Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
Things are moving right along at the bookstore. I’m still painting walls and trim but Grand is getting ready to start on the mural in the back room, and I can’t wait to see what she intends to create that will work for kids’ story time and adult book clubs.
When I walk back to the space, I find her eyeing the back wall with its run of high windows. She’s totally focused, tilting her head on occasion, as if the space is speaking to her. If it is, it’s whispering too quietly for me to hear.
I join her, and when I can’t remain silent a moment longer, I ask, “So what are you thinking? Are you going to divide the place in two? Or use the same space for the adult book club and story time at different times?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to decide,” she replies with a smile. “I like the idea of one flexible space, but if I divide the space in half with a retractable accordion divider, both spaces can be used at the same time, which means the book club moms can drink wine and enjoy their discussion while the children get to enjoy story time and an arts and crafts project.”
“That does sound perfect,” I agree.
“Also, I saw this cool thing on Motel Rescue ,” she adds.
“ Motel Rescue ?” I ask in surprise.
“Yes, it’s a reality show with this woman Lindsey Kurowski and her family. She started renovating motels that she bought for herself. Later she began working with older mom-and-pop motels. In each episode, she renovates one motel room as a sample for the other rooms and then updates the common spaces then gives the owners tips on marketing and merchandise to increase their bottom lines. Her whole family works on the renos with her.”
I hear Grand’s enthusiasm, but I don’t really understand what it has to do with Sandcastle Books or Myra’s Craftsman bungalow. “And…?”
“ And at the end of each reno she creates at least one really cool backdrop or vignette that includes the name and logo of the motel so that guests can pose in front of it for photos to share on social media.”
“And…?”
“And if we create a number of these vignettes here, you know, maybe one out on the front porch and another in front of the bookshelves and maybe another in the book club/story time areas, they’d not only be great decoration but would encourage guests and book club members and maybe even their families to pose and share. Which would be fun for them and great exposure for Sandcastle Books.” Grand searches my face. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re a genius,” I reply, because she clearly is.
“Why, thank you for noticing.” Grand takes a mock bow. “Let’s get Myra in here so we can run this by her, too.”
When Myra joins us, Grand explains her idea, then demonstrates it with a few broad strokes on the wall. “One could be the Sandcastle Books logo itself,” she explains as she roughs out the logo then paints a brightly colored frame around it. “Another could be, I don’t know, maybe a pyramid of book covers.
“And”—Grand points to the tree trunk she’s already sketched out—“maybe we could affix the front half of a real tree trunk on the front porch next to the Adirondack chairs I ordered and paint book covers to form the palm fronds.”
“Then we can paint our logo in the vignette so that it’s in the shot and add our Instagram tag so that it’s easy to share on our social media, too,” I add.
“I love it!” Myra says. “Maybe we can ask permission to use the shared selfies on a flyer or marketing piece, too. How long do you think it will take to create the vignettes, Lillian?”
“I don’t know,” Grand replies. “It just depends on how many we decide we want and how complicated they are. Maybe four or five days? No longer than a week. I can sketch out my ideas so you can approve them before I start if you like. Or I can surprise you.”
“Hmm, I think I want to be surprised.” Myra throws an arm around Grand then pulls me in with her other arm. “I’m so glad you two are a part of this. The space is going to be fabulous, and with acting and art classes on top of book clubs and story time, we’ll have something for almost everyone.”
The three of us high-five. Then Myra goes into her computer to check on a delivery date for the Adirondack chairs. Grand and I head to the paint store.
· · ·
On Friday evening, when we’ve finished our work at the bookstore and I’ve scrubbed off as much paint as I can, Myra, Grand, and I head over to Harley’s. It’s only 5:30 p.m. and I’m not due “on the clock” until six, so I’m assuming we can grab a bite before I go into bouncer mode. But when we arrive, the place is already packed.
There’s a hush as we enter, followed by a buzz of conversation as we walk toward the bar, where Luke is already seated. Grand and Myra are not at all surprised to see him, but my pulse kicks up when he stands and waves us over to the empty seats he’s saved on either side of him.
“What’s going on here tonight?” I ask A.J., who’s all smiles when he comes to take drink orders from everyone but me.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I told a few customers that you’d be in tonight and the place just…filled up. Most of them are here because they want to meet you. And quite a few of them would like to get your autograph.”
“No.” I shake my head. “No autographs.”
“Well, what if we just give an autograph to whoever wins the darts tournament tonight?” A.J. suggests.
“No.”
His face falls.
“You can fire me right now,” I say quietly. “I won’t be the least bit hurt or offended.” In fact, it would be a relief not to have to pretend to have anything in common with the character I once played. “We both know you’d be better off with a beefier bouncer.”
“Not true,” A.J. insists. “You handled the guys who tried to rob me, and you kept things from going south the last time you were here. You’re a good influence. Plus, you were a police detective for years.” He adds this last observation so matter-of-factly that I’m no longer sure whether he truly believes this or is just unwilling to give up on using me to attract customers.
“No,” I say through gritted teeth. “I played a police detective for years.”
“But people are here to see you,” A.J. replies doggedly.
“Then they’ll have to be satisfied with the fact that I’m here,” I bite out. “And if there’s trouble, as your bouncer, I’ll do my best to take care of it. But I am not giving autographs or trading on the fact that I used to play a fictional character on television. And FYI,” I continue as I slide onto an empty stool beside Luke, “you have an actual, real live policeman here in your bar right now. That’s way better than someone who only played one on television.”
“But—”
“No.” I turn back to Luke. “What are you drinking?” I ask him. “More importantly, what are you doing here? Don’t you have criminals to catch?”
