by Isabel Jolie
The cart almost rolled to a stop, and he turned. He wore sunglasses, and I couldn’t see his eyes, but his stare burned with the same searing sensation of the sun’s rays. My stomach fluttered and throat tightened. In the blazing sun, the temperature rose, and perspiration threatened. I lifted my foot and gunned the accelerator. The wind whipped around me and cooled my face.
Sweet Joseph, you’d think I’d never seen a good-looking guy before. Did Pearl’s grandson hire someone to fix the place up? Or was that sun god Pearl’s grandson? Would Pearl’s grandson have tattoos? Pearl had seemed proper, even if she did surf. For crying out loud, she wore a sun hat out on the beach. But that could explain Alice’s matchmaking attempt. Alice had commented more than once on the tattoo running along the inside of my forearm. And I could see her setting me up with a fellow surfer. If Mr. Tattoo turned out to be Pearl’s grandson, helping him would be a pleasure, in the way working with eye candy is always enjoyable. But I learned my lesson with Brandon. Friends and family placed hope on relationships, and they got hurt needlessly when the end came.
My phone vibrated with a text from Dr. Wilton asking what time I’d be in the office today. I picked up the phone and used Siri to text back. “Fixing a tampered cage. Should be in by eleven.”
A seagull glided overhead, and I flattened the accelerator on the back wall of the cart, racing along the coastline. I breathed in the salt air and soaked in the words inked on my arm, One with the sea.
Chapter 3
Tate
* * *
“I don’t care about the money, Mr. Williams.” The phone burned against my ear. Lengthy conversations did that.
“It’s not that simple, Adrian. Your brother is contesting the will. If you want to negotiate with your brother out of court, that is your choice. You can tell him what you want and see if he’ll drop the suit. But I strongly recommend you get your own counsel before doing so. Let a lawyer negotiate for you. I shouldn’t even say that much, but I’ve known you your whole life. Be smart about this.” A fatherly tone colored his words. Truth be told, I couldn’t even remember what Mr. Williams looked like. I knew he’d been at our house a few times growing up, but his face blended with all the other faces of my parents’ friends who stopped by on random occasions.
“I thought the only thing Gregg cared about was the business. He wants my business shares. I don’t have a problem with that. We all know the only reason she left half to me is she was aiming to be fair. She wasn’t thinking about the business.” I pinched the bridge of my nose while watching the waves crash in the distance, a calming and focusing technique I learned in Asia.
“Adrian, when you find your own counsel, have them contact me. Please, son, obtain counsel.”
I knew he was stepping on lines he shouldn’t be, all out of some sense of obligation to look out for the kid he remembered. There was a good chance he remembered tousling my hair, teasing me about how much I’d grown, or maybe I looked like his son. Or maybe he felt an obligation to my parents. But I wished he’d let me settle and put this ugly fight behind me.
“I will. Thank you, Mr. Williams.”
I let my grandmother’s screen door slam behind me and headed to the beach. Once the sand filtered between my toes, I lifted my cell out of my pocket and called Gabe. I disconnected from this world over a decade ago. But Gabe was a childhood friend. The kind of friend you could go a decade without talking to and pick right back up where you left off.
“Goldman Sachs, Gabriel Chesterton’s office.” The words came out in rapid-fire, spoken like a no-nonsense New Yorker.
“Hi. This is Adrian Tate. Is he available?”
“He’s in a meeting. I can let him know you called.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“What did you say your name is?”
The ocean water circled around my ankles, cooling my bare feet, as I finished giving my information to an assistant who sounded skeptical her boss would return my call. My tight, sore muscles cursed at me for declining Alice’s guest room. This body of mine was getting too old for lumpy sofas. But until I got the AC working, the downstairs sofa had my name on it. Besides, the mildew smell on the upper floor approached unbearable.
I stretched my legs along the waking beach, passing families staking out umbrellas and all forms of contraptions designed to create shade as they settled in for a day in the sun. One older man held his dog’s Frisbee, and the moment I walked past him, the black lab leaped over the incoming wave in hot pursuit of the flying plastic disc.
