Chapter i
Beach Thriller
i
Will they all live happily ever after?
That’s the fairy-tale ending we all dream about. True love’s kiss. Rags to riches. Discovering we’re a lost queen.
What a load of crap.
In real life, the frog doesn’t turn into a prince. He becomes a cheating scoundrel who breaks your heart after he steals your money. The wolf always eats the girl. The young woman, trapped in servitude, remains forever impoverished and despairing.
Which brings us to young, dedicated Anna.
She’s beautiful; of course she is. You can’t have a fairy tale without a captivating princess.
But Anna isn’t royalty—she’s humble, kindhearted, and has a simple dream of becoming a teacher.
Hopefully, her fairy godmother will grant her a reasonable cost-of-living increase.
But tonight, money surrounds Anna. It’s summertime by the ocean, early June, a lovely night for a party.
Floodlights slice through the dark, illuminating a turreted stone manor nestled behind a thick wrought-iron gate.
The home is perched on a tall, craggy cliff overlooking the awe-inspiring Atlantic Ocean.
The properties in this part of town are all high-end homes, but none compare to the one called Miramar.
The Spanish name, prominently displayed on a plaque bored into a gatepost, translates poetically to “Watcher of the Sea.”
The roof is steeply pitched and dotted with tall chimneys that from a distance look like stone fingers reaching up to scrape the sky. The windows carved into the stone facade give the impression of dark eyes keeping watch over the meticulously manicured grounds.
In the center of the circular driveway, a resplendent fountain bubbles. Bronze figures of a man and woman in flowing robes tilt pitchers, pouring water into a pool that is as clear as a mountain stream.
Fairy lights twinkle in the ancient trees surrounding the path to the beach, forming a magical canopy, guiding guests to the shoreline below.
The partygoers are dressed in bright summer fabrics: a mix of floral-patterned midi and maxi dresses for the women, creating a bouquet of color under the party tent. The men must have received a similar dress code. They’re wearing madras shorts and button-down linen tops, looking very casual cool.
The entire party is an ode to the ocean—at least that’s what the hostess would like everyone to believe—but in reality, the guests are paying homage to her.
And there’s a twist. Instead of the ankle-breaking heels and Italian leather shoes expected at most high-end parties, the crowd is dancing barefoot on the white sands of Maeve Carmichael’s private beach.
In place of a coat check, Maeve offers a shoe check, which ensures the mandatory No Footwear Allowed rule is followed by all.
The Barefoot Beach Ball (play on words intended) is the event of the season in Beauport. The sublime sandy soiree is famed not only for its splendor but also for the murmured complaints of the local staff, who have to trudge everything to the beach.
Partygoers descend the illuminated stone steps carved into the cliff, leading from the lush lawn at the top of the bluff to the white party tent just beyond the reach of the lapping ocean waves. A row of burning tiki torches lights up the darkness, their flickering flames casting alluring shadows.
Some walk along the warm sand, their drinks topped with fancy umbrellas, while others sway to the sounds of a nine-piece jazz band, melodic notes pulsing through the night air.
Guests dance in a whirlwind of movement as caterers navigate through the crowd, ensuring drinks and appetizers are served before people even realize they want more.
Maeve, with her status and prestige, doesn’t think much about the woes of the exhausted staff, who are working for a promised bonus while also enduring a grueling workout going up and down the stairs to the beach.
Lines of electric cords attached to generators high above dangle against the bluff like climbing ropes from gym class.
And the sand… it’s everywhere, except on the long tables draped in white cloth that are covered with an array of seasonal, light, and visually stunning dishes. It’s a savory feast for the sophisticated palate—no hot dogs or hamburgers at this beach cookout.
Sea air filling your lungs and sand between your toes can lift anyone’s mood.
Even the most serious bankers can’t help but feel like children playing on the shoreline.
For these select few guests, the night feels magical, embodying perfection.
For Anna, it’s as if she’d been granted her greatest wish—except for one minor flaw.
She wasn’t invited to the party; she’s working it.
And she wears shoes that are killing her feet, since staff aren’t allowed to go barefoot.
In Maeve Carmichael’s social hierarchy, shoes reveal your lower-class status.
Anna’s job is straightforward: Serve food and drinks to the barefoot guests without making a mess.
Everything has to be flawless, and for good reason.
Historically, Maeve’s Barefoot Beach Ball has been a major fundraiser for various causes.
But tonight, the elite of Beauport have gathered to celebrate her son’s engagement to a member of the prominent Ward family.
Maeve wants all the influential attendees to raise their champagne flutes and toast to the bright future of Prince Charming and his lovely bride-to-be.
