Second Chance at Hope

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  SECOND CHANCE AT HOPE

  BOOK #3 IN THE

  SECOND CHANCE SERIES

  Joanna Campbell Slan

  ~Spot On Publishing~

  Second Chance at Hope: Book #3 in the Second Chance Series -- Copyright © 2016 by Joanna Campbell Slan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Joanna Campbell Slan/Spot On Publishing

  9307 SE Olympus Street

  Hobe Sound /FL 33455 USA

  http://www.SpotOnPublishing.org

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2016

  http://www.BookDesignTemplates.com

  Covers by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  http://www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

  Editing by Wendy Green.

  Second Chance at Hope: Book #3 in the Second Chance Series —

  Joanna Campbell Slan. – 2nd ed.

  Revised 01/06/2019

  SECOND CHANCE AT HOPE

  BOOK #3 IN THE

  SECOND CHANCE SERIES

  mY gIFT TO YOU—

  i really appreciate all my readers so I’ve

  included a special gift in this book. go to the end of the book, and you’ll see an email address where you can send away for a file with recipe and craft ideas from this book.

  all best,

  Joanna

  CHAPTER 1

  Last week in January

  Jupiter Island, Florida

  ~Cara Mia~

  Morning dawned gray and indistinct on Jupiter Island. Locking my front door behind me and gathering my Chihuahua’s leash in my hand, I pointed us toward the narrow road that led to the Hobe Sound Beach Park. The gloomy weather disappointed me, but Jack didn’t mind at all. Waving his tiny tail, Jack threw his weight (all two pounds of it!) against the leash so that he leaned away from me as he scampered down the street.

  The fog sent a chill through me, but Jack’s merry attitude brought a smile to my face. Okay, so this gloomy weather wasn’t what I’d expected of sunny Florida. This was the best time of day for walking on the beach, right before the fisherman dragged their gear to the water’s edge. Long before the sunbathers would spread their colorful towels and pop the tops on their soft drinks. This quiet island would reveal its secrets to me while I watched the sun pop up on the horizon like a ripe orange being squeezed out of a grocery bag.

  Jack and I turned left where Bridge Road dead-ended at Hobe Sound Park. The gloom muted the colors of larger-than-life sculptures of sea turtles, a vivid reminder of our fragile ecosystem. A sign on a plinth reminded visitors of the turtles’ lifecycle. I noted that nesting season was a full two months away. I tightened my grip on Jack’s leash, rather than let him roam the dunes. Raccoons, possums, and cane toads could all pose a danger to my small companion.

  The wood of the boardwalk was old and bounced under my well-worn tennis shoes. Since finding a stray fishhook in the sand, I’ve learned that being barefoot can be hazardous. Especially early in the morning, when you can’t see clearly. At the crest of the boardwalk, I paused, taking in the magnificent view. An overcast sky touched the concrete-colored water, creating a seamless, endless ribbon of dull nothingness. A wave of vertigo made me dizzy as the band of dull, lifeless color stretched out in front of me, arched up and over me. One word popped into my head: Dead.

  A shiver ran down my spine. I was being silly. Jack sensed my reticence. Rearing up on his back legs, he plonked his front paws against my calf muscles, urging me onward.

  Determined to master my emotions, I shook my head and got my bearings. On either side of the boardwalk, sea oats rustled in the breeze. Their golden serrated heads created a spot of metallic color against the glum vista. Impatiently, Jack yanked me forward. Following his lead, my feet touched the wet sand. The pungent smell of seaweed greeted me. Last night’s storm had left a wrack line dark with dense mounds of Sargasso. Jack lunged to the right, sniffing eagerly at a knot of sand sporting a halo of wet feathers.

  “Get away from that,” I urged him.

  A handful of seabirds died in every storm. Riding the winds exhausted them. Eventually, the high winds would fling their bodies into the surf so that they littered the beach the next day. While Jack fought me to sniff and explore, adorable sandpipers ignored the carnage. Their tiny legs moved double-time as they raced to pick up yummy delicacies before the crustaceans burrowed too deeply in the sand, making their escape.

