“Probably a hundred. It was his favorite.”
As Hayden thumbed through the pages, a piece of paper fell out and drifted to the floor. She bent down to snatch it up off the drop cloth.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“I don’t know.” Hayden unfolded the piece of paper. “Oh. My. God.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a note. Read it, Jordan. Tell me I’m not hallucinating what it says.”
Jordan took the piece of paper from her trembling hands. Hayden watched as her eyes went wide before growing wet again.
The note read, “Welcome to Pelican Pointe, Hayden. Relax. You’ve come this far. Don’t give up now. Take care of Ethan. Take care of my town and the people in it.”
Dancing Tides
Book 3 of The Pelican Pointe Boxed Set
A Pelican Pointe Novel
by
VICKIE McKEEHAN
Welcome to Pelican Pointe
Prologue Book 3
Eighteen months earlier
Leesburg, Virginia
Decked out in his Sunday best, a tux no less, he stuck his index finger between his sweaty neck and the collar of the scratchy, white shirt he wore, and nervously gave the fabric a tug as he waited at the altar for his bride to make that walk down the aisle where she would become Mrs. Cord Bennett.
Even though the stifling heat of Indian summer had the crowded church feeling airless, Cord tried to loosen his tie about the same time his best man, Paul Angleton, bumped his shoulder, and batted his hand away to put an end to the fidgeting.
Cord shot a thumbs up in the direction of Paul indicating he was A-OK, even though he was anything but.
Not even close.
His gut felt like the drummer in the band had gotten an early start and set up a steady beat in his stomach. The rehearsal dinner party the night before had gone on too long. He’d indulged in too much wine and woke up this morning with the hangover from hell.
But if he puked now, Cassie would never forgive him. So he swallowed down his bile and tried to ignore the sickening smell of all the flowers lining the altar.
In fact, it might have been the powerful combination of all those fragrant blossoms coming together along with the sweet-smelling blend of perfume from the hundred or so guests, packed like sardines into a chapel meant to hold no more than seventy-five, that had his upchuck reflex on overload.
Whatever it was, it had him wishing they’d get this show on the road.
He supposed every groom was nervous before uttering those two little words that would cement a bond for life. Thinking like that, his queasiness got worse.
Not because he was having second thoughts. No, he’d given his heart to Cassie three years earlier and knew for a fact no other woman would do.
For him, Cassie Spearman was it. At that precise moment though another whiff of magnolias hit his nostrils and almost brought him to his knees. The pungent odor had him wishing they’d eloped to Virginia Beach in a quickie service without all the fuss. He knew a buddy there who had taken up preaching since coming back from Iraq. Knew for a fact he could’ve had them married without a frill or a piece of lace. But Cassie had wanted to tie the knot in front of her entire family wearing the dress, the one that had cost her parents a small fortune.
And that, too, was apparently what regular families did. Family.
Cord didn’t have a clue what it meant to be a part of that kind of a unit. He’d grown up in San Diego in the system, a ward of the state.
At first, around eight or nine he’d thought that somebody might come along and adopt him. But by the time he’d celebrated his tenth birthday that notion had died on the vine and he’d accepted the reality of his situation. No one wanted him. And too many didn’t even care, not even the foster families he’d repeatedly tested to the limits. They’d taken him on, albeit briefly, and passed on making him a permanent part of their unit.
By the time he’d hit thirteen, his teen rebellion had kicked in for good about the same time he’d realized no family felt like taking a chance on a kid who never seemed to measure up to their expectations. There had simply never been a good fit. So he had stayed stuck in the foster care system until he’d struck out on his own at sixteen. He hadn’t even graduated high school, at least not until much later when he got his GED in the army. In between his military stint and joining the California Guard unit, he’d managed to sandwich in two years of community college.
But Iraq had put an end to anything beyond that. His unit had been called up and, once again, he’d served his country.
So, if Cassie wanted to say “I do” in front of a bunch of relatives she loved and who loved her back, then he could damn well stand here in his Sunday best and breathe in the smell of a bunch of flowers, even though they made him slightly ill.
It had to be the lilies, that array of buds representing the tried and true language of love and tradition only a bride could fully appreciate, that smelled so freaking strong. They stood tall and straight, lining the dais in so many different shades of pink and white he could hardly keep them all straight without conjuring up a bottle of Pepto Bismol.
But the lilies were Cassie’s favorite. And because of that he had no doubt she knew every blessed variety of petal or bud. The woman kept track of every stem and shade of color that had been delivered to the church that day. He would bet money on it. Because she had spent hours and hours with at least a half dozen different florists in town picking out just the right shade of pink—for the flowers alone. The ones she had bugged him about, the ones he’d barely given a second glance or given a second thought—because let’s face it—he hadn’t cared a whit about what kind of flowers she carried or what genus decorated the church.
As long as she said “I do” when the right time presented itself, as long as he could manage the same without choking or stammering or forgetting that one important line, he didn’t give a good crap about a bunch of flowers.
But Cassie Anne Spearman did.
