by Toni Blake
“Who is that guy?” She rolled her eyes and motioned toward the rude stranger, who now unloaded another sizable bush from the tailgate of a faded red pickup truck.
“His name is Jeremy Sheridan,” Reece said.
And Christy added, “He’s from Destiny, Ohio—my hometown. I just didn’t recognize him the other night when we saw him getting arrested. I still can’t believe that’s him.” She shook her head, then appeared a bit wistful. “You should have seen him when he was younger. He was so handsome—big town heartthrob, football hero, the works.”
They all glanced over to where the Neanderthal now lugged another bush toward some unsuspecting helpers who Tamra figured were probably about to get yelled at for being in his way.
“Him?” she asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Okay, he had nice arms—muscular, tan—but otherwise . . . “That’s hard to imagine.”
Then Christy lowered her voice to inform Tamra, “He’s been in war. In Afghanistan.”
And Tamra tipped her head back slightly. “Ah—so that’s what’s wrong with him.”
When everyone just stared at her, clearly aghast, she said, “I don’t mean to be cold, but I’m not sure going to war gives someone a license to be rude to every person they meet. And I don’t want anything to do with him.”
Which was when Cami made a slightly troubled face and said, “Well, that could be a problem.”
And Tamra blinked. “Why’s that?”
“Because I just hired him to build the golf course you’re designing.”
She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.
Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden
Chapter 3
TAMRA FELT her eyebrows shoot up. “Him?”
Again, everyone just stared at her.
“What?” she said, defending herself.
“He’s a veteran,” Christy said, almost as reverently as if they were in a church. Tamra supported veterans and appreciated their sacrifice, but that didn’t mean she was going to let one treat her like crap.
“And he gave me a reference,” Cami added, “which I called and who spoke highly of him. Apparently he’s a great worker and knows what he’s doing. Once we get the concrete poured, he should be able to do everything else we need. With your help.” She added that last part with hopefully raised eyebrows.
And Tamra just stood there. The fact was, whoever did this job was someone she’d be working with closely. From erecting a small hut for money collection and equipment storage to laying the Astroturf for the holes to constructing the miniature features for each—which Tamra had designed to look like Coral Cove landmarks, she would work hand in hand with this guy.
No matter what he’d been through, he seemed like a jerk. A jerk with nice arms maybe, but still a jerk. She didn’t particularly want to spend the entire autumn butting heads with some ass who thought she was a princess just because she didn’t like rudeness. And though she was being paid for her work on the golf course, most of what she’d done this summer for the town had been on a volunteer basis, and she’d been generous with her time and skills. So she knew she’d be within her rights to tell Cami she just couldn’t work with him and that she’d have to find someone else.
She flicked another glance his way in time to see that he’d dropped the next sizable bush pretty much right in the middle of where other people had been working and that they all stood there looking after him with the same stunned expression she probably had. Because he was a Neanderthal.
But when she glanced back to Cami, her friend’s eyes still glimmered with hope. And a look that said, You’d really be helping me out if you can do this. She even added, through slightly clenched teeth, “He’s within the budget I promised Jack. Most guys with any experience aren’t.”
Tamra loved Coral Cove. It was the best home she’d ever had—the only home that felt real to her. The few people in the world who she cared about, and who cared about her in return, lived here. And the reason she’d been happy to give of her time to the town was because she valued her warm, safe seaside haven so much.
And this golf course was about bringing new business to the town.
And she was a team player.
And not a princess.
So finally she said, “Okay.”
The group of friends standing around her broke out into big smiles, and Cami’s face lit with relief. “You’ll work with him?”
“Sure,” Tamra said. Even if a bit stiffly.
Freeing one hand from her clipboard, Cami reached out to warmly squeeze Tamra’s arm. “Thank you! And I’m sure he won’t be so bad. Just a little rough around the edges, that’s all.”
“Hey, heads up—can you all move it? Heavy bush coming through.”
Everyone standing with her raised their eyes in time to indeed find another big bush headed their way, and as the Neanderthal dropped it heavily to the ground between them, they all took a quick step back.
Tamra looked up to see his broad shoulders and cargo shorts already walking away—then flicked her gaze to Cami, who smiled nervously.
FLETCHER McCloud knew he made it look easy. He made it look easy to be happy and mild-mannered all the time. He made it look easy to have faith—constant faith—that his wife was coming back. And he believed that with his whole heart.
But the truth was . . . there were moments when he began to doubt.
Only moments, though, and that was the important thing. As long as he came back to believing, as long as his crises of faith were short-lived, infinitesimal blips in his brain, it would all be okay. Kim’s note had promised him that very thing, in fact.
Standing in the living room of his beach cottage, he found himself studying the gifts he’d bought for her since she’d been gone. Pieces of jewelry he’d known she’d like, small and sometimes silly keepsakes he’d picked up on a lark—like the little stuffed parrot that had reminded him of the real one that had once sat on her shoulder during a stint in Key West and how she’d suddenly loved parrots after that.
