Chapter 1
ONE
Leilani
FOUR MONTHS LATER
I am a maker of lists.
Everything from the mundane (milk, bread, eggs) to my dreams (open a mermaid-themed bar, adopt a kitten, learn Spanish), I write down.
I have daily to-do lists, weekly planning lists, monthly big picture lists. Notebooks filled with lists. Goals and hopes and dreams. Lists of wardrobes, favorite synchronized swim routines, Etsy shops that sell shimmery fabric for the custom mermaid tails that I make by hand.
Today's Tuesday and I'm sitting in my office at Mermosa, my newly formed business — oh, I love the sound of that — and I'm working on a list. Naturally. It's a mega to-do list for the coming week.
Let's see. Interview servers, meet with contractors about the giant tank where the mermaids will swim, attend the Chamber of Commerce meeting...
I bite my lip and doodle small check mark boxes next to each item.
Being a business owner is way more involved than I had expected, but I'm loving every second.
Oh, social media. I need to tackle that soon, too. In careful cursive, I make a list on a new page.
From the time I arrived four months ago in Cypress Grove, I knew it was home. After Mom handed me the check that day at the diner, I'd driven two towns over and opened an account with my massive deposit. Then I went back to Brent's and pretended nothing had changed.
Then I made lists. Secret lists in a password-protected app. I planned and plotted for a solid week until my departure. Everything was orchestrated around the fact that Brent didn't know I was leaving, because he'd have begged me to stay. Or talked me out of it.
And then I left. He thought I was going to work, but instead, I hopped in my old truck and drove. When I crossed the county line, I sang Katy Perry's "Roar" at the top of my lungs and sobbed. I felt featherlight, as if I could float away. The heaviness of the past year lifted. I was free.
Oh, sure, it was scary. In Cypress Grove, I'd rented a little furnished bungalow a block from the historic downtown.
For the first month, I barely went anywhere, too paralyzed by anxiety.
Sleeping alone at night, I'd wake with a start at every creak and crackle.
Was it Brent? I'd remind myself that the wooden bungalow was old, and the orange, feral kitty outside liked to hunt after dark.
It was strange, though. Even those scared, sleepless nights, I felt the spring out there, somehow. Like the town was already pulling me in.
Then something turned on inside me. I'd been given a great gift. The world once again took on vibrant colors, and I decided to really live. I signed up for one of those online therapists, and met with her via video chat once a week, talking to her about everything I'd been through with Brent.
Then I started searching for a commercial space. Amazingly, a former bar at the far end of Main Street was empty, and the owner cut me a deal on a two-year lease.
And just like that, I was a businesswoman.
I've been amped up and edgy for weeks. Not the kind of churning unease I'd experienced with Brent, the walking on eggshells out of fear I'd say something wrong and he'd freeze me out for days.
This is a different kind, a thrilling vibration of starting something new and incredible.
Something that's mine, and mine alone.
Even looking around my empty bar gives me a feeling of giddiness. I need to fill it with furniture and mermaid kitsch and love.
The space had been a longtime fish house, and then briefly, one of those ice-themed bars.
Apparently, tourists didn't want to revisit their chilly, northern memories while on a Florida vacation, and the business tanked a few months after it opened.
The ice walls, tables, and chairs have all melted and washed away via drains in the cement floor, and all that's left behind is a sparse, white interior.
Which is perfect for me, because I can turn it into an underwater paradise.
Taking a sip from my water bottle, I grab another notebook.
It says PART TIME MERMAID, FULL TIME DREAMER on the front.
I leaf through the pages, all written two years ago, right before I'd met Brent.
That had been when I'd first come up with the concept of Mermosa.
I'd held onto the notebook and considered it my "someday dream list."
Those someday dreams are here, looking me squarely in the eye. And I'm staring right back, with a smile on my face.
I flip through my early notes about the bar.
I have sketches of a massive aquarium tank where mermaids will perform live shows.
There are pages and pages of ideas, for bachelorette parties, kids' birthday parties, mermaid photo shoots, you name it.
If it's mermaid-themed, it's jotted in this notebook.
At the end of the notebook is a different kind of list. I'd read an article online about writing out a "dream guy list" to attract my soul mate. When I met Brent, I was convinced that I'd conjured him with my list.
I laugh out loud at how wrong I was.
I'd written in careful script, taking up two whole pages. I read the items out loud, my voice echoing around the bar.
THE PERFECT MAN
* Tall
* Handsome (six-pack abs a bonus)
* Someone who believes in me
* Treats me like a queen
* Has a sense of humor (laughs and smiles a lot)
* Doesn't make fun of my mermaid obsession
* Excellent kisser
* Likes the ocean
* Loves his mom
* Adventurous
* Loves snuggling, kissing, and slow mornings
* Isn't commitment shy
I chuckle bitterly. Talk about being a dreamer. Gah. Could I have been any more na?ve about relationships? I was describing a mythical creature, a freaking unicorn, on that list. Not a mortal man, that's for sure.
No guy will ever meet the criteria I've listed. Because he doesn't exist. Which is fine with me, because I'm not looking for a relationship right now. Not after Brent, and definitely not now that my life is consumed with opening this business.
I slam the notebook shut and look around. There's not a lot I can accomplish in the next few hours. The contractors won't be back until Friday, and I'm starting interviews for staff tomorrow, if I'm lucky.
It's a gorgeous summer day, or at least it was when I arrived at eight this morning, armed with a giant cup of coffee. I've shed the ever-persistent colds, headaches, and twinges of back pain I'd had in my old life. It's funny how stress affects you physically.
