1. Gideon #2
I’d left the top down on the Porsche. When the valet delivered it, the urge to hop over the doorframe reared up inside me. I’d always wanted to do it, but all eyes in the line were on me. It was an immature move, I justified, and the door existed for a reason.
Warm air swirled around me as I drove away from the chaos of downtown.
I inhaled the salty air and turned up the radio.
Life was good. Sweating in Miami was better than shivering in Toronto any day of the week.
Driving a convertible twelve months of the year was one of the million things I liked about the city.
The breeze picked up as I followed the ocean to my neighborhood, Rosewood Estates. Mansions lined the side of the road, and palm fronds danced in aesthetic lighting. Living in a gated community, however, was one of the few things I didn’t like about my move south.
I grew up in the countryside of Northern Michigan, a place where we didn’t lock the door to our house. We knew all of our neighbors, and in the long, cold winter, my parents would help strangers push their cars out of the ditch.
I’d lived in Rosewood since May and had yet to meet a neighbor.
Fancy cars came and went, but I had not seen a single person on the street.
There were no gossipy old lady walking groups or hot soccer moms jogging with fancy strollers.
Riley said it was too hot in the summer, that people worked out in the climate-controlled haven of the indoors.
It was the exact opposite of Toronto, where everyone hibernated in the winter.
My garage door whirred, and I parked next to my Escalade. Shivering, I walked into the empty, very air-conditioned house. The car keys clanked as I tossed them into a bowl next to the door. Overhead lights lit up my massive kitchen as I filled up the kettle.
My phone buzzed. Out of irritation, I almost ignored it but smiled when I saw the name on the display.
Acer.
My brother. We were making up for lost time. A year ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested we’d be on speaking terms again.
Before I answered, I clicked on the kettle and popped a chamomile tea bag into a Miami Barracuda cup—a gift from Mom. She sent one every time I was traded to a new team, and my cupboards were filled with mismatched mugs.
“Go for Bailey,” I barked into the phone with a smile on my face. Throughout our Junior careers, we’d fought for the right to be called “Bailey.” I’d gotten it while we played for Toronto, and he’d had to settle for Acer.
I wasn’t going to tell him that I was home from the club and making tea. He already teased me about being an eighty-year-old woman trapped in a hockey player’s body.
“Ha. Ha. I’m Bailey now.” I could practically hear his smile. “Sweet goal tonight, bro. Looks like you’re back on your game.”
“Thanks. The defense is pretty green, but they’re talented.”
“Turn on the TV. They’re giving all the attention to that Owens guy’s goal, even though yours was better. They are predicting that with you on the team, the ’cuda could go all the way this year.”
I turned on the sports channel while we continued talking.
“I saw your game yesterday. The media loves that stupid helmet-kissing thing.” Ace had instituted the team’s new ritual, planting a kiss on the goalie’s helmet.
He didn’t invent it, but for some reason, when the Toronto Tigers puckered up, the fans went wild.
“What do you guys do?” he asked.
“We shake a string of barracuda teeth.”
“That’s super lame, dude.”
“And kissing your goalie’s helmet isn’t?” Shaking teeth seemed more symbolically powerful than planting a smooch on a tiger logo.
I settled into Old Faithful, my ratty recliner. The crank needed oil and squeaked loudly as I kicked out my feet.
Ace’s laugh filled the air. “I can smell that old chair through the phone. Let me guess. Your team won their preseason opener and went out to celebrate. You stayed for one drink, which you didn’t finish, and are home early, your ass planted in that recliner that’s probably home to a family of raccoons. ”
“I don’t know if there are raccoons in Florida.” The armrest and various holes had been patched with duct tape, and a family of stowaway Toronto trash pandas could easily be living inside.
“Well, then watch your balls, big b-b-b-rother.” Ace struggled to get his words out through fits of laughter. “If it’s not raccoons, there’s probably gators in there.”
“You’re just jealous I got to keep Dad’s chair.”
The light from the TV flickered in my dark living room.
“I got his truck.”
I got a comfortable chair that would forever remind me of Dad; he got a truck that needed a new transmission, brake lines, and had more rust than the stripes in the 1970s brown, gold, and yellow chair.
This recliner had been with me through the toughest times in my life and was like a silent confidante, supporting me, literally, all these years. “I think I got a better deal.”
Ace’s teasing about the recliner was annoying, but an unfamiliar pang hit me. Maybe I missed his ridiculous helmet-kissing ritual a little. Just a little.
“In your dreams,” Ace said. “That truck is—” The doorbell interrupted our conversation. “Was that your doorbell at midnight?”
