There's Always a Catch: Christmas Key Book One Page 16

  “What? Why? Isn’t there some clause that allows for an occasional hot, drunken night with an ex, no strings attached?”

  “That’s exactly what he said. I just wasn’t drunk enough, I guess. And that stunt he pulled last night during the game…”

  “Oh, I thought that was sweet—awkward, but sweet. He’s obviously feeling threatened by River, and he’s trying to remind you that he still exists. Which is a big job, because your baseball buddy is giving him a real run for his money.”

  Holly rolls her eyes. “How can I forget he exists when he’s underfoot all the time?” She throws her purse onto the seat of her golf cart. “Follow you to the B&B?”

  “Sure.” Fiona slides onto the bench of her own cart and nods at Holly’s ride. “Looks like you’ve got company there again. He was waiting on the roof of your cart when I pulled up.”

  Holly sits down behind the steering wheel and stares at Marco. He’s perched on the dashboard, watching her. “You again?” she says to the bird. “Okay, let’s roll, buddy. I’ll drop you back at Cap’s.” Marco climbs onto the cupholder and grips it with his talons while she backs up onto the road.

  Cinnamon Lane is bathed in the hazy light of a summer evening. Fiona takes the unpaved road at top speed, bumping along over dips and gullies, her long hair glinting in the golden sunlight where it penetrates the shadows. Holly follows close behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You organized this?” Holly watches Coco bustle around the B&B’s kitchen like she owns the place. Which, technically, she partially does, but seeing her act like she owns it is unsettling for Holly.

  “It was nothing, really. Cap had a freezer full of fish for the men to grill on the beach, and between all of the women on this island, I know we’ll have a buffet loaded with side dishes,” Coco explains, pointing to a spot on the counter where Maria Agnelli is setting down a casserole dish as if on cue.

  “It’s a tray of spicy meatballs with clam sauce,” Mrs. Agnelli says, bracing her weight against the counter with a spindly arm. “And you know what they say about clams,” she whispers behind one arthritic hand. “They’re a bit of an aphrodisiac!”

  “I think that’s oyster that works as an aphrodisiac, Maria,” Coco says. “But I’m sure it’s delicious.”

  “Ah, well.” Maria waves a hand in front of her like she’s swatting away a fly. “It’s probably all hooey anyway. Food of any kind will win your way into a man’s heart, but a nice set of buns will get you into his pants.” She totters off, leaving Coco shaking her head.

  Holly watches her go. “Do not eat that,” she says, pointing at Mrs. Agnelli’s meatball platter once she’s out of earshot.

  “Why?” Coco leans over, lifting the corner of the tin foil from the dish and sniffing. “It smells amazing.”

  “Because the last time she brought a dish to a pot luck, she rolled her chicken cutlets in Cap’n Crunch instead of bread crumbs, and the other night she put capers in her oatmeal cookies.”

  “What about the time she put hot dogs in her Jell-o mold?” Bonnie asks as she breezes in, setting a Tupperware container on the counter. “I brought corn puddin’,” she says, patting the lid of her dish.

  “Thanks, Bon.”

  “Does Maria eat like that at home?” Coco wrinkles her nose.

  “Probably. But she eats at the Jingle Bell Bistro several times a week, and I know the triplets take turns having her over for dinner, so she’s not starving.” Holly isn’t too concerned about a tough old bird like Maria Agnelli, but she is a little worried about sharing Mrs. Agnelli’s creative cuisine with their unsuspecting guests. “So, again, you organized this, Mom?”

  “She called me Mom again,” Coco says to Bonnie as an aside. “And yes, I did.” She runs her hands back and forth under the faucet in the sink. “I thought since you were sleeping and maybe wouldn’t be back over here tonight, you know…” She shifts her weight from one wedge-footed leg to the other, shaking off her hands. “I know you don’t think I’m very helpful, Holly, but I really want to be.”

  Holly hands her a clean dishtowel to dry her hands. There is no part of her that wants to shower her mother with gratitude, but even she has to admit that Coco putting something together in her absence is a thoughtful gesture.

