Falling For You At Christmas: Shellwater Key Tale

by Kristin Wallace

  Across from The Strip was a boardwalk that started at the park and wound its way beside the water for about three miles. In the mornings, mothers with strollers mostly claimed the boardwalk. After work, the path was taken over by joggers and bike riders, and at sunset everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the glowing orange orb slip beneath the horizon.

  Very idyllic. Very quaint. Norman Rockwell with a tropical twist. Of course, real life was never as simple as one of those paintings.

  At the end of The Strip she turned right, heading back into residential neighborhoods. She took another right on Snowy Egret Avenue and then pulled into the third driveway on the left in front of a white, two-story, Key West-style house.

  Layla hadn’t even gotten the key out of the ignition when the screen door opened and two older women walked out. The first was tall and angular, with graying hair pulled back in a tight bun on top of her head. A beaming smile was the only softness about Dr. Barbara McCarthy. A step behind was her polar opposite. Shorter by almost half a foot, Grace-Anne Carter retained a gently rounded figure even well into her seventh decade. Her blonde hair – which she refused to admit she colored – flowed to her shoulders in soft waves. Everything about Aunt Grace was soft and welcoming.

  Seeing them, the last of Layla’s anxiety vanished. She got out of the car and was almost immediately pulled into Gran’s chest, where Layla was enveloped by the twin scents of scented body spray and mega-powered antiseptic. The first came courtesy of the gift she’d given Gran on her birthday. The second was due to Gran’s never-abandoned habit of continually washing her hands as if she was about to head into surgery.

  Layla blinked back tears as her grandmother’s warmth invaded the ice encased around her heart. The protective coating that had kept her from losing it throughout the whole ordeal with Melanie and Julian.

  Gran pulled back and framed Layla’s face between her hands. “We’ll make it better,” she said, with such conviction that Layla almost believed her. “I promise.”

  Making it better had always been Gran’s promise. Unfortunately, her surgeon’s skills couldn’t repair damage of an emotional nature.

  “My turn,” Aunt Grace said, shouldering her sister out of the way. She had to stand on her toes to reach Layla, who’d inherited her grandmother’s impressive height. “If I could find that French boy and string him up by his entrails for you, I would.”

  For all of her sweetness and light, Aunt Grace always stood ready to avenge the ones she loved in the most gruesome, horror-movie-death way possible. A tendency that was the result of a naturally dramatic nature coupled with way too many television shows featuring crime scene investigators. “Thanks. I’ll let you know if hanging is ever a possibility.”

  She nodded, and then sent Layla a dazzling smile. “Oh, but we’re going to have so much fun. Wait till you see The Paradise. You’ll love it. She’s just weeping to be revived.”

  “I’m not sure I want to work in a building that weeps,” Layla said. “In fact, if I start hearing sobs emanating from the walls I’m running the other way as fast as I can. I’ve seen those movies, and they usually end with some poor, terrified family fleeing for their lives.”

  Aunt Grace chuckled and kissed Layla’s cheek. “I have missed your way with words.”

  “Grace, let her go so we can get her things inside,” Gran said. “We’ve been holding off dinner so we’ll eat as soon as you’ve settled a bit.”

  Layla wrestled three suitcases out of the trunk, up the steps to the wrap-around porch, and then individually dragged each one up the narrow staircase to her old room. Gran huffed while Aunt Grace fluttered the entire way, with both insisting they should help. Layla wasn’t about to let one of them break a hip, however.

  She might be an unemployed businesswoman, but she’d be a well-dressed one, toting designer clothes.

  Her grandmother and great-aunt continued to fuss until Layla told them as gently as possible that she’d be down for dinner in a bit. Aunt Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Gran must have sensed that Layla needed a moment to fall apart.

  Gran grabbed her sister’s elbow. “We’ll go set the table.”

  Layla heard them grumbling all the way down the stairs, and chuckled to herself. They hadn’t changed a bit. No two females loved each other more or drove each other crazier than Barbara McCarthy and Grace-Anne Carter. No two people had ever loved Layla more. They’d been her saviors her entire life. Her shelter in a storm.