He scanned the small chapel and its sea of faces, checking out the rows of pews where family sat alongside friends and coworkers waiting for Cassie to take center stage.
His lips curved into a wide grin. These people had shown up to spend their Saturday afternoon watching the two of them tie the knot after a long courtship, a courtship that had included three tours of duty in Iraq for him, as well as numerous separations. Cultivating a long-distance relationship with a soldier during a war was never a good bet. But he and Cassie had weathered the storms, cut through the pitfalls and come out the other side better for it.
Here today, they were about to exchange vows and prepare to spend the rest of their lives together.
They’d been through a lot. So it didn’t really matter to him about her choice of flowers or the dress or any of the details that had seemed to drive his bride-to-be crazy over the past several months.
He’d spent that time watching Cassie’s careful planning, saying “yes” when it was expected, nodding his head in agreement whether the topic had been about napkins or the choice of caterers, or how many place settings they would need for the dinner parties they would surely give.
He’d let her choose whatever bridal registry was the best, let her be the deciding factor as to whether they served chicken or fish at the reception.
No, up to this point, he had been all about getting to the church and to this day when he would cease his bachelor existence and become husband material for all time to “the one.”
Cassie Spearman was the one. At barely five foot three, the little blonde had managed to capture his heart, his mind, his soul.
And for him, she had been the first one to do so. Before Cassie he’d made sure he kept his heart from ever suffering any kind of major rejection or defeat in that department.
Good thing she had agreed to become his wife. Otherwise what Iraq hadn’t been able to do to him, a broken heart surely would have.
And at six foot four, Cord Bennett
wasn’t an easy man to take down. Nor was he a pushover. At least not until Cassie had come into his life.
Not half an hour earlier his best man had reminded him that no matter what Cassie looked like in her dress, he was to make absolutely certain that the expression on his face told her, in no uncertain terms, that he was blown away by her appearance, by her dress, by her presence.
But when he spotted Cassie at the end of the aisle, about to take that step toward him in her soft white gown with her hair swept up off her shoulders on the arm of her father, there had been no need for pretending.
He had simply been blown away by the sheer beauty Cassie innately showed to the world. Her face lit up, standing there in the gown she had so carefully chosen with the bead and pearl bodice, the way the skirt showed off her curves and full figure.
He fell in love with her all over again. The nerves fell away. All of his unease subsided.
Staring at his soon-to-be wife, his mouth gaped open; he would have bet money on it. He was that awestruck.
But then, it all changed in a flash of gunfire.
By the time Cord realized what was happening, the uninvited guest had already fired a series of fatal shots. His eyes zeroed in on the man holding the Luger. Cord started running down the aisle toward Cassie. But he couldn’t get his legs to move fast enough.
Bullets flew. People screamed.
Boom, boom, boom—the man kept firing.
Cord saw the shooter turn, take a few steps toward him, and aim his weapon. That’s when he felt the burn in his chest.
As he went down, Cord saw Cassie’s dress turning from the silky, shimmering gown of white to a blood-red splatter born of rage and hate and jealousy.
The last thing he remembered was the sickening sweet smell of blossoms as the air around him changed to the putrid iron odor of blood.
He’d survived three tours of duty in Iraq. But a gunman had taken him down in a suburban church in the middle of a quiet, residential neighborhood.
And with it, had ended the life he’d dreamed of spending with Cassie Anne Spearman.
Chapter 1 Book 3
Present day
Pelican Pointe, California
The dive along the docks known as McCready’s rocked and shook with the after work crowd. The place jammed with people determined to cap off the end of their forty-plus hour week in tried and true fashion—happy hour drummed along in full swing.
Friday afternoon bar patrons were a mix of khaki wearers, mostly members of the town council, sitting amid the jeans-clad local fishermen and dock workers. Each group had their favorite thing to gripe about. The lousy economy had them stumped. The ridiculous cost of fuel had them pissed. Still others bitched about the girlfriend or spouse they’d ignored back at home.
They explored a variety of solutions—mainly how to make it through the end of the month—grousing about the week’s sorry catch, and agreed that life would get infinitely better if they ever had the good fortune to hit the lottery.
Because they all wanted nothing more at the moment than to leave their troubles behind for an hour or more, no one dared mention the irony of blowing their precious dollars on booze. Or that McCready’s wasn’t suffering from any type of economic slump.
At the long, scarred, mahogany bar, crabbiness linked them in camaraderie. No matter what the subject matter, fellowship meant taking advantage of the happy hour specials, which happened to be either two dollar bottled beer or three-dollar well drinks.
The music on the ancient juke was loud and country, the smoke thick and smelly, the food greasy and typical bar fare. But on a Friday night the local faithful wouldn’t have dreamed of blowing their hard earned cash or getting stone-blind drunk anywhere else except the place that passed for an Irish pub in Pelican Pointe.