  “Knock it off, buddy,” I chided Jack as he fought the leash and pulled me forward. He lunged toward a huge clump of seaweed, shaped like a person.

  So I wasn’t alone on the beach this morning! Someone had gotten here before me. Jack tugged relentlessly toward the sand sculpture. Thanks to our walks, I’d discovered that beachgoers showed endless creativity. I’d found messages in bottles, seashells spelling out love notes, sandcastles of all sizes, and now someone had crafted a mermaid, half in and half out of the water.

  “Huh. Somebody must have been working in the dark,” I muttered. “Weird.”

  In the distance, the roar of an ATV signaled that the beach patrol had started its day, making the rounds. When the wind changed, a whiff of diesel made my nose prickle even though the ATV was a football field away.

  I had rescued Jack after a truck driver tossed him out the window of his pickup. Not surprisingly, the little dog gets spooked by loud engines. But this morning, he didn’t notice the ATV. Despite the noise of the approaching vehicle, Jack dragged me toward the lumps in the sand. He pitched his entire weight against the leash as he strained toward the mermaid. Closer inspection showed a remarkably realistic creature with dark brown hair, presumably a clump of seaweed. Her arms were thrown up over her head. Her face was turned toward the water. The advancing tide nipped at the tip of her tail.

  Jack’s toenails threw up sand as he struggled to get closer to her.

  “Come on, buddy. If you get wet, you’ll need a bath.” I tugged at his leash.

  The put-put-put of the ATV’s motor roared louder and louder. The driver’s faded blue cap bobbed up and down, appearing and disappearing, as the vehicle climbed low hills and descended into dips. Usually our beach is perfectly flat, but last night’s rough tides had caused escarpments, jagged chunks carved from the friable surface. As the ATV got closer, Jack started to get nervous. He backed away from the water’s edge, growling at the mermaid.

  “Come on,” I urged him. “It’s just a pile of sand, Jack! There’s nothing to be scared of!”

  He froze in his tracks.

  I nearly tripped over my own feet, rather than step on him. An ear-piercing howl splintered the morning quiet.

  “Buddy, it’s okay!” I bent low to scoop Jack into my arms. My eyes followed the direction of his stare.

  The mermaid lifted her head and groaned.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Help! Over here!” I screamed and waved down the ATV driver. The man in the vehicle roared up, stopping a foot from the prone figure.

  “S-s-she’s alive,” I said, pointing to the mermaid. “Help me get her away from the water!”

  “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” The man turned off his motor, grabbed at a first aid kit, and hopped down from his seat.

  Quickly tying Jack’s leash to the handlebars of the ATV, I waded into the surf. The driver was ahead of me, but not by much. Together we lifted the s
oggy figure and moved her up to the dry sand. As light as she was, I figured she must have weighed less than a hundred pounds. Maybe even more like seventy-five. Wiping the sand from her face exposed a sagging neckline, crow’s feet around her eyes, and gray streaks in the hair that framed her face.

  “A-B-C. Airway cleared, breathing established, circulation resumed,” he said. “That’s the order.”

  “Right. We need to roll her on her side,” I said.

  “One, two, three.” With a nod, he signaled for us to flip her onto her side. I pried open her mouth, stuck my fingers in, and hauled out a wodge of sand and seaweed. She gurgled and puked up more seawater. The smell was weakly acidic. I held her head until she was done. She went limp. The driver positioned her so that her neck was straight and her airway was open. I lightly tapped her face and tried to bring her around to consciousness. “Stay with us!”

  “Did you call for help?” The driver put his head to her chest and ran his fingers along her throat, feeling for a pulse. “Of course, it might not matter. Cell coverage is spotty on the island.”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t have my phone with me. I’m Cara Mia Delgatto.”

  “Lucas,” he said. “Lucas Petruski. I can’t tell if she’s breathing or not.”