I slowed as I neared the peak where the Cape Fear and the Atlantic Ocean intermingled. A furor of crashing waves denoted the long sandbar formed by the swirling waters. Stories of families venturing out onto the sandbar and getting caught far out by a fast-rising tide served as island urban legends, and fuel for my grandmother’s warnings to always be aware. Even close to shore, the almighty ocean claimed lives.
“There’s a riptide warning today, boys. Be careful.” Her words floated across the breeze, as crisp and clear as if she stood beside me.
I cast a glance back toward the Shoals Club. The Cape Cod inspired architecture sat majestically on the point, above wispy blades of grass blowing in the wind on the dunes. Back in my youth, the club didn’t exist. Now it featured multiple pools overlooking the ocean, and my grandmother had told me in one of her emails the restaurants were worth the money.
Her mostly unanswered emails weighed heavily. I always meant to sit down and send her a long response. “Will you send me a letter telling me what your average day is like?” Only once did she ask. If I’d just done it when she asked, I could have told her about life on the seas tracking a ship, watching dots on radars. The fear one of those dots might be a modern-day pirate ship. I held back, not wanting to worry her. That was before my days became the stuff of nightmares.
A drumming beat pulled me out of my introspection, and I cast a glance up the beach. A young woman knelt in the sand near the point, pounding a white square contraption with orange plastic rectangles into the sand with a rubber hammer. She wore a yellow string bikini top and short denim cut-offs. Her long hair flowed down her back, but only the lighter blonde strands took flight in the wind. The bulk of her hair was wet, weighted down from her most recent dip in the ocean.
A younger man clambered across the boardwalk to her, shouting, “I heard. A new nest. Do you need help?” Within minutes, a swarm of college-aged kids, or possibly younger, gathered around her. A buzz of energy surrounded the group. These were the island conservationists, working to save the sea turtles.
I watched from a distance, admiring their energy and envious of their optimism. In a prior life, I would have marched up to them, introduced myself, and offered to volunteer. Offered to join their ranks and save as many baby turtle lives as possible.
In that other life, I’d ducked out on my doctoral program and joined Greenpeace, hell-bent on saving the ocean from overfishing. Those excited kids, chattering on the beach, I’d bet money they hadn’t heard of land sickness. Had no concept that you could spend so much time at sea that when you stood on land, you vomited until your inner ear acclimated.
Those kids would make a difference, just like me. The kind of difference one made if you plugged one small hole in a ship that rammed an iceberg.
The bikini-clad girl stepped back, admiring her work. She had an even tan, svelte curves, and a scripted tattoo barely visible on the inside of her forearm. An open conversation starter for the right guy. A decade and a half ago, I would have been that guy. The guy asking her if she wanted to go surfing, if she wanted to catch some waves. Asking if she wanted company when she watched the turtle nests at night.
I stood there watching her, this young girl who was everything my former self would’ve been intrigued by. He would’ve followed her around, offering help and friendship while hoping for more. Enamored by her love of nature and her belief she could make a difference.
She twisted slowly, as if aware of a nearby gawker.
She smiled a full smile, the smile of youthful innocence, and held up her long, lean arm and waved.
I gave a quick nod and moved on along the beach.
“Hey…are you Adrian Tate?” Her melodic tone rose above the crashing surf.
“Mm-hmm. And you are?” I asked, curious how she knew my name.
“Luna Fisher. I knew your grandmother.”
Ah, Nana Pearl. Two hundred year-round residents on the island. No doubt everyone knew her.
“She said you work with Greenpeace.”
“I did.” Uneasy, I dug my toes into the sand and leaned away from her, gazing down the beach in the direction I’d come from.
“Luna, do we need to photograph this?” one of the college kids shouted to her. Another guy stood, his straight hair falling into his face. He stepped forward, watching me with a possessiveness I recognized. I too had been in love before.
