Chapter 12 Vivien #2
He swiped his hand, cutting her off. “Those pylons disrupt tidal flow. They trap debris. They choke off seagrass beds. You get algae blooms, erosion, stagnation. It’s not just ugly—it’s unhealthy. The Gulf doesn’t need another artificial barrier from the 1970s rotting into it.”
She sipped her drink and let him continue, her dislike for the man increasing with every fake word.
“And then there’s the safety issue. Do you know kids jump off that bridge? Someone’s gonna die.”
If that were true, someone would be dead by now. “Kids have jumped off that bridge for decades,” she said. “No one has ever died.”
“No one has ever died yet.” He knocked back the rest of his drink. “I’m doing someone a favor. And…” He called the bartender with a finger flick, then pointed to the bar. “Two more, please.”
“No, no, I—”
“Vivien.” He put a light hand on her arm. “Relax.”
She eased her arm from his touch, deciding to try another tactic. “I’ve read a few of the older editorials in the paper when the city announced it was coming down. Not everyone is happy.”
“Not everyone is ever happy,” he countered, then drew back, eyeing her. “Change always upsets people.”
“Sometimes it’s worth upsetting them,” she said. “Sometimes it isn’t.”
He leaned his elbow on the bar, closer now. “That bridge is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Can we talk about the color of your eyes? Not quite brown, not quite gold. They are the color of…”
“Rust,” she joked, inching back from the scrutiny.
“My favorite color, but no, they’re more…” He closed a little space between them. “Fiery. Are you fiery, Vivien? I like fiery women.”
Sliding her stool back, she managed a humorless smile. “Well, I like beautiful memories and historical landmarks and celebrating legacies, so…”
“Viv!” A man’s voice broke through the bar noise, almost immediately accompanied by a hand on her shoulder. A familiar, strong, and unbelievably welcome hand that she only had to touch to feel comfortable again.
“Peter.” She smiled up at him with a rush of relief and gratitude. “You made it.”
He answered with a light kiss on her hair. Sliding a protective arm around her, he glanced at the man. “’Scuze me, sir. I believe that’s my seat.”
Suddenly, all the bravado disappeared from old Quinn Hargrove. His pudgy jowls sagged, his barrel chest deflated, and his smile vanished.
“’Course. Nice chatting with you, Vivien.” He stood up and took a step back, giving her one more look. “There’s nothing wrong with making a little money off cleaning up the place.”
Vivien opened her mouth, but Peter stepped between her and the man, taking his seat.
“Have a nice evening, sir,” he said, spinning Vivien’s stool to face him.
She drank in the sight of him, a little breathless and so, so happy to see him.
Vivien knew almost instantly that something was wrong with Peter. He turned down a drink, looked around like a trapped animal, and let out a shuddering sigh.
“You okay?”
“Now that I don’t have to kill that guy breathing down your…front? Yeah.” He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his brown eyes. “Sounds like you found your guy and he struck out.”
“I struck out, too,” she admitted. “But you have the best timing of any man alive.”
He gave her a half-smile. “Looked like you needed a rescue.”
She didn’t think of herself as a woman who needed saving, but if anyone was going to do that, she wanted it to be Peter.
“He walked away from me, but”—she lifted a shoulder—“I don’t think he’s walking away from the bridge demo that is going to make him even…”
“Fatter.”
She snorted. “I was going to say richer.”
His gaze flicked toward the far end of the bar, where Quinn had reclaimed his stool and his bravado. “I looked up some stuff about him while I was in the waiting room with Connor.”
“I did, too. Owns a salvage company.”
“And has three mortgages on a beachfront house, two ex-wives, and was pulled over two years ago for a DUI but he beat it and had it expunged from the public record. But not the private one.”
She let out a soft laugh. “I forgot you have access to something a little more powerful than Google. So he needs money and has friends in high places.”
Peter shrugged. “One enemy, though. Natalie Cartwright.”
“Who is?”
“A young pistol who is on the board of the Destin History and Fishing Museum.”
She shook her head, conjuring up a mental image of the place. “That little brick building on Stahlman? I always thought it was like a fishing-themed shell shop.”
“No, it’s the closest thing Destin has to a historical society,” he said. “They preserve and honor the history of the area, specifically waterways and fishing-related areas.”
“How do you know this Natalie woman is his enemy?”
Peter hesitated, then said, “Also not on the record.”
“My lips are sealed.”
“She filed a formal objection when the bridge was flagged for review,” he said. “She complained that the bridge qualified as a cultural landmark under county guidelines. She requested a pause, but it got dismissed, ignored, and swept under the rug by…individuals with more power.”
“Who are probably all sporting their own Patek watches right now,” she muttered.
He lifted a shoulder. “Welcome to small-town politics—graft, corruption, and buried files. I found a deputy’s summary from a zoning meeting. Quinn called her ‘a nuisance’ and said she was ‘holding the town hostage with history no one cared about.’”
Vivien felt something settle into place. “I like her already.”
“I like anyone who can’t be bought,” Peter said. “She probably knows more about how this got pushed through.”
The bartender asked again if they wanted a drink, but Peter shook his head. Then he glanced toward the door. “You okay to head out? It’s loud in here.”
“Sure,” she said lightly. “Lead the way, Detective. Pretty sure Moneybags picked up this tab.”