  Now they were out to save her again.

  She should be past the point where she needed to be bailed out by her elderly relatives. She should be living in her twentieth floor condo overlooking Biscayne Bay, and preparing to roll out a new campaign for a client.

  Instead, she was back in her old room, with a few suitcases and her battered pride. She sat down on the twin bed and stared at her new quarters. A battered, furless, stuffed dog lay in a place of honor next to the pillow. Layla picked up the toy and stared at it. Woo-Woo had been with her for as long as she could remember. Woo-Woo held a lot of secrets. He’d been a witness to her every heartbreak growing up and countless tears.

  Layla hugged Woo-Woo to her chest and lay down, curling up into a ball.

  Then the tears came.

  * * *

  Buy it now: Left Turn At Paradise

  * * *

  Read another excerpt from the upcoming STRAIGHT ON TOWARD PARADISE

  Straight On Toward Paradise

  At fifteen, Emma Bertram’s perfect family splintered when her father left her mother for another woman. Anger and bitterness, along with the demands of being a professional chef, have kept Emma apart from her father and his new family for years. Then her father and stepmother are killed in a car accident. Returning to her childhood home of Shellwater Key, Emma learns she has become guardian of her two half-sisters.

  * * *

  What Emma knows about raising children could fit on a restaurant napkin. So when her mother offers to stay and help with the girls, Emma can’t say no. She also can’t say no to her childhood friend’s job offer to be the head chef at the old Paradise Dinner Theatre. Renovating the dilapidated kitchen may be even more challenging than dealing with her half-sisters. Then there’s her father’s law partner, Reece Casings, who has no trouble telling Emma what she’s doing wrong. The buttoned-up, so-wrong-for-her, but oh-so-handsome lawyer makes Emma’s blood boil. Or is it heart race?

  * * *

  In the end Emma will have to learn how to forgive her father…and herself…and trust in love again if she hopes to serve up a happily ever after for everyone.

  Chapter 1

  “What would it take to put you on my entrée list?”

  Emma Bertram almost jumped out of her skin as a thick, hairy arm draped across her shoulders. She nearly dropped the tray of hors d’oeuvres she’d slaved over for the last hour. The sour smell of alcohol and cigars wafted across her face as the man leaned closer. Emma twisted, trying to put the tray between her and Thaddeus P. Coltrane, III.

  Already, Emma regretted the decision to leave the galley. Fresh ocean air wasn’t a strong enough reason to walk into the path of lechers.

  “I’m not on the menu, sir,” Emma said, keeping her voice toneless.

  Any show of outrage generally made dirty old men like Thaddeus more determined to bring her to heel. Dirty old men with more money than God could make a lot of trouble for her. His type rarely had to hear the word “no” and didn’t take it well when they did.

  “Thaddeus, you lecherous old goat, leave my chef alone,” a sultry voice intoned from behind Emma’s back.

  Emma and the “lecherous old goat” turned as Isabella Barrett-Toulouse, owner of the floating palace christened Queen’s Ransom, moved toward them. Isabella’s sapphire-blue designer gown fluttered in the evening breeze, making it seem as though she sailed above the deck. To look at her, no one would guess Isabella had celebrated her seventy-first birthday two months ago. Her skin seemed as smooth as a ba
by’s bottom. Of course, she was worth an estimated $3.5 billion, and people with that kind of wealth could afford to acquire wrinkle-free skin by any means possible.

  Thaddeus withdrew his hand. “I was merely trying to inquire about the recipe for those decadent chocolate tarts Chef Bertram served at dinner last night, Isa.”

  ‘Isa’ rolled her eyes. “Don’t try to fool me, Thad. Go on now.” She shooed him away with the flick of her hand.

  Thaddeus threw one more glance toward Emma before sauntering away.