Now he reached in the back pocket of his shorts and drew out his wallet, and from it the note Kim had left for him upon her departure.
I’m sorry, Fletch. I love you, but I just have to go. Don’t let this hurt too much. Everything will be okay.
Kim
It would only be okay again—fully okay—when Kim came back. And that was how he knew deep in his soul that she would.
Some days it was still hard to believe she’d left him. They’d been happy. Or at least he’d thought so. They’d spent the previous ten glorious years traveling all over the country, living simply but comfortably from the money his tightrope act drew in.
Kim had been his assistant. He still missed that, even now. He missed looking down at her from atop the rope, feeling that perfect connection, looking into the eyes of the one woman who got him, who understood him, who loved him.
For the first month after she’d gone, he hadn’t been able to walk the tightrope. He’d simply been unable to regain his balance, mentally or physically. Everything in our heads, and in our hearts, was linked to how our bodies operated.
He’d only started to perform again by tricking himself, telling himself Kim was in the crowd watching him, cheering for him. When he remembered she wasn’t really there, it all felt emptier, hollow, and he came to understand that what he’d taught himself to do as a boy, through painstaking practice and faith and repetition, he’d eventually begun doing . . . for her. He’d realized that when he climbed up onto the tightrope every day or night, in every city or town, at every street fair or carnival, it had been to impress his wife, to show her the magic she inspired in him.
Even now, each night when he ascended to the rope, he scanned the crowd looking for her, and each and every night, he believed he would find her there. And when he didn’t, he simply pretended that he did, that she had come back and was watching him, and that was what enabled him to keep his balance.
He flinch
ed when a loud knock knock knock sounded on the side door. No one used Fletcher’s front door—everyone entered through the one on the porch that overlooked the ocean, the porch that had become a place to pass lazy afternoons with friends, commiserating their losses or celebrating their successes. He liked having that kind of a door, that kind of a house. It had been here, in Coral Cove, that Kim had so suddenly left him, and he’d sold their well-used motorhome to get the down payment for the cottage—so that he could wait for her here.
As much as he missed his old life with Kim, there were certain aspects of living in Coral Cove he valued greatly now and would never have known otherwise. Life on the road had taught him to make fast friends with people but also not to get attached—and it was nice that now he could get attached, nice that everything wasn’t temporary. Everything happened for a reason, and the worth he’d found in building a new life here provided for him some of those reasons. And when Kim came home he’d understand the rest of it, why it had to happen this way.
When the knock came again, he realized how lost in thought he’d gotten. “Fletch, you home?”
It was his neighbor and good friend, Jack. “Yep,” he called. “Come on in.”
As Jack stepped inside, his gaze dropped to the note Fletcher still held in his hand. “You, uh, reminiscing?”
He’d shared the note with Jack early in their friendship, but it wasn’t like he sat around holding it in his hand all the time, and he felt as if he’d been caught at something.
So he let out a chuckle, laughing it off. “Only for a minute.” Then he refolded the note on its well-worn creases and put it back in his wallet as he smiled into Jack’s eyes. “What’s up, my friend? Can I get you a beer?”
“Actually, I need your help with something. Christy has me building this elaborate arbor for the wedding. I just picked up the wood and was hoping you’d help me unload it and get started.”
“Happy to,” Fletcher said. He was always pleased to help his friends. “Though”—he stopped, tilted his head—“I think most people just rent that kind of thing. You could probably save yourself a lot of trouble.”
“I know,” Jack said, “but Christy wants to put it in the yard afterward, like a keepsake.”
Ah, keepsakes again. Fletcher understood about those. So he began to nod. “That’s a nice idea.” He’d learned the value of putting down roots somewhere, of making a house a home. He only hoped Kim would like the home he’d made for them when she finally got here.
Midday Florida sun beat down on the two men as they crossed Sea Shell Lane toward Jack and Christy’s bungalow. He supposed Jack might prefer to wait until a cooler hour to unload and start constructing his wedding arbor, but Fletcher’s friends had learned to work around his schedule, knowing he made his living performing at the Sunset Celebration every night.
“You okay?” Jack asked, slanting an inquisitive glance Fletcher’s way as they began carrying the thin strips of wood, tied in bundles, from the bed of Jack’s pickup to his backyard.
“Fine, as always,” Fletcher replied. And he meant it. Yeah, he had his moments when he wasn’t as fine as he generally portrayed himself to be, but they were few and far between. Jack had just happened to catch him in one, but it was past now.
“Because . . . the way you were holding that note before—”
“Every now and then I look at it. To remind myself everything will be okay. That’s all. And it will, so no worries.”
They both lowered their armfuls of wood to the grass behind Jack’s house. Jack looked from the wood up to Fletcher and the hot air felt weighted with tension until he finally said, “Four years is a long time, buddy.”
“I know,” Fletcher answered quietly, calmly.
“And sometimes I just worry . . .”
“Don’t,” Fletcher assured him quickly. Assuring himself at the same time. “All is well.”