Outside, the evening had softened into gold and navy. The harbor lights blinked on one by one, reflected in ribbons across the water. The sound of steel drums drifted from somewhere behind them, mingling with the slap of waves against docked boats.
They walked along the boardwalk, passing families licking ice cream cones, a street guitarist plucking something nostalgic, couples on dates.
Peter shoved his hands into his pockets, and Vivien silently put her hopes of “the” conversation to bed.
They stopped at a railing where a narrow pier jutted out over the harbor, taking a moment to inhale the scent of fried shrimp and brackish water.
“You okay?” she asked gently.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I’m fine, but you’re not.”
He hesitated, then sighed. “Connor’s broken wrist is…an issue.”
Her heart dipped. “What? Why?”
“We saw an orthopedic specialist this afternoon, which is why I was late.”
“And…”
“He confirmed what we knew—a fractured distal radius, a hairline clavicle fracture. But he added something—a brachial plexus stretch injury from the impact.”
“And the issue?”
“It’s basically a grenade in his plans, life, and upcoming residency,” he said humorlessly.
“The brachial plexus is a network of nerves that runs from the neck, across the shoulders, and down into the hand. It controls fine motor precision, grip strength, and finger isolation. Even sensation in the fingertips. All of which…”
Her heart dropped. “Matter very much to a dentist.”
“Bingo.” He winced as it seemed to hit him all over again.
“Connor calls it ‘millimeter work’ and knows that he cannot afford even an occasional misfire in a patient’s mouth.
” He shook his head. “And he admitted to me that his grip fades in fifteen minutes and his fingers ‘buzz’ at night. And if ignores it, the nerve injury could be permanent.”
“Oof.” She dropped her head back, knowing that would ruin all his years of education and training before he ever became a dentist. “Can it be fixed? Surgery or rehabilitation?”
“Probably—not definitely, but it will require eight to twelve weeks of specialized hand therapy, which can’t even start until he’s healed.”
“Oh, no. What does that mean for dental school and his residency?”
“He’s figuring that out. Defer the residency? Figure out if insurance covers therapy? Run away from his overbearing mother and deal with the guilt for going to a gathering that might have cost him everything?”
“Oh, Peter!” She reached for him. “Poor Connor. He can’t feel guilty—he was on the wrong road at the wrong time. It could have happened to anyone. And this isn’t the end of his career—it’s a roadblock. You’ll help him.”
Peter rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He wants to power through.”
“Not a good idea,” she said.
“No kidding. You wouldn’t know it from a casual conversation but he’s a hard worker, an overachiever.
Dr. Dunne warned him in no uncertain terms that if he forces use without therapy and healing, he could turn this into something permanent.
He’s already practicing with his left hand but that won’t cut it as a dentist.”
He stared out at the water and she waited, sensing he had more to share.
“And then there’s Holly,” he said.
The overbearing mother, Vivien thought, but stayed silent.
“She’s smothering him and I don’t know if he loves it or hates it.”
“I can’t imagine a twenty-eight-year-old young man wanting to be smothered.”
Peter looked dubious. “He did say having us all together makes him feel better. Holly was all over that—practically planning our next family vacation.”
“And you…” she ventured. “How do you feel having her there?”
He lifted a shoulder. “There’s no…acrimony. That’s good. I’ve always wanted that.”
“I know.”
He turned and looked at her for the longest time. He didn’t speak, but she saw something in his eyes—their connection, their history, their relationship.
She reached for his hand on the railing, resting her fingers on top of his.
He looked down at their hands, then sighed. “I better get home and see how he’s doing,” he said. “I’m sorry I sent you on a wild goose chase tonight.”
The rejection stung.
“It’s fine,” she said quickly—much too quickly. “I’m going to contact that Natalie person, if that doesn’t overstep law enforcement privacy.”
“You can contact her. Her complaint is public, just not how he got around it. Can I walk you to your car, Viv?”
The ending of the evening felt abrupt and forced. Did he know what she was thinking and not want to hear it? Did he not know? Maybe he thought he’d overstepped the bounds of their undefined and increasingly complicated friendship?
“Yeah, I’m not far. Thanks.”
They walked in silence and she realized just how awkward and strained this moment had become. She hated that.
“You don’t have to solve it tonight,” she said. “He’s safe. He’s healing. The rest can unfold.”
Peter nodded, though doubt still shadowed his eyes.
“Connor could come by the Summer House,” she added. “Anytime. No doctors. No schedules. Just beach and noise and Jonah cooking something ridiculous.”
He let out a small laugh. “To get him away from Holly?”
“To give him space to think.”
Peter’s shoulders eased and he smiled, stopping at her SUV. “Thank you, Viv. I’ll tell him.”
“You could come, too.”
His eyes shuttered. “Yeah, thanks. Really busy with the new job.”
“I understand.” She unlocked the door and opened it, pausing to look up at him and remember a time not so long ago when they would have kissed goodbye.
Why in God’s name had she sent him packing? She should just—
“See ya, Viv.” With a nod, he walked away, leaving her standing there sad and wishing she could turn back time.
If not, then she needed to…let go.
“Someday, Vivien Lawson. Someday, you will be over that man.”
She watched him disappear around the corner and her heart ached.
Someday. But not today.