  He quickly called for help. At one point, he told the dispatcher my name. After he ended the call, he said, “Okay. We’d better start CPR.”

  His first aid kit produced plastic bellows that he used to force air into the woman’s lungs. I measured down the proper distance and began doing compressions on her chest. As we worked, I debated the wisdom of our actions. The woman drooped like a limp dish rag. Although the surface of her dark skin was reddish-tan, the color of a brick, the undertone was a dull, lifeless gray.

  “She might have been without air for too long,” said Lucas. “Might be a mercy if she doesn’t come around. I’ve seen drowning victims before. They come back only to die later. Pneumonia kills most of them.”

  “But that’s not our choice to make,” I said.

  “True enough.”

  As I rocked back and forth, shifting my weight to compress her chest, I sent up prayers, although I was unsure what to ask for.

  Her face was swollen, exaggerating her features, and blistered, making the shapes hard to discern. She was emaciated, without the normal padding most women accumulate. Watery bubbles covered her cheekbones, the tops of her ears, and her shoulders. Thin sheets of white skin were peeling off her nose and neck. Despite the dunking she’d obviously endured, she smelled strongly of urine. Tattered flags of fabric clung to her torso and legs. Bits of bark brown seaweed tangled in her hair.

  Sirens sounded in the distance and grew ever closer until they stopped.

  Medics raced along the boardwalk, their heavy footfalls causing the weathered wood to shake.

  “We’ll take it from here,” one of them commanded us, as the other quickly straddled the mermaid and took over for Lucas.

  Lucas and I did as told. I untethered Jack. He’d been solemnly watching Lucas and me. Some canine instinct told him the situation was serious.

  The screech of brakes and slamming of doors suggested more official helpers had arrived. Crackling voices and radio static mixed with terse comments from the EMTs.

  I retreated as far onto the dunes as possible without stepping on sea oats, a protected part of the environment. Jack came along reluctantly.

  While the EMTs checked our mermaid’s vital signs, the cops spoke into radio units hooked to the shoulders of their shirts.

  A tech ripped open a foil pack, swabbed the mermaid’s inner arm with an alcohol rub, and inserted a needle leading to a plastic bag of clear liquid. There was a low murmur of discussion among the medics as they triaged the woman. It didn’t sound good. Not at all. In short order, they had the woman on a gurney, one guy continuing to work on her, and they were racing her toward the ambulance. With sirens and lights blazing, they went tearing out of the parking lot.

  “Copy that,” said one of the cops to his buddy. “The boss is on the way.”

  The ATV guy shook his head as he took his place at my side. “What a mess. Second one this morning. Heard about it on my radio. Over at Blowing Rocks.”

  Jupiter Island is rich with nature preserves, thanks to the farsightedness of the Reed family, one of the earliest landowners. There’s one north, one south, and a park in the middle of the island where we were standing. This beach is the most convenient to local highways. The admission and parking are both free, although the number of spaces is limited—and with good reason. Our island is part of a fragile ecosystem, one of the world’s prime nesting areas for endangered sea turtles.

  “Does that mean a boat capsized?”

  Lucas gave me a speculative look. “Maybe.”

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but he had turned his back on me. The set of his shoulders suggested all conversation was over.

  Why? What wasn’t he saying?

  I was so intent on watching the cops comb the area that I jumped in surprise when Detective Lou Murray tapped me on the shoulder.

  CHAPTER 3

  “What’s with you and dead bodies?” The big detective frowned down at me. Lou has a craggy face and eyes that tell you he’s seen a lot of misery in his life. He also has hands the size of small footballs. As he rested one palm on my arm, I realized this was a man who could pack one whale of a punch.

  The blood rushed to my face. “Excuse me? You can’t possibly be blaming me for this, Lou. Even you aren’t that stupid. Not my fault that I found this person.”

  I sounded defensive because I was upset. Less than two weeks ago, I’d stumbled onto a body and gotten involved in a murder investigation. Moving to the little house that my grandfather owned on Jupiter Island had seemed like a guarantee that such gruesome discoveries were behind me.