Luna held her hand over her brow, shading her eyes from the rising sun, as she nodded an affirmative answer to her friend. Then she addressed me, friendly and open.
“I’m with the island’s Nature Conservancy group. We all are. We’d love to have you come down and talk with us.”
I dug my foot deeper into the sand.
“How many turtles are nesting on the island these days?”
“We had eighty-six nests last year. Expecting more this year.” Excitement punctuated her words. And pride.
“Sweet.” I fingered the sea glass in my pocket while she talked to me about the coastal science program.
A strong wind gusted, portending the line of thunderstorms headed our way. Sand granules whirled about, stinging my skin. A gold choker with a starfish pendant glinted in the sun around Luna’s neck. My gaze trailed down until I stared at the small triangles barely covering Luna’s rounded, perky breasts. Her shorts fell low on her hips, and the thin line of matching bathing suit bottoms stuck out along the waistband. The tiny shorts curved around her ass, and thin strings from the denim cut-offs traced her lean tawny thighs.
She was still talking, telling me things I should care about, about the conservation program on the island and success rates. The college guy glaring our way, he knew what I’d been staring at, where my mind had gone. The old guy gawking at the college kid.
I looked to the guy, even though he stood a good fifteen feet away from us. “Sounds like a good program. Best of luck.”
Chapter 4
Luna
* * *
I knocked hard on Poppy’s door. Any patience evaporated with the third mosquito bite. I twisted the knob, discovered it was open, and let myself in. Poppy lived in one of my favorite marina side homes on a quaint street named Transom Row. A picket fence ran along the front of her tall, narrow cottage, and she had planted colorful flowers in front of the fence and in window boxes along her porch rail. The white and purple blooms spilling out below her windows complemented the bright pink roses along the fence.
I would’ve expected the rent to be astronomical, but she said she got a deal by signing a year lease. The owner couldn’t make it here as often as she liked, and while she wasn’t ready to sell, she liked having someone living in it so it didn’t sit vacant. The front porch looked out onto Transom Row. Tall, narrow beach homes lined the street in a variety of hues, with white picket fences separating the sidewalk curb from the tiny, blossoming front yards. The center of the street featured a landscaped divider dotted with swaying palm trees.
The back porch of Poppy’s place looked out onto the marina. Across the marina, you could see Jules, the restaurant she used to bartend before COVID hit. That was a while ago, though. Jules was now back in full swing, and Poppy had found a new career that clearly paid well.
“Poppy?” I called, stepping into her bright kitchen. The owner painted the cabinets lavender and added a bluish clear beach glass backsplash. Large windows lined the back wall. Thanks to the open downstairs floor plan, you could cook with a view of the marina, and just beyond the marina, the mouth of the Cape Fear. If you walked out onto her back porch, leaned over the railing, and looked to your far left, you could see the lighthouse that kept ships from running aground as they made their way to the mainland.
I slid my hand along the pine banister and stepped cautiously up the steps. The faint sound of music circulated as I climbed. When I reached the landing, bright white flashing lights forced me to protect my eyes. “Poppy?”
Her head appeared from behind the white sheet held up by a stainless steel contraption. “Hey? What time is it?”
“What are you doing?”
Her cheeks flaunted a full pink glaze. She stepped closer. Makeup caked her face, and heavy eyeliner and mascara decorated her large blue eyes. And she wore lacy white lingerie.
“What are you doing?” I repeated, my tone so high I risked sounding judgmental.
“Working. Give me a minute. I have a client I need to respond to, and then I’ll be down. Help yourself to whatever you want from the refrigerator. Or wine. Do you want wine? I want wine. Open a bottle and bring me a glass. I need wine. Do you mind?” She rattled on as I scurried down the stairs.