  “Thanks, Mom. I mean it.” Holly busies herself with searching cupboards for plastic cutlery and paper napkins. “I know it will be great.”

  The fishermen look thrilled to be outside on the beach. Iris and Jimmy have moved their outdoor grill down to the sand from the patio behind the Jingle Bell Bistro, and the smell of grilling fish wafts through the air. Everyone appears to be enjoying the clear evening on Snowflake Banks, and Coco has managed to spread the word far and wide, which means that there are nearly as many islanders at the barbecue as Holly had seen when she looked out from her podium at the last village council meeting. Fiona is standing with Buckhunter under a palm tree, handing out bottles and cans of beer from a cooler, and the locals are moving through the crowed, chatting with each other and the fishermen. It’s quite a turnout.

  It looks like a cocktail party on the beach, and with everyone in their colorful t-shirts, and the sun setting over the water, it feels like a staged magazine shoot. Holly sets her purse on the sand and digs out her phone. So far she hasn’t been tempted to capture much of the fishermen’s visit (somehow middle-aged men stricken with food poisoning or a group of people stranded in the B&B’s ballroom during a storm don’t sound like particularly captivating Instagram photos), but this scene—this one right here—looks like one that would make someone want to visit their island.

  Holly frames her shots and starts taking pictures. Fiona and Buckhunter smiling at River and Josh as they exchange a few words and hand over sweaty bottles of beer. Jimmy Cafferkey’s jolly red face as he stands behind the grill, his white apron smeared with blackened char from the barbecue. Maria Agnelli laughing up at something Jake is saying to her, her wrinkled hand clutching his strong arm. Holly snaps one more of Bonnie with her fiery red hair, wearing a red-and-white checked blouse and jeans, her face the picture of contentment as she looks out at the sunset.

  Holly closes her camera app and looks around. It’s like she disappeared into her house late that morning and fell into a slumber like Sleeping Beauty, and when she emerged in the evening, the island was draped in pastels and smiling faces. Gone is the storm. Disappeared from memory are the sick guests. Everywhere she looks are people talking and making jokes like old friends. Holly saves her pictures into a file that she keeps on her phone for social media; she’ll go through them in the morning and post the best ones.

  The triplets are making their way across the sand, toting insulated bags full of food from the B&B’s kitchen. Holly drops her phone into her bag and hurries over to offer them a hand. They set everything up on a long folding table that the men have dragged out onto the beach, loading it up with twice-baked potatoes wrapped in foil, grilled corn salad with tomatoes and croutons, homemade dinner rolls, tortellini salad, red cabbage slaw, and baked macaroni. A light breeze lifts the edge of the tablecloth, and Holly inhales the scent of salt water, barbecue, and good food. She really does owe Coco for putting this dinner together.

  In full darkness, with the bonfire raging and the crowd sated with dinner and drinks, Holly kicks off her shoes, sits down, and digs her feet into the cool sand.

  “I’d like to make an official complaint to the Chamber of Commerce,” says a voice from behind her.

  “Oh?” Holly says mildly, not turning around. “What complaint would that be?”

  “Christmas Key is tempting me to throw in the towel on my real life and move down here,” says River.

  “She is a force to be reckoned with. A tantalizing temptress. A real man-eater.”

  “We are talking about the island, right?” River frowns, still standing over her.

  “Maybe,” Holly replies.

  “Wanna take a stroll?”

  “Are you suggesting that I di
sappear into the night with a stranger?” Holly asks, finally looking up at River’s face.

  “You’ve seen me without my shirt, watched me whip your ex-boyfriend’s tail at poker, and held a bottle of Gatorade to my lips so that I wouldn’t get dehydrated while I was throwing up all over the floor of your B&B. I don’t think we’re strangers anymore.”

  “True,” Holly says, holding out a hand. River takes it and pulls her up. “Which way should we go? We’re on the south side of the island; if we go west, we’ll wrap around the beach and run into Pinecone Path, which has a wooden boardwalk. If we go east, we’ll eventually run into the dock and pier at the end of Main Street.”

