Chapter 22
“The place is yours.”
Down in Sailor and Ingrid’s garden-level altar room, the two had just completed a psychic attunement ritual and were sprawled out on their backs staring at the ceiling Scoot’s team of installers had papered with a dreamy navy-blue constellation design.
Sailor had told Ingrid that every fourth of July, the Loefflers went to Maine, to a large private island owned by one of Scoot’s cousins.
They stayed in a huge house, what Sailor called a cottage, with thirteen bedrooms, a carriage house, a barn, a beach, and a variety of boats.
Sailor described the three-day getaway as filled with tennis matches, bridge tournaments, and more lobster than a human being could eat.
Since the Loefflers would be out of town, Sailor said that the family beach cottage on Tybee Island was available for the holiday.
Ingrid was welcome to use it for the long weekend and take Miles or a girlfriend, if she wanted.
Although she shouldn’t expect too much, Sailor warned.
This cottage was built in the fifties by Rill’s grandparents, the originators of the Savannah Sauce empire and humble folk, and hadn’t been updated in more than forty years.
“My mom doesn’t darken the doors of the place,” Sailor said, with an eye roll. “Tybee’s a bit on the downscale side for her. Anyway, you should go.” She patted Ingrid’s arm. “The beach is fantastic and private, and there’s a hot tub on the deck.”
When Ingrid called Miles, he was ecstatic. “A free beach house?” he crowed. “For three days? Are you kidding me?”
“I figured we could use some time together,” Ingrid said. “And a way for me to say how much I appreciate all you’re doing, looking after the house. I know it hasn’t been easy.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain. I just want you to remember who you are, Ingrid. Those people may be paying you, but you’re every bit as good as them.”
“I know that.”
“In fact, you’re better than them, if you want to know the truth.”
She redirected the conversation back to the Tybee weekend.
He said he would try to get away. Although July Fourth ghost tours were always jam-packed, and his boss would probably pitch a fit, he thought Mari, who cleaned rooms at several B and Bs and occasionally filled in for him, would welcome the extra work.
The following Friday morning, the pair of them were ensconced in the cool, leathery back seat of the Loefflers’ Rolls-Royce as Adrian drove them the half hour to Tybee Island.
When Adrian wheeled the Rolls onto an unassuming side street lined with old beach cabins, Ingrid’s mouth dropped.
He pulled to the end, stopping at a wood-paneled, two-story house which was nearly obscured by a thick hedge of wax myrtle, and cut the engine.
Sailor hadn’t been kidding. This place really was low-key. Maybe the first time that word applied to anything related to the Loefflers.
The rough cedar siding was painted a beachy mint green.
Brown shutters flanked the windows. The deck looked weathered, but everything was in good repair.
Adrian took their bags out of the trunk and carried them through the hedge, up a set of wooden steps.
Dropping them at the door, he handed a set of keys to Ingrid and tipped his hat.
“I’ll be back to pick you up on Sunday evening at eight o’clock. ”
When he was gone, Miles gave the cottage a once-over, then Ingrid a look of incredulity. “So this place is ours? For the whole weekend?”
Ingrid shrugged, unlocking the door. “Apparently, they barely come here. Well, Rill does sometimes, I think. Sailor said it belonged to his grandfather.”
“The one who started Savannah Sauce.”
“Yep.”
“What an absolute boss. It’s like some kind of badass Ernest Hemingway man-cave.”
They explored the whole place, starting with the main floor. It was one open room, a knotty pine-paneled living room and dining room area scattered with matching mid-century modern furniture and seagrass rugs. A huge sailfish arced gracefully over the stone fireplace.
On the other end of the room was a rustic kitchen, with orange Formica countertops and ruffled curtains on the windows. An old, green rotary phone with a long cord hung on the wall. Upstairs consisted of four small bedrooms.
The fridge, in true Loeffler style, was fully stocked with neatly stacked takeout meals from a local caterer, deli meat and bread, and a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, as well as a selection of eggs and bacon for breakfast. In a small fridge in the laundry room, they found beer and wine.
Sailor had made sure every detail was taken care of.
“Such a wild place,” Miles said when they were back outside, standing on the deck, drinking bottles of fancy IPAs and watching the waves roll in. The beach was a glorious sight. Deserted and lit golden brown by the sun.
