Shadowed Paradise

by Blair Bancroft

  Elinor Johannesen called the meeting to order.

  “I spoke to Ken Millard,” Phil said sometime later as the committee settled down to fine-tuning their plans. “He’s agreed to help us make a financial plan and keep our records.”

  There were general murmurs of satisfaction. Ken might be a bit odd, but his competence was unquestioned. “What about getting Diane Lake to MC the Battle of the Bands?” Elinor Johannesen suggested. “You know her, don’t you, Jordan? Do you think she might do it?”

  “I can try.” He sounded uncharacteristically doubtful. “But Diane tends to do exactly as she pleases.”

  “What about you, Garrett?” Elinor demanded. “You have some influence there, don’t you?”

  “I own a piece of the cable company,” Garrett conceded, “but I believe any other influence my family might have in that direction is fading rapidly.”

  Knowing smiles flashed around the table. Phil heard a distinct snort from Virginia Bentley. “What a diplomat!” Ginny hissed in her ear. “No wonder he keeps getting re-elected to the County Commission.”

  “Ginny, what about you?” Elinor asked. “Didn’t Diane interview you when she had that talk show a few years ago?”

  Virginia Bentley favored the chairperson with the wide-eyed look employed by well-brought up ladies when they wished to appear entirely innocent of the innuendos around them. “That was several years ago, Elinor. I doubt my request would count for much with Diane now that she’s come so far up in the world.”

  There was a moment of amused silence as each member of the committee absorbed Ginny’s subtle implication that a local newsanchor thought she outranked an author of international reputation.

  “I’ll give it a try,” Jordan said. “There ought to be some little favor we can do for Diane in return.”

  “Not the one she wants,” Phil murmured loud enough to send Ginny Bentley into a paroxysm of coughing.

  “Phil, did you say something?” Elinor asked. “Are you acquainted with Diane?” Then, obviously recalling that Diane Lake was having a very hot and public affair with Phil Tierney’s ex-husband, Elinor Johannesen snapped her mouth shut. Pink suffused her cheeks. “Thank you, Jordan,” she managed, recapturing chairman mode. “Phil, if you’d be good enough to give me Ken Millard’s phone number, I’ll call him about setting up our books.”

  Within five minutes the meeting was adjourned.

  As Garrett Whitlaw escorted Ginny to her car with the gracious flourish of a true southern gentleman, Phil followed behind, doing some rapid calculations. Everyone knew Slade, Golden Beach’s star quarterback, was a going to be a senior this year. Melanie was in college. Garrett hadn’t married young . . . so he was somewhere around fifty, though he could pass for mid-forties. Yet for years she’d thought of him as old. He’d been a high school student when she was just learning the alphabet. Later . . . he was simply Brad’s uncle. Married. A father. A major force in Calusa County. A VIP sitting on the pinnacle of success.

  But in the last few years—after his wife died—her perceptions had changed. Suck it up, Tierney. Too late, too late. There must be about five million reasons why—

  Garrett closed Ginny’s car door with care, turned . . . and headed her way. A shiver crashed through her. It was nothing, nothing at all. Yet when he clasped her hand in his all-encompassing politician’s handshake, thunder rolled. Her insides reverberated. Ridiculous!

  “Good to see you, Phil. It’s been quite a while.”

  “The Scottish Fling, wasn’t it? For a moment there, I thought you were actually going to try the caber toss.”

  Phil discovered that even a Whitlaw could look chagrined. “I thought it would be such a great gesture to all our Scots-American neighbors,” Garrett admitted with a hint of sheepishness spiced by self-deprecating humor. “I tried my damnedst to pick that thing up, couldn’t budge one end off the ground. Melanie was with me and had such a fit I had to drop it. I could see the poor kid had visions of dear old dad laid out as low as that blasted log.”

  “She’s right, you know. We elected you for your brains, not your brawn.”

  Garrett acknowledged the compliment with a deprecating smile. “Phil, I’d like to stop by the office sometime this week. I have a favor to ask.”

  She must have said something, but Phil had no idea what. A nod, a tip of his ten-gallon hat and Garrett headed toward his black Hummer. Not even the scalding hot interior of her Lexus could wipe the secret little smile off Phil’s face as she started for home.