  Evidently not.

  “Whoa. Calm down. Didn’t say you were to blame. Just noticing you’re a human cadaver dog. When it comes to dead bodies, you seem to sniff them out. That’s not good, Cara. You need to stay away from situations like this.”

  Jack and I had been standing around for nearly half an hour, as the sun burned off the fog and shooed away the last vestiges of the night. However, the air was still chilly, so I hugged Jack closer to keep myself warm. My wet shoes and soggy hemline on my pants added to my general discomfort.

  Reaching across me to pat my dog, Lou looked into Jack’s eyes and said, “How’s Jack, huh? Is Cara your human familiar? Maybe you’re the cadaver dog and she’s just your handler?”

  The little dog’s tail wagged aggressively.

  “Traitor,” I growled at my dog. Jack used to be afraid of Lou, but the big man has won him over. With a wriggle of joy, the little rascal tried to climb out of my arms. He loves getting his ears rubbed.

  “How come you’re here?” I asked Lou. “This isn’t your patch.” He’s a detective with the Stuart PD, ten miles north of here. Jupiter Island employs its own public safety workers, AKA cops.

  “I was having breakfast with a friend from the Martin County Sheriff’s Office. He took the call. I overheard your name. Skye would never forgive me if I didn’t make sure you were okay.”

  He and my part-time employee and full-time friend, Skye Blue, have become quite the item. Although their romance is moving along at a glacial pace, they’re definitely a twosome. I have a hunch that since I moved out of the apartment next door to Skye’s, Lou might have started spending the night with her, but I can’t say for sure. I’ve thought about asking her, but I can’t figure out a pretext for being so nosy. They’re both grown-ups and what they do is their business, after all.

  Beyond us, the sun had parted the dark clouds. Its golden reflection looked like a handful of coins bouncing off the surface of the water and chasing shadows out of the nooks and crannies of the dunes. Despite the bleak scene before us, this was shaping up to be another perfect day in Paradise.

  “How’d you happen on her?” L
ou asked. “What’s your secret? This is your third dead body in, what, less than nine months?”

  “She isn’t dead. Or didn’t you hear?” I shaded my eyes as I turned toward Lou.

  Lucas overheard me. He sighed and clucked his tongue. “Might as well be. No telling what kind of condition she’ll be in.”

  The biologist shifted his weight and glanced at his watch. His canvas sun hat dangled limply around his neck. Something about the shared experience of finding the woman caused Lucas and me to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in solidarity. We drew comfort from each other’s presence. Lucas continued, his words echoing my earlier thoughts. “Given the shape she was in, I don’t know that we did her any favors.”

  Jack burrowed deeper into my arms. The flurry of activity was making him nervous. His tiny body shivered.

  “It’s okay. Sh, sh,” I murmured as I stroked him.

  “Cara?” A familiar figure jangled his way down the boardwalk.

  “Poppy! Am I ever glad to see you!” I threw my free arm around my grandfather’s neck and breathed in the scent of Aqua Velva. Jack didn’t like being caught between us, so he struggled to get loose, but I wasn’t ready to let Poppy go. A sense of vulnerability struck me hard.

  “How’s Sid?” I was asking about my eighteen-year-old computer whiz who’d just moved in with my grandfather.

  “Sound asleep. We can talk about him later.”

  Lucas stared at my grandfather, as if trying to place him.

  “Dick Potter.” Poppy offered his hand to my new friend. “I’m this here girl’s granddaddy.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Luke nodded. “That’s right. I remember. You owned the Gas E Bait. In Stuart. Downtown. Used to bring this ATV in for a yearly tune up.”

  “Yup.” Poppy jerked his chin. His gas station had been closed for months now, but a place like that was sure to linger in the minds of the locals. When a cheap sign painter confused the squiggle (technically called an ampersand) with the letter “E,” the pit stop and bait shop became the “Gas E Bait.” The quirky name appealed to Poppy’s sense of humor, so he kept it. “How’s your ATV running?”