Just then a burst of female laughter cut through their somber tones, breaking the mood, making them both look up. Christy rounded the corner of the house with a young woman Fletcher didn’t know. Dark hair hung nearly to her trim waist, and she wore a short tie-dyed dress belted at the hips. She had a unique look that he instantly dug and related to, and she appeared wholly out of place on quaint, idyllic Sea Shell Lane.
“Oh hey, Fletch,” Christy said in greeting. “This is my friend from Cincinnati, Bethany. She’s here early for the wedding—I’m so excited that she’s staying for so long!”
“Ah yes,” Fletcher said, remembering the stories Christy had relayed about her old roommate. She was an artist, a painter—and if his perceptions from Christy’s tales were apt, maybe a slightly lost soul searching for something she hadn’t yet found. Though his first impression was that she didn’t feel lost—and something in her eyes instantly told him that she saw the world through a slightly different lens than most people. Like him. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he greeted Bethany. “Fletcher McCloud, your friendly neighborhood funambulist. Welcome to Coral Cove.” He held out his hand and she took it.
“Funambulist?” the dark-haired woman said with an easy confidence that nearly dripped from her. Not arrogance, but an obvious comfort in her own skin—she clearly knew who she was and embraced her individuality. No, not lost at all.
“Technical term for a tightrope walker,” he explained. “I like to think I put the fun in funambulist.”
She laughed, the sound a pretty trill that seemed to fall all around him like happy raindrops. “And I,” she said, “am Bethany Willis, officially Christy’s dark side.”
And Fletcher laughed. He recalled from Christy that indeed her friend walked more on the wild side than her. “You don’t seem so dark to me,” he said anyway. There was a big difference between darkness and wildness. “More of a free spirit, I think,” Fletcher said. “More light than dark.”
The slight, saucy tilt of her head and the quirk of her bright red lips made him think she liked that. Even when she laughed and said, “I don’t know about that. Just ask Christy—hang around with me long enough and I’m bound to get you in trouble.”
That made Fletcher let out another laugh, Jack and Christy joining in. “I love her, but she’s telling the truth,” Christy added with a grin.
“Ah, I’m not afraid,” Fletcher replied.
And Bethany smiled at him. She had a lovely, honest smile. He knew already that she didn’t give it away easily, automatically, like most people—but that when you got it from her, it was the real deal.
“Well, we’ll let you two get back to work,” Christy said, an excited-about-my-wedding gleam in her eye. “We’re going inside to make some plans for the shower.”
And as the two disappeared into the side porch door of the small house, Fletcher couldn’t help feeling uplifted, and as if he’d just stumbled upon a kindred soul.
“Cute girl,” he told Jack, thinking out loud.
Causing Jack to glance up from where he’d just begun to focus on the instructions for his arbor, a speculative look in his eye.
And Fletcher read his mind. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, my friend. I simply made an honest observation. You know I’m unfailingly honest.”
Jack gave a short, accepting nod. “That I do.”
And then they got down to the task at hand, Jack studying the arbor plans, Fletcher helping him sort the wood into various piles.
It was a few minutes later when Jack’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to take a look. After which he raised his gaze to Fletcher and said, “I don’t want to blow your mind—or risk getting ahead of myself—but . . .”
“But?”
“But according to Christy, she thinks you’re cute, too.”
JEREMY used a spade he found on the jobsite at the miniature golf course to begin moving a thick layer of dirt and sand that an overnight rainfall had washed onto the concrete for what he assumed would soon be Hole 1. He’d arrived early and this seemed like as good a thing to do as any. He liked how quiet an
d empty the area was this early in the day—less to keep an eye on, less uncertainty around him. He listened to Pearl Jam sing about sirens through a pair of earbuds.
It occurred to him that for a guy who had nightmares about gunfire and sirens and bombs, maybe lighter music would be wise—but he didn’t like lighter music. Despite himself, he still felt drawn to a certain darkness.
That’s what you came here to get away from, get rid of.
Well, regardless, at least he was doing something useful for a change. It felt good to use the muscles in his arms, shoulders, back—good to feel them stretch taut. One of the ways he’d spent his time at Lucky’s was lifting the weights Lucky kept in his shop. Using his muscles, experiencing that pull, had been one of the few things that had helped him keep feeling alive—and it still proved true now, but it was better to be doing something productive with them.
As the song faded to its end, a voice, at once brash and feminine, cut into his solitude. “Hey!” it was saying. “Hey!” And it sounded damn impatient.
He stopped shoveling and turned to see—oh, the princess. Figured. She seemed like a damn testy woman. And she looked downright put out—already, this early in the morning.
Most people had no idea how good they had it, how tiny their problems were. The things they bitched and complained about were so small in the big picture. And whatever this chick’s problem was—it was small, too. So he simply leaned on the handle of his spade, reached up to remove his earbuds, and said, “Good morning.”
And at this, she appeared even more annoyed. “Good morning?”
He stood before her bewildered, but still unruffled. “Is that not a greeting you’re familiar with?”
If it was possible, her green eyes sparkled with a bit more irritation. “Is answering someone when they address you repeatedly something you’re not familiar with?”
