There's Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One

by Stephanie Taylor

  Holly pulls the Prospectus for Paradise down from the shelf and tucks the twenty-year-old cryptic note into its pages for safe keeping. She feels the weight of the notebook in her hands and thinks of the chain of events that put it there: the broken glass; the dustpan and broom; the falling note. She’s thought of her grandparents so much lately that it feels like they’re somehow reaching out to her to offer guidance. She holds it to her chest tightly for a moment, then takes her broom back to the kitchen to clean up the broken glass.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  For a change of scenery, Holly drives down Main Street and turns left onto Pine Cone Boulevard. She takes it straight past the cluster of houses known as Turtle Dove Estates, stopping her cart in the sand on December Drive where it runs into Candy Cane Beach. She generally favors the beaches on her side of the island, but first thing in the morning, the most beautiful view of the sun rising over the water is on the east side at Candy Cane Beach.

  Holly sits in her beach chair with a coffee mug wedged into the white sand next to her right foot. The Prospectus for Paradise is open in her lap. She started re-reading it from the beginning the night before after watching the sun go down from the deck of the Ho Ho Hideaway, Joe Sacamano’s Christmas Key rum warming everyone’s bellies as they waited for the easy dinner of snapper and potatoes in tinfoil to cook over the small bonfire on the beach.

  She could tell River wanted to come home with her again, but she’d left him playing darts at the Ho Ho with the other fishermen and had slipped away on her own. Holly climbed into bed alone with the prospectus and a glass of wine, only breaking from her reading to call Fiona so that they could kick around some ideas about why Coco might be so interested in the island all of a sudden. She’d lain there in bed, covers tucked under her armpits, talking into the speakerphone as she sipped her wine.

  “Do you think she wants to retire here with Alan and live rent free?” Fiona asked from the comfort of her own bed across the island.

  The cicadas chirped in the dark outside of Holly’s bedroom window. “No, I think there’s something else brewing,” Holly guessed. “Like an idea for some sketchy business that she wants to run somewhere remote—away from prying eyes. That’s more Coco’s style.”

  “I bet she wants to launder money through the B&B,” Fiona joked. “She’s going to bring the glitz and crime of the big city to Christmas Key come hell or high water.”

  “Right? I’m sure she’ll bury her assets in the sand.” Holly took off her reading glasses and rubbed her eyes. Beneath the joking was a very real, very uneasy feeling that was growing in the pit of her stomach. She hung up with Fiona and re-opened the notebook to page one.

  A tropical oasis floats in the middle of the sea like an ice cube in a glass of whiskey. It fairly teems with wildlife and tropical flora and fauna. The sun makes its daily ascent and descent over the island like a rainbow, rising each morning from the Atlantic and dropping into the Gulf at night. From far and wide come people who want to share in this paradise. With them, they bring their histories, their passions, their gifts. They also bring agendas and desires that may or may not align with your own. Find ways to harness what works with your vision for development, and to ignore what doesn’t. You have no other choice.

  Now, sitting on the beach at sunrise, Holly realizes that he’d been right, naturally. In the years she’s been running the island without her grandpa, she’s gotten a crash course in making decisions based on what’s best for Christmas Key. She’s had to ignore agendas and desires that don’t run parallel to her own, and to push her way forward even in the face of resistance.

  She closes the book softly on her lap. Coco’s motives are suspect, and her presence alone brings with it an agenda that Holly can’t even fully imagine. There are so many thoughts and worries swimming through her brain that she doesn’t know what to do first. But she knows she has to refocus. Even with River’s visit winding down and with Jake throwing ultimatums in her direction, it’s time to put romance out of her mind momentarily and figure out the real purpose behind her mother’s visit.

  Coco has taken to carrying a notepad around with her everywhere she goes on the island. She’s got a million questions, and she’s always ready to jot down her ideas (or her “lightbulb moments” as she’s taken to calling them).