I found a bottle I recognized with a duck on the label, uncorked it, poured two glasses, then drank half of one. Poppy hadn’t really shared much about her career change. She’d been a master at changing the subject when asked. I’d more or less assumed she found a company doing something online, research or managing ads or doing something with spreadsheets. Nothing worth talking about. Never did it ever occur to me she’d find a revenue source that involved lingerie. And photos. Because that curtain and flashing lights, she had to be taking photos. There had been a couple of umbrella-looking things scattered around the room. I’d seen that kind of setup at photographers’ studios.
I refilled my glass and made my way back up the stairs.
“Here you go.”
She sat typing away on her laptop, clicking keys at a speed that showed she could be an award-winning typist if there were such a thing. A floral silk kimono hid her lingerie, and she’d removed the cat eyes. Without the caked-on makeup and the long, dark eyelashes, she looked more like my friend.
With a final loud click, she closed her laptop, lifted a wine glass from my hand, chugged it, and said, “Okay. So, now you know.”
“Know what?” You do video sexting?
“Do you think it’s awful?” she asked with a grimace.
“What exactly are you doing?” I could make assumptions, but…
“Have you heard of OnlyFans?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, come downstairs.”
I followed her down the stairs and onto her porch.
“I share photos of this gorgeous body,” she waved her hand down her voluptuous frame, “and men who get off on seeing pics of fat chicks in lingerie pay me. Some of them I build relationships with, and yes, don’t judge me. Some of them I have sexy conversations with. Well, really emails. Messages. But I make a ton of money. Like, so much money. I can show you how. You can totally do it. And I bet with a skinny body like yours, you’d make even more money than me.”
“Ahem, wow.”
“Do you want me to show you how? You can use my photo studio.”
“Ah…that’s okay.”
“Oh, my god. You think I’m a perv. That I shouldn’t be doing this. That I’m an awful person. You are going to slut-shame me.” Her neck and face flamed pink.
“Slow down, there, girlfriend.” I reached for her hand. “Calm it down. No judgment here. I’m just wrapping my head around it, that’s all. Give me a minute.”
She swallowed her wine with her enormous eyes trained on me, like a convicted person awaiting the sentencing from the judge.
“Stop it,” I demanded, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. “If this is what you want to do, I’m for it. You know me, I go with the flow.” I glanced to my wrist, one with the sea. “But you’re not fat. You’re sexy. I can see how there’d be lots of men paying for… Do you enjoy it? I mean, t
hat’s what matters.”
She sank back into the cushion and exhaled loudly. “You know, I do? It’s weird. It started on a whim one day when I was debating if I should pay rent or buy food. And at the right angle, these tatas look pretty good, right?”
“I’d imagine they look pretty good from almost any angle.” Poppy might think of herself as fat, but I never had. She was what I’d call bigger boned, curvy but well-proportioned. I knew her weight bothered her because she’d always made comments and put herself down. Out on the beach, she hesitated to take off her cover up. And she never walked on the beach without something wrapped around her waist. But the ‘tatas,’ as she’d called them, were attention-getters. Whether we were out surfing or walking the beach or meeting up with friends at a bar, guys always noticed Poppy. Or, rather, they always noticed the tatas.
She pulled her robe tighter over her chest. “Thanks. It started as cleavage shots. You post pics, and people like them and pay you for more shots. Private shots. I set my camera on auto and take pics. I delete most, but there are some good ones with the right light and angle. A little Photoshopping. And, I mean, it’s people I’ll never meet in real life.”
“If it makes you happy, who am I to judge?”
“Yeah. It makes me happy. I’m good at marketing. The first thing I do each day is check my numbers. I was never the pretty girl, you know? I’ve been the fun friend, the one everyone loved to hang around but didn’t want to date. Now, I have these men from around the world paying to see my photos. It’s sort of rocking.”
“How do you know they’re men?”
“Oh.” She blinked several times as my question registered. “Well, it’s the internet. I suppose it could be women too. Hell, it might be a boatload of fifteen-year-old horny boys. I suppose this is like a modern-day Playboy. But the point is, who would have thought I’d ever be the centerfold?”
