Key West Promises (Seaside Palms #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

L eah Lawrence had always been a morning person, but lately dawn felt less like a beginning and more like an accusation. The laptop screen glowed in front of her: $157.43. Their remaining balance. The electronic statement showed a parade of recent transactions—each one a testament to their dwindling grip on reality:

WITHDRAWAL—CUBAN COFFEE QUEEN—$14.75

WITHDRAWAL—SUNSET SAIL ENTERPRISES—$75.00 WITHDRAWAL—KEYS ELECTRIC FINAL NOTICE—$147.32

She clicked through their other accounts, each one telling the same story. Credit cards maxed out. Savings depleted. Their "emergency fund" reduced to loose change in a decorative rum bottle they'd bought during their first week in paradise. The money their sister Chelsea had given them the year before was gone, and Leah’s guilt about that was more than she was able to carry.

A rooster crowed outside their yellow bungalow—one of the scrawnier ones that usually raided their forgotten herb garden. This particular bird, dubbed "Ernest" by Tess because he looked "literary," had outlasted their attempts at growing basil and mint for Tess's never-launched cocktail catering business. Now he strutted through the withered remains of their container garden, pecking at the expensive organic soil they'd bought in a fit of agricultural optimism.

Through her reading glasses, Leah watched early morning joggers pass by their rental, their expensive athletic wear and bouncy ponytails reminding her of the life she'd left behind in Boston. A year ago, she would have been one of them, power walking along the Charles River before heading to her sensible job with its sensible 401(k). She'd had a standing morning coffee date with other professionals—women who discussed investment strategies and retirement plans over perfectly foamed lattes.

Now here she sat in worn yoga pants and a faded t-shirt that proclaimed, "Life's Better in Flip Flops," trying to make sense of how she and her sister had managed to burn through their savings in pursuit of what Tess called their "island dreams.” The shirt had been part of a bulk order—another of Tess's business ideas. "Tourist-wear with a personal touch!" The remaining boxes still cluttered their small, detached garage, along with other remnants of their abandoned enterprises.

Leah shook her head and was glad their other sisters, Chelsea and Gretchen, weren’t here to see how bad things were.

"Any luck with the numbers?"

Her younger sister appeared in the kitchen doorway, honey-blonde curls wild from sleep, still wearing the flamingo pajamas she couldn't resist buying last month—even though their electric bill was due. At fifty, Tess radiated the same effervescent energy she'd had when they were kids and could talk Leah into anything. Like moving to Key West to "find themselves" at an age when most people were planning for grandchildren and retirement.

The smell of coffee filled their tiny kitchen—bargain brand now, not the special island roast they'd once justified as a "business expense" for Tess's coffee cart scheme. That particular dream had died around the same time they discovered that mobile food licenses required more than just a cute logo and matching aprons.

"Define luck," Leah said, closing the laptop. No point staring at numbers that wouldn't change. She watched Tess float around their kitchen, somehow making even impending poverty look like the beginning of an adventure. That was Tess's gift—finding silver linings in hurricane clouds. It was what had gotten them through their parents' divorce, through failed relationships (Tess's) and failed promotions (Leah's), and now, apparently, through financial ruin.

Their kitchen told the story of their year in paradise better than Leah could ever write in the novel she hadn't started. Mason jars filled with shells from Captiva beach walks they took when visiting Chelsea lined the windowsill, catching the morning light like broken promises. Coffee mugs from every bar on Duval Street crowded the open shelving—souvenirs of nights when they still believed their money would last forever. The ancient air conditioner wheezed asthmatically, fighting a losing battle against the Key West humidity that made everything feel slightly damp.

Their tiny kitchen opened into what Tess optimistically called their "great room," though there was nothing particularly great about its dimensions. The furniture told its own story of their declining fortunes—a wicker sofa they'd found at an estate sale ("It just needs some love, Leah!"), mismatched chairs from various thrift stores, and a coffee table that had once been a wooden cable spool ("Industrial chic is very in right now!").