  “Surprise me.”

  “This trip hasn’t surprised you enough already?” She leads him west towards Pinecone Path.

  “It’s been interesting. Not many fish caught yet, but, oddly, I’m having a good time.”

  “That is odd, given the circumstances.” She wobbles intentionally as they walk, her bare arm brushing against his. The advice from Bonnie and Fiona—and even her mother—fills her head: go for it. Have some fun. If the mayor of this place was a man, he’d have some fun with gorgeous female visitors…

  “So tell me about Christmas Key. All of it. I want to hear the history,” River says, walking next to her with his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts.

  “Really? All of it?” The waves break and wash over her bare feet as they walk farther away from the bonfire. She looks up at his face.

  “Yeah, start at the beginning. I know you grew up on the island, but how did you end up here?”

  “My grandparents bought the island when I was a baby, and we moved out here while I was still in diapers.”

  “So you’re a real island girl, huh? Running around this rock in the middle of the ocean in a bikini, swimming with the dolphins, keeping geckos for pets?” Every person Holly has ever met off the island has the same kind of questions about a childhood that, to them, sounds like The Swiss Family Robinson.

  “Yep, all of it,” she says. “In fact, my first pet gecko was named Kermit.”

  “Kermit?”

  “Big Muppets fan here.”

  “I was a rather committed Muppets fan myself,” River admits.

  “All the cool kids were.”

  “So, your grandparents bought the island, and Coco is their daughter?”

  “That’s pretty much the sum total of it, but it’s kind of a long story.”

  “Well, I’ve got time.” River copies her earlier move, weaving a little so that he bumps into her with his arm.

  The contact of their bare skin sends a shiver up Holly’s spine, and she turns around and starts walking backwards, still facing him.

  “You want to see where I live?” she asks impulsively, pushing all nagging doubt from her mind. There’s something about his honesty and curiosity that makes Holly want to pull back the curtain and show him the real island, not just the version she hopes to sell to visitors. “My grandparents built everything on this island from the ground up, and our family property is really special to me.”

  River stops walking. “You’d take me there?”

  She stops walking and looks up at him in the moonlight, searching his handsome face for something—anything—that might stop her from taking the plunge. Is this all too good to be true? This great guy showing up here when she’s single, wanting to hear all about her life and her island? She brushes a stray hair out of her eyes.

  “Yeah, I want to take you.” Her lips curl up in a smile so big that she feels like her face might crack. The whole thing is completely out of left field: Holly Baxter bringing a strange man of an appropriate age back to her house…she almost pinches herself to make sure it’s not a hallucination. “But you have to help me collect some shells on the way.”

  “Shells?”

  “Preferably whole ones. We can rinse them off at my house.”

  River shrugs. “Okay. Shells it is.”

  Their footprints leave a trail behind them in the wet sand as they wander up the beach, picking up shells in the moonlight. River calls out to her from ahead when he finds a good-sized white mollusk. He holds it up, it’s curved body like a pearl glowing under the light of the moon.

  “It’s so pretty!” Holly says breathlessly when she catches up to him. She takes it from his hand. “I have about fifteen good ones here.” She’s holding them in the front of her dress the same way she’d held the lemons and limes with her shirt in the kitchen. The fronts of her tanned thighs are exposed as she pulls the fabric of her dress out and lets River drop in the shells he’s collected. “Let’s go up through those trees.” She nods into the darkness beyond the beach. “We’re not far from my house.”

  They traipse through the seagrass that lines the edge of the beach, then high-step over tangles of mangrove roots and rocks. Holly leads the way up her darkened driveway, past Buckhunter’s quiet bungalow, and to the front door of her own house. She lets them in, still holding the edge of her dress with one hand.

  In the bright kitchen, Holly carefully places the shells inside a colander and sets it in the sink.

  “Nice little shack you have here,” River says, checking out the house.