  The bones were getting bigger. Stan Kolchek hadn’t been paying much attention, but it looked like old Burt had found himself a pretty good-size carcass. Dug up half the garden these past few days, burying the damn things.

  Funny, there was one yesterday . . . looked kinda like a legbone. Fee-mur, yes, that’s what they call it. Femur. Nah. Couldn’t be. Shaking his head, Stan tipped his baseball cap over his eyes, settled back in the old lawn chair and took a nap.

  A noise from Burt woke him. Half whine, half woof. Burt couldn’t manage his usual sharp bark because his mouth was full.

  Stan opened one eye. And thought he might be sick. Nightmare time. He must be asleep. Must be. He blinked and tried again. Burt’s black eyes gleamed with pride as he thrust his newest treasure against Stan’s knee. Burt managed one more attention-demanding woof before once again clamping his jaws around the skull with possessive fervor.

  Stan shot to his feet. And backed away. Startled, Burt dodged to one side, but only as far as the edge of the porch, as if he knew this treasure was worthy of admiration if only Stan would take a good look.

  Stan looked. It wasn’t a nightmare. The skull was real. And human.

  Once was human.

  Gleaming white, washed by rain, bleached by the sun, the eye and nose sockets were gaping holes, allowing Burt a good grip. Silver fillings flashed from two rows of even white teeth.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God!

  Stan bolted into the house. After throwing up his lunch, he staggered to the phone and dialed 911.

  With two whole days to contemplate the cryptic words her former uncle by marriage had uttered after the committee meeting at the library, Phil Tierney had her customary cool well in hand when Garrett Whitlaw walked into her office. “I know!” she exclaimed, “you’ve come to list the family acres. T & T never balks at even the largest job. Just how many millions did you have in mind for the List Price?”

  “Over Wade’s dead body,” Garrett replied easily. “And mine as well. Damn developers.”

  Though he had sense enough to keep his prejudices out of his campaign speeches, Phil recalled one memorable private party when she’d heard Garrett growl, “I grow cattle, not fucking snowbirds!” She also remembered the occasion, nearly two years ago, when Garrett had asked Phil to use her influence to keep his nephew from developing land the Whitlaw Ranch had considered its own for more than sixty years. She’d failed, resulting in acrimony, chagrin, and a deepening of the family feud.

  From his considerable height Garrett examined Phil from head to toe. “As much as I hate to admit it, Phil, I remember when you wore braids and braces. Which makes you vastly improved . . . and me an old man.” With a soft sigh Garrett lowered himself into the chair in front of Phil’s desk and carefully set his western-style hat on the rug beside him.

  “So . . . to what do I owe this honor?” Phil inquired. And was promptly treated to the sight of one of Calusa County’s wealthiest and most hard-working men looking as hesitant as an awkward schoolboy, seemingly fascinating by the cuff of his shirt.

  “I–um–remembered what a help you were when Brad came home. He may be the devil incarnate, but family’s family, and you were true blue.” A flush rode up Garrett’s collar to merge with his thick thatch of silver-streaked hair. “No pun intended,” he muttered, “but I was grateful. Wade was grateful. Though he’d never own to it.”

  “That was quite a while ago, Garrett. I take it you have a new problem?” Phil raised her bro
ws inquiringly.

  Garrett shifted in his chair. “It’s Melanie. Damn fool girl’s home from Gainesville for the summer, insisted on volunteering at the hospital.”

  “That’s scarcely cause for alarm.”

  “That’s not what Lori wanted for her.”

  Phil took a deep breath, made herself count to five. “Garrett, Lori was a city girl, a northern city girl. The life she knew, the life she tried to live here, was different than the life the people who were born here want. And . . .”

  Phil struggled for the right words? “Lori’s been gone since Melanie was in high school, a particularly hard time for a girl to lose her mother. You’ve tried to do it all, but that’s too much for anybody.” Phil flipped a hand, as if telling herself to stop, then plunked it down on her desk with a resigned thump. “Garrett, I don’t know anything about children, but I do know something about the female mind. Maybe Lori’s rebelling, and maybe she has a genuine calling for medicine. There’s no need to panic. What is she now . . . sophomore, junior?”