Maybe I should take my kayak and mermaid fin to the spring.
I haven't been swimming in a week, which feels like an eternity to me.
And I haven't taken an entire afternoon off in two months; every available moment has been spent researching, meeting with the leasing agent, or applying for permits at the county building.
In the time I've been here, I haven't gone out or made friends.
A social life will come soon enough, once I open the bar.
Today, though, I deserve a swim.
Slipping my arms through my backpack, I lock up and hop on my bike.
My bungalow is only a few blocks from the bar, so I've been biking everywhere.
Part of the reason I love Cypress Grove is that it's so easy to get around.
I can pedal to the grocery store, and when I want to take my kayak out, it's only a few miles' drive out to the spring where there's a boat launch.
So within a half hour, my kayak and mermaid tail are loaded in the back of my truck — even with Wanda's money, I'd kept my old, beat-up Toyota pickup because I love it so much and figured I'd need it for the bar renovations — and zip out to the launch.
Because I've been a swimmer since I could walk, I've got decent upper body strength. I easily lift my one-person, plastic kayak and set it in the water, tying it to a dock while I load my fin and a small cooler into the boat.
After undoing the line from the dock, I paddle away, a huge grin on my face. I'm headed for a little spit of sand in a quiet bend of the spring; I'd read about it in the local newspaper.
I paddle so hard and fast in the calm, blue water that I work up a good sweat. The little island comes into view, and I glide into the shallows, then hop out and drag my kayak up onto the grassy bank. Hunh. I'd figured there would be others here, but today, it's deserted.
With the cypress trees overhead, soft grass and pale sand at the water's edge, and weathered, half-submerged logs in the shallows, this island looks like something out of a postcard. And today, it's all for me.
How did I get this lucky? Somehow, I've gone from living with fear and sadness to this.
Paradise. Freedom. My best life.
I strip off my life vest, T-shirt, and shorts so I'm in only my blue bikini. Then I take the plastic fin — it's like a single snorkel fin, with spaces for my feet — and slip it into the stretchy, shimmery, blue material of the tail.
Then I roll down the fabric as if I'm putting on tights, sit on the sand at the edge of the water, and stuff my feet into the monofin.
Rolling up the fabric like I'm putting on a body-hugging, lycra pencil skirt is a little harder, because it has to be flush against my legs and wrinkle-free so I can swim without friction.
Probably I look ridiculous as I squirm around on the sand, pulling the fabric over my ample butt.
I couldn't care less, though, because I'm eager to get into the water.
Finally, the fabric is over my belly, sucking in the flesh.
My legs are bound together by the tail. After swimming and performing in similar costumes for years, I feel relaxed when my body is compressed like this.
It's similar to wearing a weighted blanket for anxiety — the more sensory feeling I have on my skin, the better I feel.
All that from a sparkly, blue mermaid tail. Strange, I know.
With a twist of my torso, I roll myself into the water, using my hands to walk, digging into the sand until I'm a foot or so deep. Once I'm buoyant, I dip under, and take off.
Underwater, the real world falls away. I open my eyes.
All I see is the electric blue of the water and a school of small, silver fish.
The feel of the water against my face makes me grin wide.
I surface for a breath, then dive back down, my spine undulating in a serpentine movement.
Surface, dive, swim. Surface, dive, swim.
Even though at the park I'd learned to use an oxygen line underwater, I can hold my breath for quite a while.
Could this day get any better? Sun and sand and water all around me? I was born for this moment.
There are some people up on the wooden platform above the spring, but they're far enough that I don't pay much mind. Taking a dive underwater, I spot a school of bream, sunlight wavering on the limestone bottom, and — oh — a manatee resting in the cool depth. I slow, so I can admire her.
Surging to the surface, I inhale a few huge breaths and bob in the warm, calm water.
The water is my home.
I power swim for a while, my tail allowing me to pick up speed and do flips and turns easily. My long hair flows and floats around my face. As much as I don't miss my old life with Brent, I do miss being a professional mermaid. Swimming here eases some of that homesickness.
When I surface again, I realize I've drifted closer to the platform.
And there are three pairs of eyes watching me.
Amused, I sweep my eyes from the brown-haired woman, to the bearded guy next to her, and then to the second guy... wait. The second guy is hot. Startlingly so. He's got longish, messy, dark hair, intense eyebrows, and a hint of matching black stubble.
And then I'm staring into his eyes. The most soul-searching, dark amber eyes I've ever seen.
Oh, hello.
My gaze drops to the guy's sculpted shoulders, then his biceps, which aren't massive but are definitely rock solid. The guy's tall, tan, and sinewy, and I can see every ridge and muscle in his washboard abs. He grins, revealing dazzling white teeth.
"A real, live mermaid. Hey, beautiful! Where did you come from? I've been swimming in this spring my entire life and never saw a mermaid," he calls down in a smooth baritone and a slight southern accent.
There's a tightness in my belly, one I haven't felt in years.
Or maybe ever, now that I think about it.
An electric tingle goes through me, as if a current has entered the top of my head and shot down my spine.
I propel myself a little closer to the platform.
Even when I'd met Brent, I hadn't been this instantly captivated.
I've never been instant anything with a guy. I always need to weigh a man's pros and cons, make a list. Of course, my lists didn't do any good with Brent, and I suspect they’d be useless with this guy, too.
Insta-love is not my jam. Any brand of love is not in my lexicon right now.
I should probably swim away before I do, or say, anything stupid.