then his right. “Nausea? Dizziness?”

  A mild headache. “I’m fine.”

  “These things can be worse than they look. My late husband…he….” She bit her lip. “We thought at first that he’d be OK.”

  Mike remembered the news story. He’d been at a wedding where the women gossiped of nothing but Alexander Talmadge’s tragic fall. The men had gossiped about the hot young wife whose picture kept flashing up beside her famous husband. “About six years ago, right?”

  “Alex broke his back six years ago. The week after Mima was born. We’d been planning to do a play together—Alex always wanted to try live theater—and he climbed up to fool with the lighting.” She sighed softly. “For a while, we thought he’d recover, but then a bone infection set in and it just…wore him down. He died two years ago.”

  “That’s rough. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Lane walked away.

  Mike grabbed his backpack and followed her to the kitchen, refilling his towel with ice, pressing the cloth to his face.

  “So.” She sat and slid the little lantern across the wooden table.

  Mike caught it, stowed it, and took a seat across from her. “So.”

  “So, I guess this means you’re our landlord.” Lane gestured broadly. “Mimosa Community Theater. This flat. They’re yours?”

  “Essie emailed me about taking my uncle’s boat a couple of years ago, but I never expected her to leave me the building.” Mike ran his palm over the smooth table. “The lawyer didn’t tell me how she died.”

  “Her heart gave out. The morning after we won our grant from the town council. We were having a celebratory coffee and Essie just” —her shoulders hunched— “crumpled.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mike wished he could offer better comfort. “Still, she was ninety-three. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I don’t.” Lane’s hands closed on her coffee cup. “But I owe her. A lot. Alex’s last year, when things were really bad, I needed something to do out of his parents’ house. We both loved acting, and getting involved with Essie gave me and Alex something hopeful to talk about. Then after he died, Essie provided a home and purpose—bringing live theater back to Mimosa Key.”

  “She used to talk about that all the time when I was a kid.” Mike’s elderly aunt had been an actor when she was young. “I think she performed here once or twice before the Mimosa Theater went out of business. That’s one reason Essie and Elias bought the building, although since my great-uncle immediately ripped out the seats and moved his boat in, I never thought the theater idea was serious.”

  “It was. It is. MCT—Mimosa Community Theater—will open our first show, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, this October.”

  Mike had seen the gutted auditorium. “You’ve got a ways to go.”

  “We’ll make it. For Essie’s sake. We have to.” Lane fetched the coffee pot—damn, she had amazing legs—and topped-off their cups. “Essie said you practically lived here as a boy. How’d you lose touch?”

  “Usual story. Parents divorced. Mom moved and remarried three times. Dad started a new family in Portugal.” So few words for so much adolescent misery. Mike had fled home and enlisted at age seventeen. “Uncle Elias and I reconnected online five years ago. He was still working on his boat, still talking about fishing around the world. We promised we’d go together after I left the service.”

  “You didn’t make it to his funeral.”

  Mike regretted that. “I was deployed. Essie emailed and offered me the Hermia. I said I’d pick it up and take her on a cruise except….”

  “Except you missed her, too.”

  “Story of my life.” He carried his empty coffee cup to the faucet, washed it, and set it on the rack to dry. “Too late, too busy” —too alone— “too far away.”

  Lane brought her cup and set it in the sink. “Oh, no.” She touched the bruise on his temple. “Oh, what have I done?”

  “There was a strange man in your bed. It’s not your fault.”

  “But what if I’d hurt you? What if you died? What if I’d gone to prison?” Her face whitened. “What would the girls do without me?”

  “Lane.” Mike clasped her shoulders. “It’s OK.”

  “We’d lose the theater. My daughters would be abandoned. I mean, the judge and Janet would take them in, but still.” Her lips parted. “They’d grow up orphans.”

  “Nothing happened.” He didn’t pull, but somehow she came into his arms. “You’re getting too worked up.”

  “Plus you’d be dead.” Lane trembled. “I might have killed you.”

  “It’s OK.” Mike patted the back of her kimono awkwardly. Be comforting, his mind instructed. His body, perversely, was getting other ideas. Lane’s breasts, her warm hands resting on his chest. Long fragrant hair gliding along his shoulder. She smelled delicious.

  “Um, Lane.” Mike cleared his throat. “I think it would be better….”

  Her face lifted. It was impossible not to caress her smooth jaw. Lane rose on tiptoe in inv
itation and they closed the circuit with an electric kiss. Mike scooped thick hair into his hand, nuzzling her neck, scattering kisses behind her ear, wondering if this was going where he suddenly hoped it was. He bared Lane’s shoulder, tasting the unprotected skin.

  She sighed and dropped her kimono to the floor.

  Mike pulled the camisole over her head and stopped, awestruck by Lane’s beauty, her slender curves, her wide, encouraging smile.

  Lane raised Mike’s hand and kissed his wrist. He forced himself to lift her chin and make eye contact. The want, the willingness, the slightly self-conscious twinkle, awoke a fierce and tender rush of need.

  “I’ll be leaving soon.” He made an effort to be honest. “On my boat. Tomorrow or the day after. I might not return for months or even years. I can’t promise—”

  Lane placed one fingertip over his lips. “Are there condoms in that extremely well-stocked backpack of yours, Magic Mike?”

  Magic? Mike felt his mouth twitch. “Of course.”

  “And does sleeping with me harm anyone? Is there a Mrs. Magic?”

  “Divorced. Nine years.” He shook his head. “Nobody serious since then.”

  “That’s a long time.” She laced both hands around his neck. “What went wrong?”

  “I wanted kids. She wanted kids.” It still hurt to talk about it. “Turned out, she wanted kids with someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. That is, I was sorry.” He kissed Lane deeply, picking her up, turning to balance her on the counter. “I’m not sorry right now.”

  “Well, since you’re leaving soon….” Lane’s hands reached between them and unbuttoned his jeans.

  Mike pulled her closer.

  “Since you’re leaving soon, we’d better make the absolute most of tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  Lane couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up smiling. Well, that wasn’t true—she often woke up smiling, usually with a pair of monster-truck-cowboy-fairies bouncing on her bed, but it had been a long, long time since she’d awoken with this sort of smile. She stretched, inhaling the delicious aroma of coffee, pancakes, and sizzling sausage.