  “Junior this fall. The real problem”—anger ripped Garrett’s professional façade—“she’s dating this doctor old enough to be her father. She says he’s separated from his wife, but I’ve known the guy for years and he’s chased damn near every female under thirty who ever walked a hospital corridor.”

  “Oh.” Damn.

  Garrett leaned forward, his broad shoulders hovering over her desk. “That’s why I’m here, Phil. I was hoping you might be willing to hear the whole story over dinner, maybe give me advice. At least give me a chance to talk it all out.” He paused . . . plunged on. “And then . . . well, I thought maybe—if you wouldn’t mind—maybe you could talk to Melanie. Once family, always family, Phil. I think Melanie might listen to you. I already know she won’t listen to me,” he added softly, the pain of failure apparent in the dim echo of his usual confident tones.

  He rolled right over her automatic protest. “I reserved a seat on the deck at the Chowder Pot tomorrow night. I thought maybe we could talk and then watch the fireworks.”

  Dinner. Fireworks. Phil’s facile tongue refused to move.

  “I don’t think taking my nephew’s ex-wife to supper and the fireworks qualifies as incest,” Garrett drawled.

  “No . . . I don’t suppose it does.” Was it possible the great Garrett Whitlaw was using his daughter as an excuse to ask her out to dinner?

  For the first time in many years, Philippa Tierney blushed.

  The only thing better than fireworks, Claire decided, was sex. And sometimes not even that. But it had been so long since she’d indulged in either, perhaps she’d forgotten. She leaned back on the blanket Brad had spread on the soft sand just above the high water mark and surveyed the beach that extended as far as she could see in either direction.

  Masses of people. The drifting scent of barbecue. Picnic baskets of every shape and size. Giant coolers on wheels. Blankets, beach towels, sun umbrellas. Shrieking children, eagle-eyed parents. Brad, sitting beside her, took his eyes off Jamie, who was playing in the shallows, only long enough to scan the beach as regularly as clockwork. The family man Blue, with a strong dash of something darker. Lazy, relaxed. Ready for anything. The coiled spring waiting to be unleashed.

  The obligatory daily thundershower had passed through almost precisely on time, drenching the area for less than an hour in late afternoon before rushing on into the Gulf, leaving sunny skies to dry the picnic tables, benches, and fresh-washed sands for the thousands of fireworks-lovers. Lingering streaks of deep rose and lavender gray were all that were left of the sun’s nightly spectacular.

  Anticipation rose as crowds streamed in around them, loaded down with beach chairs and mini-coolers. Behind the children playing at the edge of the water, boats were pulling up, dropping anchor, their running lights glowing against the rapidly darkening sky.

  Up and down the beach, and in the picnic areas on the dunes above, sparklers flared into life, spitting and hissing their fairy-like magic. Confirming it really was the Fourth of July. The police good-naturedly looked the other way while bottle rockets and roman candles shot out of the crowd. Even the occasional pop-pop-pop of ladyfinger firecrackers, penetrating the excited chatter, could not budge the officers’ nonchalant stance as they kept a benign eye on the crowd.

  Jamie, dripping wet, ran up to Brad. “Can we do it now? Please?” His amber eyes, so like his father’s, sparkled almost as brightly as the amateur fireworks around them.

  Do what? Claire’s euphoria slipped. What was Brad digging out of his duffel bag? He wouldn’t . . . Surely not. “He’s only eight!” Claire cried as Brad, on his feet now, put a sparkler in Jamie’s hand.”

  “Mo-om!”

  Brad paused, a box of wooden matches in his hand, and stared. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “He’ll get hurt!”

  “No, I won’t!”

  “Hang on a minute, Jamie.” Brad knelt down beside her, keeping his voice low. “I won’t let him get hurt, I promise. I told him the rules earlier, while you were swimming. If it really bothers you, of course we won’t do it, but they’re just little sparklers, Claire. Teeny ones, and I promise to dig the hot sticks into the sand myself.”

  Claire hung her head, torn between chagrin and laughter. Men and their little boy toys.