Above the sofa, their "vision board" hung like an archaeological record of abandoned dreams. Photos and magazine cutouts created a collage of everything they'd planned: Tess teaching cooking classes on the beach, Leah writing her novel in quaint coffee shops, both of them hosting sunset cruises for tourists seeking "authentic island experiences." Beneath the board, a stack of business cards gathered dust, each representing a different failed venture:

" Island Inspirations - Bespoke Beach Events " (Three inquiries, zero bookings)

" Keys to Success - Professional Life Coaching " (Their one client had moved to Tampa)

" Sunset Sisters - Making Paradise Perfect " (The website had crashed and taken their hosting fee with it)

The Key West that greeted them a year earlier bore little resemblance to their dreams. The pristine beaches they'd imagined were nowhere to be found, and the fishing boats they'd hoped to charter sat in the marina, their rental fees far beyond reach. One by one, their plans crumbled like ashes, carried away on the salty breeze along with their hopes of building a life in this island paradise.

Tess opened their "pantry"—really just a set of decorative shelves they'd installed during their home improvement phase. The remains of their groceries looked like modern art—creative arrangements of whatever had been on sale, plus the endless supply of rice they'd panic-bought during the last hurricane warning.

"We still have cereal," Tess announced brightly, rattling a nearly empty box. "And, half a banana. Want to share?

"We could always sell the paddleboard," Tess suggested, pulling out their chipped tourist wine glasses, the ones with "Key West: Paradise Found" written in fading letters. The glasses were part of a set of six; the others had met various ends during what Tess called their "entrepreneurial experiments," including one memorable attempt at hosting a wine-and-painting night at Fort Zachary Taylor State Park.

"The one you've used exactly twice?" Leah adjusted her reading glasses, a habit from her corporate days that surfaced whenever she was stressed. Her glasses, like her resume, needed updating, but both were victims of their dwindling resources. "Besides, it's eight in the morning."

"It's five o'clock somewhere!" Tess paused at Leah's expression. "Too soon for Jimmy Buffett quotes?"

The paddleboard in question leaned against their tiny porch railing, its cheerful tropical design already fading from the relentless Florida sun. They'd bought it during what Leah now thought of as their "active lifestyle" phase, right after the failure of their beach workout club but before Tess's brief career as a sunset yoga instructor. The only thing that had gotten a real workout was their credit card.

Through their glass louvered windows, Leah watched another tour group cycle past on their rented bikes, their matching helmets bobbing like tropical birds. The tour guide's voice drifted in, explaining the history of their street, embellishing facts with the kind of colorful stories tourists loved. Once upon a time, Leah and Tess had thought about starting their own tour company. They'd even printed brochures—now serving as coasters for their wine glasses.

"We need jobs," Leah said finally. "Real ones. Not selling those questionably scented candles at the tourist market."

"The candles weren't that bad," Tess protested, though they both knew better. Their garage still held boxes of unsold inventory, each candle a waxy reminder of their failed crafting phase.

"You named one 'Midnight at Margaritaville' and it smelled like tequila and regret." Leah remembered the craft fair vendor who'd suggested, kindly but firmly, that perhaps scented candles weren't their calling. "And let's not forget 'Paradise Breeze.'"

Tess’s face broke into a mischievous grin. "You have to admit, 'Paradise Breeze' was inspirational. It’s not my fault it smelled like someone microwaved coconut sunscreen."

Leah groaned, resting her forehead on the table. "We’re two middle-aged women failing at the most basic part of paradise: staying afloat. This isn’t a rom-com. Nobody’s going to swoop in with a boat and a business proposal to save us."

Tess grabbed her sister’s shoulders, forcing her to sit upright. "You listen to me, Leah Marie Lawrence. We’re not done yet. If the universe doesn’t send us a rescue boat, we’ll build our own dinghy and row our way to the finish line."

Leah stared at her. "That’s…deeply unconvincing."

"But at least it’s colorful," Tess countered. "And right now, colorful is all we’ve got.