  Isabella sighed and turned back. “Excuse my guests, Emma. They often forget themselves.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m all right.”

  Being hit on wasn’t anything new, though Emma continued to be surprised by each new proposition. Since joining the crew of Queen’s Ransom as Master Chef five months ago, she’d been on the receiving end of every bawdy proposition, lewd suggestion, and crude pick up line ever invented. For reasons unknown to her, the insanely wealthy guests who sailed on the yacht were attracted to her like bees to a honeycomb.

  Perhaps it was the chef uniform. Maybe rich playboys had role-playing fantasies and thought it would be exciting to play in the kitchen—slather each other in oil and roll around on the floor like they were starring in a porno movie. There was certainly nothing about her five-three, tomboyish frame, honey-colored eyes, and wild mane of caramel-tinted curls to garner such attention.

  “It could be that you seem so aloof,” Isabella said, with a thoughtful frown. “An island unto yourself. Perhaps they want to poke through that mystique.”

  “Oh, they want to poke something, but I doubt it’s my mystique,” Emma said, in a dry tone.

  Isabella chuckled. “You know what I mean, my iron chef. You with the hollow eyes and air of tragedy swirling about you.”

  Emma suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her employer. Isabella might be more casual than your average multi-billion-dollar heiress, but she demanded nothing less than absolute respect.

  “There is no air of tragedy,” Emma said. “I’m trying to be professional. No one wants an emotionally unstable female chef. Only male chefs are allowed to be egomaniacal jerks in the kitchen.”

  “My dear, you positively drip with tragedy,” Isabella said. “Why else would you leave one of the most acclaimed restaurants in San Francisco and take a job on my yacht?”

  “I wanted to see the world.” Emma fought to keep a tremor out of her voice. Tried not to think of the heartbreak she’d fled a few months ago, and the life she’d known and lost years before that. “I’ve never been to Asia.”

  “Neither had I. Vincent promised to sail away with me for my seventieth birthday.” Isabella grew silent, and Emma allowed her to fall back into memories. A past life filled with a beloved husband and only son.

  They both had reasons to avoid home.

  Isabella seemed to shake off her trance. “Now you’ve made me melancholy.” A smile pulled at her lips. “This sailing is a celebration for me. For you, I think it’s been an escape, but my dear, soon the world will come calling and drag you back.”

  With those parting words, Isabella continued on, moving to speak to her guests. Emma stared after the retreating woman and shivered. Nonsense. No one was about to beg her to come home. She didn’t even have a real home anymore. Fighting off her own sudden bout of melancholy, Emma instead focused on the dark sea, which stretched around out beyond the yacht like an undulating blanket. A full moon had risen, and the light caressed the water with a silver-tinted beam. Behind her, smoky jazz music played, accompanied by the buzz of voices from Isabella’s guests.

  Emma took several deep breaths, focusing on the amazing fact that she was able to enjoy magnificent scenes like this, every day.

  “Emma!” a strident voice called out.

  She whirled around to see one of the assistant stewards running toward her.

  The younger woman huffed as she reached Emma’s side. “You have to come quick.”

  “Why?” she asked in instant alarm. “Is there a fire in the galley? Has someone been hurt?”

  “No. It’s your mother.”

  “My what?”

  “The captain came looking for you,” she said, pulling on Emma’s arm. “The call was patched through to him. Your mother is waiting for you.”

  Fear lodging her throat, Emma took off at a run. Her mother wouldn’t contact her like this unless it was a dire emergency. She called every other week, mostly to assure her mother she was still alive.

  She and Kylie raced up the two narrow flights of stairs to the bridge. The Captain turned as they stumbled inside.

  “You said my mother was trying to contact me?” Emma burst out, her chest heaving from both the sprint and panic.

  The Captain pointed to the radio, and Emma snatched it up. “Mom? I’m here.”

  “Emma, finally,” her mother said, the voice sounding thin and far away. “I couldn’t reach your phone.”

  “We’re in deep water. No reception. What’s going on?”