I was just as surprised as Ace. I un-reclined the chair, tucked the remote into its duct tape pocket, and padded across the cool marble floor to the entryway.
“Did you order food or something?”
“No.” I wasn’t concerned but was definitely curious about the midnight visitor.
“Don’t answer it. Or at least go get your nine iron,” Ace hissed.
Through the peephole, I was able to see the top of a person’s head and their long ponytail. Whoever was out there was short and blond. An unlikely bandit. I turned the dead bolt and opened the door, all while keeping the phone crooked between my shoulder and my ear. “Can I help you?”
Ace shouted in one ear. “I’m not going to pay your ransom.” The person standing between the two potted palms was a small and very beautiful woman. “Gideon, I’m serious—”
I hung up and slipped the phone into the pocket of my jeans.
“Can I help you?” I glanced behind her, Ace’s warning sparking a flicker of concern.
There were very few reasons a beautiful woman would show up on a doorstep in the middle of the night, and none of them were good.
I wished that I’d grabbed my golf club in case I had to ward off an accomplice.
She bit her nail as her eyes darted around the yard.
“I’m so sorry for bothering you this late.
” She put her hands on her hips. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white.
She was wearing tiny yoga shorts and a workout top.
When she finally stopped what appeared to be casing my yard and looked at me with icy blue eyes, I had to take a step back.
She was stunning. “My cat is missing. Have you seen a little tabby cat anywhere?”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t seen a cat. I’ll keep an eye out though.”
Her eyes shimmered. “She’s an indoor cat. I’m so worried about her. Please let me know if you see her. I live next door.” Her voice shook, like she was upset but trying to hold it in.
A neighbor. Finally.
“I’m sure she’ll turn up. Cats are smart creatures.” Although in this neighborhood, I doubted intelligence was enough to save a cat. Alligators were decidedly not smart, and I knew who would win in that scenario. “I’m Gideon.” I extended my hand.
“Piper.” She had surprisingly rough palms and a grip like a mountain climber. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
The phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and ignored the call. “Thank you. You’re the first Rosewood Estates neighbor I’ve met.”
She smiled. “They’re all on their yachts right now. You’ll see some action in the fall before everyone goes to Aspen.”
“Where’s your yacht?” I asked.
“Mine? Oh, it’s in the shop.” She winked.
Unlike most of the Miami socialites I’d met, Piper wasn’t dripping in diamonds, and her face wasn’t completely immobilized by facelifts. The crinkles that formed beside her eyes when she smiled were a refreshing change. A small, faded scar jutted out from her right eyebrow.
“Well, it was nice to meet you, neighbor Gideon.” She took a few steps back. “I’m going to keep looking for my cat.”
The phone buzzed in my pocket. I let it ring. “Do you want some help? It’s kind of late to be traipsing around the neighborhood all alone.”
A grin spread across her face. “No one is going to bother me in Rosewood, but it would be nice to have an extra set of eyes to help with the search.”
“Let me get my shoes.” I stepped into a pair of Adidas slides and tucked the house keys into my pocket. When I returned outside, Piper was crouched by the fence line bushes, making a pssshhh, pssshhh sound.
It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. She was not a typical rich lady, at least not like the ones I knew.
I joined her at the hedges and handed her a spare flashlight.
I shone mine under the greenery. We moved through the front yard together, shining the beams into every nook and cranny where a cat might hide.
“What’s your cat’s name?” I asked.
Her lips drew to a line, and she shifted on her feet. “It’s not important.”
The phone buzzed in my pocket again. “Do you need to get that?” She pointed to the pocket of my pants, where the phone screen shone through the worn denim.
“It’s my brother. He thinks I’m being kidnapped or murdered or home invaded right now.”
“Oh no.” Her eyes went wide. “You need to answer it.”
“I’ll answer it if you tell me your cat’s name.” I took the phone from my pocket and hovered my finger over the green button to accept the call.
“I—I—” Her face flushed.
“I guess I won’t answer it, then.” I started to put the phone into my pocket, but she grabbed my forearm, stopping me.
“Pussy. My cat’s name is Pussy.”
Piper hadn’t slapped me across the face, but she might as well have. Had the Miami heat finally gotten to me? “Did you just say… Pussy?”
“Pussy.” Her voice was quiet, but the sides of her lips were turned up. She was embarrassed, and it was adorable. “Now, answer your phone.”
I accepted the call but didn’t take my eyes off Piper. “Hi, Ace. I’m not being murdered. I’m just out looking for Pussy.”