  Holly rolls her eyes when her mother taps on the door to the office, pen in one hand, the damned notepad in the other.

  “Is this a bad time?” Coco whispers in a breathy voice. She sounds like she’s doing a bad Marilyn Monroe impersonation.

  Holly motions for her to come in; she knows she can’t stop Coco from mowing her down even if it is a bad time.

  “What do you need, Mom?” She keeps typing on her laptop, hoping to send the message that her time is valuable and in short supply.

  “I just have a few more questions about the island, and I wanted to pick your brain.”

  Holly inhales deeply, counting slowly in her head as she does. She exhales, saves what she’s working on, and shuts the laptop.

  “Okay. What.” It isn’t even a question, but more of a command to just get it out and get it over with.

  “Well, your grandparents owned all of the storefronts on the island—all of the property, basically—and now the tenants pay rent each month to run their individual business. I’ve got that.”

  Holly nods, silently confirming.

  “And they sold the property that the houses rest on to some of the villagers, but retained the land in other cases, letting them build there, but live rent free. Why would they do that?”

  Coco slips into Bonnie’s empty chair across from Holly. She crosses her bare legs slowly, waiting for an answer.

  Holly chews on the inside of her cheek, trying to decide how much detail to give. “Well, by selling to some people, they were able to bring in a stream of revenue that would allow for more building. Of course, anyone who buys land can ultimately sell it as they see fit, but Grandma and Grandpa weren’t worried about that. On the other hand, those who couldn’t afford to buy, or who simply didn’t want to, were allowed to build at their own expense on land that was pre-selected for them. But upon their passing—or if they choose to leave the island at any point before then—the land and any dwelling built on it reverts back to Grandma and Grandpa’s estate.”

  “That seems like a pretty sweet deal for the tenants.”

  “It works well for us, too, since the islanders who don’t own land all contribute to our local economy anyway. A few of them run businesses or volunteer, and they’re all a part of our community. And they’re building homes that we could potentially turn around and sell when the time comes.” Holly takes a rawhide dog bone out of the drawer of her desk and tosses it to Pucci. He’s sitting quietly on his bed in the corner, nose resting on his paw, big eyes trained warily on Coco. Pucci picks up the bone and tucks it under his chest before returning his gaze to Coco’s knees.

  “Hmmm, I suppose.” Coco scratches a few words onto her notepad and underlines them firmly. “Now, I’ve gotten in touch with your accountant in Miami to talk about—”

  “Actually, Coco, I have a question for you.” Holly stands up from her desk and positions herself over her mother. “What exactly do you want here? Why the sudden interest in Christmas Key?” Her tone is suspicious. “After years of doing your own thing and not caring about the island, why do you suddenly care now?”

  Silence falls over the small office. Pucci lets out a shuddering sigh and rolls over onto his side.

  Coco taps the lid of the pen against the notepad in her lap. “Well, I wanted to gather as much information as I could—”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, I had questions, and I wanted to know—”

  “Why?”

  “Holly, you’re being very rude.” Coco puts the pen down and glares at her daughter. “Let me finish.”

  “Fine. Finish—quickly.”

  “Okay.” Coco folds her hands on top of the notepad in h
er lap and gathers her thoughts, breathing in and out a few times while Holly waits. “I’ve been looking into it, and I think we should sell the island.” She looks down at Pucci on his dog bed. “I think this place is worth more as money in the bank than it is as a giant piece of property to be managed.”

  Holly is speechless. She opens her mouth to say something, but can only blink in response. “You…I can’t…” She puts a hand to her chest.

  “And Alan agrees with me.” Coco lowers her chin and looks at her daughter squarely, obviously ready for a challenge and bringing her husband’s support along as ammo for her argument.

  “What do you mean, Alan agrees with you? Who cares what Alan thinks?” Holly spits. “How dare you even take his opinion into consideration here? This island has nothing to do with Alan.”

  “Alan is my husband, therefore I take his advice and opinion seriously.” Coco lifts her chin haughtily. “And he’s got a helluva lot more business expertise than you do, young lady.”