"Speaking of colorful," Tess said, moving to the window where Ernest the rooster had graduated from pecking at their failed herb garden to strutting along their porch railing, "remember when we thought we could start that chicken-watching tour?"

"'Meet the Wild Chickens of Key West,'" Leah quoted from memory, another failed business card design floating through her mind. "'Where Every Fowl Has a Story.'"

"It wasn't our worst idea," Tess defended, though her smile suggested otherwise. "At least the startup costs were low. Just some laminated fact sheets and those vintage binoculars we found at that estate sale."

Leah remembered those binoculars. They'd spent forty dollars on them, only to discover they were better at creating double vision than magnifying anything. Like everything else in their Key West adventure, even their mistakes had style.

The morning sun crept higher, turning their yellow bungalow's walls into something almost golden. Their landlord had warned them the color would be "aggressive" in full sunlight, but like everything else about their move to the Keys, they'd romanticized it. "Like living inside a sunset," Tess had declared. Now it just reminded Leah of their bank account's warning notifications.

"We could start a blog," Tess suggested, pulling out their last clean coffee mugs—souvenirs from a seafood festival where they'd briefly considered starting a food truck specializing in "gourmet grilled cheese with island flair."

"About what? 'How to Fail at Island Life with Style'?" Leah pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the uneven floor, another charming feature of their rental that had seemed quaint a year ago.

"More like 'How to Reinvent Yourself at Fifty—A Cautionary Tale,'" Tess mused. "Chapter One: Don't Spend Your Retirement Fund on a Coffee Cart Named 'Bean There, Done That.'"

Despite herself, Leah laughed. When The CoiffeeShop idea fell through, their first major investment was the coffee cart. It was still in their garage, its custom paint job featuring dancing coffee beans wearing sunglasses slowly peeling in the humidity. They'd spent three weeks developing the perfect logo, two days actually trying to serve coffee, and six months making payments on the equipment they'd financed at what now seemed like criminally high interest rates.

A group of tourists wandered past their house, phones raised to photograph Ernest, who chose that moment to display his literary credentials by attempting to crow and nearly falling off the railing. The tourists cooed in delight, and Tess's eyes lit up with that dangerous sparkle Leah knew too well.

"Don't even think about it," Leah warned.

"Think about what?"

"Whatever new business idea just popped into your head. We can't afford another 'opportunity.'"

"I was just thinking…" Tess began, but Leah cut her off.

"That's exactly what you said before we bought three hundred dollars' worth of seashells to make 'authentic island wind chimes.'"

"Those would have sold if we'd figured out how to stop them from tangling," Tess protested. "And if they hadn't sounded like someone dropping silverware during a hurricane."

The morning breeze carried the smell of someone else's success—fresh-baked Cuban bread from the bakery nearby. Another reminder of their dwindling options. They'd once planned to partner with that bakery for their coffee cart business, back when possibilities seemed as endless as the horizon over the Gulf.

"We need a plan," Leah said, more to herself than to Tess. "A real one. Not involving crafts, food service, or anything requiring a permit from the city council."

"You make it sound so limiting." Tess sighed, but there was understanding beneath her teasing tone. She moved to the vision board, studying their collection of failed dreams with unexpected thoughtfulness. "You know what our real problem was?"

"Besides saying 'yes' to every idea that popped into your head?"

"We tried to be something we're not," Tess said, unpinning one of their old business cards. "We tried to be 'island entrepreneurs' instead of just being ourselves."

The words hung in the humid morning air, heavier than their collection of unsold merchandise and lighter than their mounting bills. Leah looked at her sister—really looked at her—and saw past the flamingo pajamas and relentless optimism to the wisdom that occasionally surfaced between schemes.

"And who are we?" Leah asked softly, genuinely curious about the answer.

Before Tess could respond, Ernest let out another attempted crow, this one somehow managing to sound both triumphant and questioning. Like them, he seemed caught between who he was and who he was trying to be.