Ingrid turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a party house,” Miles said. “Mark my words, my man Aurelian definitely comes here to party, get high … or fuck his girlfriends.”
A sharp desire to defend Rill shot through her. “He’s a pretty busy man, Miles. He works all the time.”
“Well, then he used to fuck his girlfriends here.”
Ingrid felt a chill travel through her. He wasn’t wrong. There was definitely an aura here. The presence of something … mysterious. And not altogether good.
She heard a shriek and blinked into focus. Miles had ripped his shirt off and was racing across the sand in the direction of the lapping ocean waves. She smiled. He was such a little boy sometimes, unabashedly joyful at the simplest of things. She checked her phone. Her sinner had texted.
How’s the beach house?
She shook her head, smiling a secretive smile.
Perfect. Almost.
He would know what she meant. The one thing missing was him. And she was almost one hundred percent sure that the him was Cas.
Another text. I hate that you’re there with him.
She drew in a breath and slipped back inside the house, pulling the sliding glass door closed behind her.
This was something new—Cas being jealous of Miles.
Maybe it heightened the drama for him. Imagining that they were doing something illicit.
It was strange, but Ingrid didn’t think it mattered that much in the end.
If it turned him on, if it got her closer to him, who was she to dissuade him?
Nevertheless, she was not going to let this opportunity pass her by.
He’s my friend, she typed. What was I supposed to do, come here alone?
Are you going to sleep with him?
She sighed. It was almost like he wanted her to say they were. Like it was the only thing that kept him coming back to her.
Is that any of your business? she answered.
Every breath you take interests me.
She really was getting the tiniest bit tired of all this game-playing.
All this baiting him with the perfectly calibrated kind of response that would tantalize him but not turn him off.
Even if her sinner was Cas, even he was only a flight of stairs away from her at the Loeffler house, the reality was that nothing had come of all their heated texting.
The truth was she was tired of working so hard and getting nothing in return. If he was really that jealous, he’d take her out to dinner, wouldn’t he? She tapped a terse reply.
It’s just something people do, you know. Sex.
I’m better than him. I would make you happier.
Oh yeah? How exactly would you do that?
I could make you come there alone.
She smirked. Haha, very funny.
I’m not kidding, came his stern response. Go upstairs.
Why?
Because sometimes saints like a sinner to take charge. Last bedroom on the right. The blue one.
She looked up at the ceiling, annoyed. If you asked her, taking charge would be asking her out on an actual date.
Why? she typed. She was being obstinate, she knew. But she was weary of his games.
Just go.
She sighed. Clutching her phone, she climbed the stairs and walked down the hall, to the last room on the right.
She pushed open the door. The room was indeed a soft blue.
In the corner sat a small twin bed neatly made up with a navy chenille bedspread.
On the opposite wall was a framed poster of Tybee Island Children’s Maritime Museum. Obviously, a little boy’s room.
Cas’s room.
Now what? she typed.
See the bed?
Yes.
Lie down on it.
A long pause, then …
I want to make you come in my bed.
She inhaled, frozen, staring at the phone.
Her heart thudded so hard she felt like it might burst through her chest. And she suddenly started shaking all over.
They’d texted some dirty stuff but they’d never, like, actually done anything.
This was a step further than they’d ever gone. This felt dangerous.
And a little wrong.
She typed back, fingers trembling. We shouldn’t.
Don’t be scared. I’ll be with you.
If this really was Cas, had he also been texting Finley things like this? It seemed likely … and it had made Sailor furious. So angry, she’d cut her friend out of the wedding.
So did she dare walk the tightrope of drawing Cas out without doing or saying anything that would be considered out of line as Sailor’s friend?
She held her breath, thinking through all the possible scenarios. Sailor could never know. She would have to be extremely careful. She would absolutely, one hundred percent, not send pictures, no matter what. She would not be another Finley. She couldn’t bear losing Sailor.
She thought quickly. That other messaging app, she typed. Those disappeared, didn’t they? That would be safer.
She was having a difficult time thinking straight now—about Sailor, about being discovered. About anything other than Cas. Her sinner.
Go into the room and shut the door, he sent.
She did as she was told.