  “I majored in business,” Holly reminds her, still standing and glaring down at Coco.

  “I majored in business,” Coco says in a spiteful, mocking tone, turning the corners of her mouth down like a bratty child. “And what exactly has that college education done for us so far? Are you suddenly on the cusp of turning this island into a profitable venture? Do you honestly believe that you and a bunch of old farts can get a few fishermen to drift way out here, rent them some bikes, sell them a few boat rides, and suddenly call this place a travel destination?”

  Holly is incensed. For the first time in her life, her vision is actually blurred by white-hot anger. She points at the door. “You know what? Get out. Go pack your stuff, get your husband, and leave my island. Now.”

  Coco stands up, slowly pulling herself to her full height so that she can maximize the two inches she has on her daughter. Her helpful, curious façade has fallen away completely, and her eyes are narrow and beady as she physically backs her daughter into the corner of the room. “You can’t tell me to go away, little girl,” Coco hisses, moving in closer. “This is my island, because it belonged to my parents.” She jabs a finger at her own chest for emphasis. “And—in case you’ve forgotten—you’re my daughter, so you’ll do as I tell you.”

  Holly has never been in a physical altercation before, and she’s never wanted so badly to reach out and slap someone, but Coco has her pinned so that her shoulders are nearly touching the wall behind her.

  Just then, Alan appears in the doorway, his face a mask of innocence.

  “Ladies, I just wanted to stop in and see if you felt like joining me for coffee,” he says, assessing the situation. “Oh. You’re busy—got it.” Holding up a hand, he backs away, attempting an escape.

  “Not so fast,” Holly snaps. Her eyes are still on her mother’s face, which is mere inches from her own. Alan stops in his tracks. “I don’t want you and my mother discussing my personal business when I’m not present, understood?”

  “Holly, she has your best interests at heart,” Alan says, holding a handkerchief in his hands. “And I can’t help it if I agree with her.”

  “Are you kidding me? You agree with her that we should sell the island? Just get rid of the only home I’ve ever had? I would really love to hear your suggestions about what I should do with my life next, Alan.” Holly slips away from the wall, stepping around Coco. She folds her arms across her chest and squares off with Alan instead.

  Her stepfather shrugs, unconcerned. “The resort offered to keep the younger people on the payroll, and they promised to relocate all of the older folks. It’s not like you’d have to leave.”

  Holly is flabbergasted at the words coming out of his mouth. She has a surreal moment where she feels like aliens have invaded the island; her life is quickly turning into a horror movie. “Did I hear you say they would relocate the older people? And wait, let’s back it up here for just one hot minute,” Holly says, her anger threatening to get the better of her. “Exactly what ‘resort’ are you referring to?”

  Alan turns to Coco, holding out a hand to her.

  “Well, honey, I have a resort that’s interested in purchasing the island,” Coco says, the acidity of her former words replaced by an overly-saccharine sweetness. “They want to build a five-star resort here with villas and the capacity for eight-hundred guests. They think your Christmas theme is really cute,” she adds hurriedly, “but we haven’t worked out all the details on whether that will work with their overall vision.”

  Holly nods, jaw clenched. “First of all, don’t call me ‘honey.’ Secondly, Eight hundred people. Eight hundred.” She keeps nodding, trying to take in this new information without her head exploding.

  “It would be the culmination of all that your grandfather dreamed of, sweetheart.” Coco waves a hand, her long, manicured nails flicking through the air. “This would finally be a real tourist destination, not just some rinky-dink island full of people with more wrinkles than class.”

  “Jesus, Mom,” Holly whispers, her steaming rage melting into a quiet puddle of sadness. She can hardly bear the weight of hearing her mother talk that way about the people she’s known and loved her whole life; it truly sickens her. “That’s not what Grandpa wanted at all. You don’t know anything about this place.” Completely against her will, her eyes begin to sting. She stares at her mother for a moment longer, and then at Alan. They feel like strangers.