  Her heart pounds as he looks around, and she wonders if she’s making a huge mistake by bringing him here. But Holly’s proud of the clean white walls, the simple furniture, and the pops of turquoise and lime green that she’s scattered around. He stands in front of her white wood bookshelf, admiring the framed photos and the haphazard stack of CDs.

  “If you want something to drink, help yourself,” Holly says, raising her chin at the refrigerator. She turns on the water and runs it over the basket of shells, rinsing off the sand.

  River walks to the refrigerator and looks at the old picture of her standing on the undeveloped island that’s stuck to the front of the fridge. “Is this you?”

  “I haven’t changed at all, have I?”

  “Not really. You’re still cute as a bug’s rear.” He opens the refrigerator and takes out two bottles of root beer. “This okay?” he asks, holding one bottle in each hand.

  “Perfect. Glasses are in that cupboard behind you.” She nods over his shoulder, her own hands wet under the faucet. “And I think it’s actually cute as a bug’s ear.”

  “Oh, potato, po-tah-to,” River says, popping the tops off of the root beer bottles and pouring the foamy liquid into two glasses. He sets them on the counter and stands next to her at the sink, holding the dishtowel in both hands so that she can place the wet shells there. As she does, he gently rubs each one dry and then sets it on the counter. “Now, tell me more about your island life, Mayor.”

  “Okay, well, my mom got pregnant in high school,” Holly says, starting way back at the beginning. “And my grandpa decided that Miami was too fast and dangerous for his family. He wanted his granddaughter to grow up in a safe place with lots of good people around, and he wanted it to be paradise. So one day he and my grandma took a boat trip way out here to see what was past Key West…”

  She talks comfortably, rinsing shells and handing them to River one by one. As she does, she tells him all about Christmas Key and its origins, about her grandma’s long battle with cancer, and about everyone who lived on the island—even the people who’d come and gone, or who had lived there and passed on. She tells him about Coco’s wild ways as young mother, and (without meaning to) she launches into her concerns about her mother’s sudden interest in Christmas Key.

  River just listens. Occasionally he asks a well-timed question, but mostly he listens.

  “I’m pretty sure the only thing I’m leaving out of this verbal tirade is my blood type,” she jokes, turning off the water. “You haven’t even had a chance to tell me anything about you.”

  “Are you kicking me out now?” He folds the dishtowel in half and sets it on the counter.

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” Holly says, setting her clean shells in a bowl and leading River out to her lanai.
<
br />   “Then maybe I’ll tell you a few things besides the tale of my illustrious baseball career, which you already know. Whoa—” River stops, looking at her wall of shells. “This looks like quite a project.”

  “It is.” Holly stands before the half-finished wall, the bowl of shells resting on one hip. She admires her work so far. “I feel like it’s going to take me at least another year to finish it.”

  “How long have you been working on it?” River runs his fingertips over the shells that are already dried and embedded into the plaster.

  “Off and on for a couple of years. I only put my most favorite shells up there, and I only work on it late at night when I can’t sleep.”

  “And you figure tonight you won’t sleep?” He nods at the bowl full of shells in her hands, his eyes serious and heavy with suggestion.

  Holly isn’t sure what to say. She looks down at her feet. When she looks up again, River has taken a step closer to her. He pulls the bowl out of her hands gently and sets it on the table. Just like that, the life stories and fizzy root beer are forgotten, and the buzzing current of electricity that’s been running between them since the moment they met takes center stage.

  River takes her hands in his; Holly hasn’t been this close to a man who isn’t Jake since college, and this nearness feels dangerously unfamiliar. The humidity pulses around them. Even with the overhead lanai fan turned up high, her lime green dress clings to her breasts and thighs.

  River runs a hand up her bare arm. When she doesn’t back away, he does the same thing with his other hand. He stands before her, his thumbs tracing lines gently up and down the skin of her outer arms. It’s her turn to take a step closer.

  “I do have just one other question,” River says, his voice low.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve already had some major firsts in the past few days. It was my first time throwing up pink seafood, first time beating a cop during a game of cards, and my first time riding out a tropical storm,” he says.

  Holly chuckles. “You crossed some big things off your bucket list this week, my friend.”