“This is an old-fashioned, I happen to be off duty, and I’m here because your grandmother called and invited me. She’s a hard woman to say no to.”
“Tell me about it. But I don’t think we should encourage her.”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure how we would stop her. Besides, I can think of worse things than spending the evening in a bar with you.”
“In that case, order another old-fashioned.”
“But I haven’t finished this one yet.”
“I know. But the only way I’ll get a drink from A.J. that includes alcohol is if he thinks it’s for you.”
I sip the old-fashioned that Luke ordered whenever A.J. isn’t looking, and I’m careful not to groan with pleasure. God, I’ve missed alcohol.
Then I watch the white-haired patrons hit on Grand and Myra, break up a fight, eject a troublemaker, and fend off at least ten autograph seekers.
When Grand and Myra decide to head back to Casas de Flores around 10:00 p.m., Luke tells them not to worry. “I’ll be here until her shift’s done. And I can bring her home,” he says without asking.
“But don’t wait up,” I interject. “And don’t be worried if I’m not back until tomorrow,” I say, borrowing Grand’s words when she’d informed me that she intended to spend the night with Brian.
My cheeks heat up when I realize I’ve just invited myself to spend the night at Luke’s. Happily, neither Grand nor Myra seems shocked, and Luke appears to be good with the idea. When A.J. starts closing out tabs and showing the last of his customers out, Luke takes my hand and leads me outside.
“My place or Grand’s?” he asks, giving me one last chance to change my mind.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing your place,” I concede as he holds open his car door for me. I don’t add exactly how eager I am to see his bedroom and spend the night with him again. Given that I invited myself over, I’m guessing this goes without saying.
Luke’s place turns out to be a very cool beach cottage near the tip of Sunset Beach, which sits between St. Pete Beach and Treasure Island and is maybe a mile and a half from Casas de Flores, which goes a long way to explaining how quickly he’s been able to get to Grand’s.
It’s far tidier than most men’s places I’ve set foot in and even has healthy plants in pots. (When I first met Jason, my ex, he had pots of dirt with sticks in them, which was all that was left of the living plants he’d started with. Yet one more sign of irresponsibility that I should have paid attention to.)
We’re both impatient and help each other undress in the moonlight, dropping our clothes as we move through the living room and into his bedroom. When he lays me on my back in the center of his bed, I tremble with anticipation.
Then he climbs onto the bed and kneels above me, his thighs bracketing my hips. He teases my nipples with his tongue until I’m wild with wanting him. I wrap my arms around him and pull him closer until his body covers mine. He moves against me, gently at first, then with more intent. When he slips his penis inside me, it fills me to the core.
And then he’s moving, slowly at first, as the moonlight pours in the open window and dances on his bare skin. My legs encircle his hips. My ankles clasp together, and I hold on tight as he enters and retreats over and over again like the pull and push of the tide as it washes on and off the shore.
The slight swish and sway of palm fronds moving in the breeze outside mimics our rhythm as our breathing grows more labored and his tongue tangles with mine. Then we’re moving faster, the friction building with each deep thrust and retreat until I can’t hold on any longer.
With a cry I shoot over the edge, orgasming in waves that shake my entire body as he spasms inside me.
· · ·
The next morning, I wake to the caw of gulls. Luke is sound asleep beside me, so I ease quietly out of bed, pull on one of the clean T-shirts folded in his laundry basket, and go out into the living room, pulling his bedroom door closed behind me.
I use his Keurig to make myself a cup of coffee then settle in a club chair that overlooks the water. The view is incredible, but once the caffeine kicks in, I do what I probably should have done when Grand first started seeing Brian. I take another long sip of coffee then google “Brian Boyer and Phillip Drake NYC.”
I’m staring out the window and mulling what I’ve discovered when Luke comes out of the bedroom and makes himself a cup of coffee.
“The view is even more magnificent than I realized last night,” I say after taking in the long length of white sand that kisses up to the Gulf.
“Yeah.” He comes to sit in the chair beside me. Both of our gazes remain on the view.
“This is why people take pay cuts to live and work down here.”
We sip our coffee contentedly. The conversation is easy. My body is loose and pleasantly worn out. That’s what orgasms can do for a girl. In this moment all is right with the world.
“Well, if the whole law enforcement thing doesn’t work out, you can totally become a barista.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” His tone is teasing.
“So I’ve been wondering,” I say quietly after another long, lovely sip of coffee. “What made you suspicious of Brian Boyer so quickly?”
“This is what you’ve been wondering after two, or was it three, orgasms?”
I hold up three fingers and smile. “Last night was truly lovely and this conversation doesn’t change that. But I need to know if you think he’s actually dangerous to Grand or not.”
“I don’t have proof of wrongdoing,” he admits. “But the way the break-ins began so soon after she met him and started seeing him seemed too much of a coincidence.”
“But she met a lot of new people right around the same time,” I point out.
“Yeah, but something about him felt a little too good to be true.”
“So it was your Spidey sense?”
“Well, given what I do for a living, my Spidey senses are pretty highly developed and I’ve learned to trust them.”
“Yeah, well, I have a tendency to rely on Google,” I say as I hold up my phone. “And it turns out Brian does, or did, have a connection to the New York art scene and Phillip Drake that he’s been keeping to himself.”
“Interesting. And what is that connection?”
“Brian’s wife, Camille, owned a successful Manhattan gallery back in the day. Before she died, she mounted two early shows of Phillip Drake’s work. And according to gossip at the time, she had a rather torrid affair with him.”