  “I want you gone,” she says to Coco unflinchingly. “And I don’t want you to breathe a word of this to anyone,” she orders. “There’s no reason to get people in a tizzy about this when it’s never going to happen. Now get the hell out of my office. Both of you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In south Florida, daily rainstorms during the summer are as predictable as politicians talking out of both sides of their mouths. For the second time in a week, the island is taking a lashing from a driving onslaught of showers, this one stopping just shy of tropical storm status. There’s no need to congregate in a safe place like they had during the previous storm, but the rains are heavy enough that Holly has to rush home from the B&B mid-afternoon to roll down the thick plastic covers that protect her lanai.

  She’s on the tiled patio, sweat running down her front and back as she tugs at the cords to release the rolled-up sheets of plastic from the ceiling. One of the cords is tangled, and Holly fights with it as a steady flow of water streams in through the screens. The front of her body is totally drenched.

  When the cord finally lets loose, the plastic unfurls like a tube of wrapping paper rolling down a flight of stairs. She jumps out of the way as it comes crashing down, the plastic now shielding her and her patio furniture from the water. The world on the other side of her lanai is suddenly a vision of plastic-muted trees and greenery, and the sound of the falling rain is muffled by the window covers.

  Holly stands there, contemplating the strange dichotomy of summer in the tropics: it’s entirely possible to be soaked to the bone with both sweat and rain at the same time, and to still be hot enough to feel like stripping off your shirt. So strip it off she does. She tosses her wet shirt over the back of a chair and unbuttons her shorts, letting them fall on the tile at her feet. Holly twists her long hair to wring out the water; it splatters on the tile at her feet.

  A loud tapping startles her; Jake is outside of the lanai, looking in at her with one hand shielding his eyes like he’s looking at the sun. His face is blurred and distorted through the screen covers just like the palms and mangroves in the distance, but she would know Jake’s figure anywhere. Holly throws back the plastic.

  “Jake, what are you doing here?”

  He looks her up and down, taking in her bikini and wet hair. “Your top doesn’t match your bottoms,” he points out, still staring at her body.

  “As usual, right?” She glances at her own mismatched top and bottoms, then back at his face. “I got soaked putting my rain covers down.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you
were okay. There’s a storm raging,” he says through the downpour, his shirt and shorts plastered to his body. “Actually, I was over here helping Buckhunter get his cart out of a muddy ditch, so I thought I’d drop by.” He runs a big hand across his mouth, wiping away the water that’s dripping down the sides of his tanned face.

  It’s then that Holly sees the drooping collection of flowers in his other hand. They’re hanging at his side, water falling from the petals.

  “Officer Zavaroni,” she says, pointing at the handpicked bouquet of pink hibiscus, banana flowers, and baby carambolas. “Are those for me?”

  He looks at her from under his black cap, shifting his weight in the mucky grass. “Yeah,” he says, suddenly looking like someone who’s shown up at Christmas with a gift that he regrets bringing. “I know it’s not the seventeenth, but…here.” He holds them out to her.

  “I can’t take them through the screen—come around. I’ll meet you at the front door.”

  Holly stops in the bathroom on her way through the house to grab her silk robe. Her wet bikini immediately seeps through the pink satin, leaving two round circles on the chest of her robe.

  “Hey,” she says, opening the front door but not inviting him in. She leans against the edge of the doorframe and Jake steps up onto her porch where the overhang shields him from the driving rain. “Not only is it not the seventeenth, but we’re not even dating anymore, so anniversary flowers aren’t necessary. Plus, you just told me yesterday that you had no interest in waiting around for me,” she points out, taking the bouquet from him and putting the wet flowers to her nose.

  “I just saw them and thought of you. Anyway, I’ll go.” Jake steps down one of the three stairs in front of her house.

  “But thank you. I mean, for thinking of me.” Holly sniffs the flowers.