  Jamie needed a man in his life, and Brad was willing. What more could she ask? Except, please God, no sudden run to the ER.

  “Jamie, promise you’ll do exactly what Brad tells you.” Stupid! She sounded as if they were about to rocket off to the space station.

  Claire winced at Jamie’s every gasp and yip as a sparkle struck him, but, miracle of miracles, every red, green, and silver spark dwindled into darkness without disaster.

  “Wow!” Jamie breathed. “That was great.”

  “What do you say?” Claire prompted.

  “Thanks, Brad!” Jamie flashed an ear-to-ear grin. “Hey, Brad,” he added, “that man up there is waving at you.”

  Claire groaned. Whoever the stranger was, the woman with him on the deck of the Chowder Pot restaurant thirty feet away was Phil Tierney.

  Brad muttered something under his breath that widened Jamie’s eyes before turning to Claire. “My Uncle Garrett,” he told her, while waving politely, his lips fixed in a smile. “In the limelight, as always, but his date’s a real surprise.”

  “Do you mind?”

  He took a moment to consider. “No-o, but it’s going to take a bit of adjustment. Garrett’s not so old—fifty, fifty-one, I guess—but to me he’s another generation. I’d dismiss this as a business dinner if I saw them any place else, but for a politician like Garrett to bring Phil to the Fourth of July celebration is tantamount to making a declaration. He’s staking a claim.”

  “Don’t you think Phil has something say about it?” Claire challenged.

  “She’d be crazy to turn up her nose at Garrett. He’s the most eligible man in the county. Several counties.”

  But what if Phil still wanted Brad Blue?

  “That’s the test rocket!” Jamie cried as a loud explosion ripped the air. “Isn’t it, Brad, isn’t it?” He tugged Claire’s hand. “Brad said it’s sort of like a trumpeter announcing a tournament.”

  Brad said. If he broke Jamie’s heart, she was going to kill him!

  Funny. Very funny. As if Jamie’s was the only vulnerable heart.

  After the initial explosion, there was a long interval of silence. “They’re really gonna start, aren’t they, Brad?” Jamie asked.

  “That’s right. Just settle back on the blanket and keep your eyes open.” Brad grinned at Claire, the depths of his blue eyes, only inches from her own, so full of warmth and contentment, so full of genuine pleasure that Claire caught her breath. Her toes curled.

  Maybe fireworks outranked sex. Because, with sex, sometimes there was only lust. With fireworks came family, friendship . . . and, if one were very lucky, love.

  Yet both were ephemeral. Exploding in climax
. . . and gone on the wind. Falling into a void.

  Until next year.

  Or maybe never.

  Golden streaks of light burst in a dazzling umbrella over their heads. Jamie shouted with joy. Brad’s arm closed around Claire’s shoulders. Squeezed. If she lived to a hundred and ten, she’d cherish this moment.

  There were so many reasons this shouldn’t be happening. Brad’s past. Hers.

  She was going to have to tell him. But not now. Not tonight.

  Claire lifted her chin and smiled as a great burst of red lit the night, falling, falling, exploding, the reverberations shaking her right down to her soul.

  He never missed the fireworks. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because they’d been part of his childhood. The time when he still thought he was normal. That was the hardest part. Being crazy, and knowing that you were. They said if you knew you were crazy, you really weren’t. What a crock. He’d known for years and years. So did Mom.

  A shrink might be stupid enough to say he was only abnormal. Just because he could smile and do his job and fool all those shitty normal people scurrying around out there. Ants . . . they were all ants. Only not so smart. He could sit right here in the midst of half the town and no one knew. Not a soul.

  He’d been scared that first time. Terrified. He’d never meant to kill Kim Willis. They were coming to get him, he knew it. For months his heart turned over every time he passed a cop on the street. Each time someone came to the door, he could feel himself shrivel inside. They were going to shut him away in a tiny space. Put him on display before the world. Make him dead.

  They were coming for him. They surely were.

  But the days, months, went by. And no one came. No one asked him what happened to Kim Willis. Or Mom.

  Fools. Fools. Fools. They never guessed. He hadn’t realized they were so stupid. God, he’d have to carry a sign saying, “I Killed Kim Willis” before they got it.