And today, there were rumors stirring up the masses about some big wig corporation wanting to buy out all the independent fishermen in the area. In the way of small towns the gossip impacted all of them in one way or another. Everyone might’ve felt the pressure of surviving in the poor economic times, but some saw it as another greedy corporation going after the little guy—and one of their own.
Some compared the plight of the fisherman to the beleaguered American farmer when they were close to financial ruin. The townspeople were on the side of the local fishermen whether it was the professional man who made his living on the water, or the guy who fished for pleasure, the locals wanted the big wig outsiders to keep out and stay out of Pelican Pointe.
Progress be damned.
But regardless of the stress and the mood inside McCready’s, the back room where the pool tables stood had an overflow crowd. Those that weren’t playing a game were watching, either applauding shots, or making derogatory comments. It didn’t matter which because in the end the players and watchers alike chalked it up to forgetting their troubles for a few measly hours enough to be sociable.
Cord Bennett didn’t give a shit about being social.
His height alone caused more than a few to take a second look because he cut an imposing figure. Few were stupid enough to take him on in a fight. Even those who were sloshed and looking for trouble usually decided on the spot to re-evaluate the situation and move on.
Because when Cord got hammered, they’d better walk away or suffer the consequences.
Then there were the tattoos. One arm bore his black and red army ranger band designating his unit, capped off with a skull and crossbones. The other arm sported a snarling, black dragon.
If you could get past the badass look, there was his long, sandy blond hair that hung to his shoulders. And the fact his warm, brown eyes flecked with gold could soften at the drop of a hat. He had a tender heart for animals. He couldn’t work around them all the time and not. He was a sucker for kids, especially those who had grown up hard like he had. And because of that soft spot he often lacked the ability to get tough or dish out hardcore discipline of any kind.
Sober, he ran to easygoing, even laid-back. Even when he did get upset, he could send out vibes with a look, and then rely on his size to diffuse a difficult circumstance.
In other words, it took a lot to piss him off. At least in years past that was true.
But now, when Cord drank, a person might get the surly attitude along with a willingness to fight just to prove a point.
The night was early yet, not even seven o’clock. Cord wasn’t quite drunk. But he was steadily doing his damnedest to get there.
Nights like this one were the toughest, where memories of other more festive Friday nights lingered like the heavy smoke in the air or the unmistakable smells of fish along the pier.
Heartbreaking recollections of a time spent with the love of his life no longer mattered. But they were there, always there, hovering at the surface, filling up that corner of his mind that no matter how much he drank he couldn’t completely get to go away.
He would’ve liked nothing better than to simply hit a delete key, like on a computer, and erase or somehow wipe away the memories of happier days. That way he wouldn’t have to remember what had been.
He had to remind himself that he was content wallowing in his miserable excuse of an existence. And if he got lucky tonight, more of the drink might, just might, wipe out even that stubborn corner where Cassie lived as if she had never been there at all.
When the hulk of an Irishman named Flynn McCready, who not only tended bar but owned the place as well, stared at him long and hard, Cord knew that look.
“You’re done here, Cord. You’ve reached your limit. You’ll get no more drink tonight from me.”
Cord stood up with a curse and decided on the spot it wasn’t worth a fight. Nothing much was of late. You had to care about something in order to fight for it.
And he’d given up caring for anything a year and a half ago.
Hell, he wanted to be by himself anyway so he shrugged off McCready’s missive.
He’d simply take his business down to Murphy’s before the place closed a
nd buy his own bottle. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.
When he ran into Deputy Sheriff Ethan Cody, the law in these parts, coming in the door as he was going out, Cord swore again at his lousy luck. He glared at the town cop, his Native American features, and wished he’d had the good sense to leave the bar sooner.
Because now he’d get the third degree from Ethan. “Cord, I hope you aren’t heading to your truck.”
“And what if I am?” Cord bellowed back, not in the mood for a hassle.
“Then I’d have to take your keys.”
Cord’s eyes narrowed. “Christ, Ethan. Stop treating me like I’m the town drunk.”
“Then stop acting like it,” Ethan snapped.
Cord’s face fell.
Ethan sighed and pulled the man farther outside, out of earshot of the other patrons, out onto the sidewalk. “Look, I know you’ve had a rough couple of years. But you have to stop this self-destructive shit before you hurt yourself.” Or someone else, he wanted to add. Maybe Nick Harris needed to get tougher with his friend. Hell, maybe as a member of law enforcement, he did as well.
“Hurt myself? What do you know about it anyway? It’s Friday night for chrissakes. I’m entitled to a drink now and again just like the rest of the town. You think McCready’s is standing room only tonight because I’m the only one in town having a drink. Shit. Six days a week I bust my ass out at that farm. When I’m not there I’m doing chores at the B & B. I don’t slack off. I do my share of the work. You don’t believe me, ask Nick. Hell, Silas and Sammy will vouch for me, too. I’m a damn good manager.”
It had been Cord’s boss, Nick Harris, who had called and sent him in to pull Cord out of McCready’s.
Pelican Pointe Boxed Set Books 1 - 3 (A Pelican Pointe Novel) Page 59