  “Oh baby…” There was a pause and when her mother spoke again, Emma was certain her mother was crying.

  “Mom…what’s wrong?” Emma cried, her alarm growing by the second. “Are you sick? Hurt?”

  “No, it’s not me. Emma, it’s your father.”

  Every muscle in her body froze. “Dad? What happened?”

  “There was an accident. He and Mona…”

  Again, her mother’s voice trailed off. Emma’s heart was pounding so hard each pulse actually hurt. “Mom! Are they all right?”

  “No…baby, they’re both gone. Another car lost control and hit them head on.”

  Sound rushed through Emma’s head and she had to catch herself on the back of the captain’s chair. “How do you know? Are you sure?”

  “Your father’s law partner. He called here because he couldn’t get in touch with you.

  Emma’s legs went numb, and she slid to the floor. “What about the girls? Imogene and Paige?”

  “They weren’t in the car with them. Emma, you have to come home.”

  “Who’s taking care of the girls?”

  “I assume Mona’s mother—”

  Static blasted her ear, and she held the radio away. “Mom…Mom!” The line went dead, and Emma could only stare at the radio in her hand.

  Then somehow Isabella was there. She knelt by Emma’s side and took the device. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “They’re dead,” Emma said, barely hearing Isabella’s words of comfort. “My dad and stepmother are dead.”

  “I know,” she said, eyes filled with compassion. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Isabella had been right about the world dragging Emma back.

  She took a deep breath and looked up into the older woman’s eyes. “Can you help me get home?”

  * * *

  Emma soon learned that when Isabella wanted something accomplished, it was done. Having billions at one’s disposal helped grease palms, wheels, and anything else that needed to be oiled. A private helicopter flew out to the yacht and landed right on the deck. They flew to Hong Kong Island for refueling, and then on to Hong Kong International Airport. By the time Emma made it to the airport, the older woman had arranged for a first class flight to Dallas, and then on to Miami, Florida. From there Emma would rent a car and drive two and half hours to Shellwater Key, the tiny town on Florida’s southwest coast where she’d been born.

  Once she’d finally made it to the airport, Emma had taken a few minutes to call her mother to let her know when she’d arrive. She hadn’t been able to find out any further information, except apparently the funeral service would take place tomorrow, with or without Thomas Bertram’s eldest daughter. Emma also had no news on her half-sisters, Imogene and Paige, but hopefully, Mona’s mother had already taken them in.

  Being stuck on a plane for roughly twenty hours left Emma with only one thing to do… Think.

  Think about how she’d spent half her life running f
rom memories of her childhood. Memories of the perfect family that had been ripped apart when her father fell in love with another woman.

  Ever since the divorce, Emma had kept Thomas Bertram on the fringes of her life. She’d refused to forgive him, holding on to bitterness and anger as the only weapons at her disposal. After Emma turned eighteen, and she’d no longer had to visit on the random holiday or weekend, the rift had grown wider. She’d had little to do with her father’s new family, which eventually grew to include an adopted daughter, Imogene, and the miracle child, Paige, who’d arrived after her father and stepmother had given up hope of having a baby.

  Now her dad was gone. Forever.

  Emma would never have a chance to take back the angry words. No chance to heal the rift.

  The heavy weight of guilt threatened to drown her, and she turned her face to the window. The sun had begun to rise, and the colors were glorious. Emma wished she could take pleasure in the coming dawn, but all she could think about was the fact that two young girls were waking up as orphans, halfway across the world.

  On the final leg of her journey, Emma finally managed to fall asleep. Her dreams were plagued by visions of towering figures shaking their fingers in her face, their black eyes filled with contempt and judgment. She startled awake to the sound of the pilot informing them they were about to land in Miami.

  Once off the plane, Emma retrieved her bags and then made her way down the concourse, along with the masses of humanity flying into the Magic City from every corner of the globe. The rapid fire of Spanish flowed around her, adding to the general sense of disorientation, as if she’d somehow landed in an alternate universe.