Anna lugged her silver tray full of hors d’oeuvres across the spongy sand. Who knew crab and goat cheese palmiers could weigh so much?
Thank God Holly was working alongside her. Anna’s sister was two years her junior, but if you asked Holly, she would claim to be three years wiser.
“Hey, your eleven lines are showing,” Holly warned. “You’re not getting a Pap smear—you’re serving food to rich assholes. Try smiling more, and maybe we’ll get a few tips out of this gig.”
Funny how the tables had turned. It was Anna’s idea to apply for the job. She was the one with serving experience—even if it was scooping ice cream for screaming kids at the Dairy Dip.
“I’d smile more if I didn’t have beach sand in every crevice of my body,” she told Holly in a hushed whisper. “Besides, I’ve had a sinking feeling in my stomach since we started working. It’s like I know something terrible is going to happen tonight.”
As if on cue, Maeve Carmichael approached.
The wolf had arrived. Fear prickled the back of Anna’s neck.
The hostess looked stunning in her light blue, plunging-neckline dress that flowed as if ocean waves were enveloping her.
Not a single grain of sand marred her expensive pedicure.
She had shaped her platinum hair into a gravity-defying style that resembled the topiaries out front.
Anna straightened, trying to stand taller.
Maeve’s burning gaze locked on her, allowing Holly to sneak off.
“Where is the caviar?” Maeve snapped.
“I’m sorry, they gave me the crab to serve,” Anna said, eyes drooping.
Maeve curled her upper lip. “I told you and your sister to serve the caviar with the Dom Pérignon, which has been circulating for twenty minutes. This is my son’s engagement party, and everything needs to be perfect.”
“I’ll take care of it immediately,” Anna stammered, enduring a crush of embarrassment.
“Hurry,” Maeve barked. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted a pair of townie mutts to do this job. But I listened to my son, who urged me to give the locals a chance.” She turned her nose up at the word locals, equating Anna with trash.
Ah, the damsel in distress and the wicked witch. What could go wrong?
Maeve’s dismissive wave sent Anna scurrying after Holly.
What a terrible, horrible, awful woman, thought Anna on her way up the steep staircase and back to the kitchen.
Her stomach was in knots, her palms sweaty.
As unpleasant as her encounter with Maeve had been, Anna feared something far, far worse was yet to come.
Up and down she went, tray after tray of fancy foods, until finally break time arrived. Thank goodness for small miracles.
At last, Anna had a moment to herself. She was far enough from the beach that the jazz band sounded like a muffled melody.
Perched on the edge of the fountain in front of the stone house called Miramar, she drank water from a plastic bottle.
Her feet felt like two melons stuffed into tiny black shoes.
Out of habit, she pulled a penny from her pocket. With her eyes closed, she made a wish. The penny flew from her hand and landed with a soft splash. It sank to the bottom, resting on heads.
She checked the time. Fifteen minutes had never gone so fast. Anna got up to leave, turning quickly—she’d been gone too long. In her rush, she nearly bumped into a handsome man who had appeared out of nowhere. He stepped back with the grace of a dancer.
“You startled me,” she breathed, putting a hand to her chest.
“I’m sorry,” he answered sincerely. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I needed a break from the party and saw you by the fountain. What did you wish for?”
As he stepped closer, moonlight lit his face.
Anna had never swooned before, but there was a first for everything.
This guy wasn’t just good-looking—he was a work of art.
Dark hair, like the night sky, framed a boyish yet rugged face.
He had a strong jawline and lips made for kissing.
He shot Anna a stunning smile. His dark eyes sparkled, causing her knees to buckle.
His button-down shirt fit his broad shoulders and slim torso perfectly.
Khaki shorts showed off his muscular legs.
It didn’t hurt that he also smelled like cinnamon.
“Oh, it was nothing—just what people do with fountains, right?” Anna offered a nervous laugh.
Somehow, this stranger amplified the charm of his to-die-for smile. “Well, sure,” he said, “but maybe not this particular fountain.”
Anna traced his finger to the glowing water. There, in the middle of a clean, coinless pool, was her lone copper penny.
“Oh my god, no,” she muttered, horrified. She reached to retrieve the coin, but the young man placed his hand softly on her shoulder before she could dive in.
“Leave it,” he said. “I don’t want you to lose your wish.” His voice soothed her like a smooth-talking DJ. “Tell me what you asked for. I don’t think that will keep it from coming true.”
Anna’s gaze lingered on the penny, feeling the weight of her foolishness. She wanted to shrink to the size of a goldfish and disappear into the water.
“It’s so ridiculous,” she said, shuffling her feet. “I wished that I’d be an invited guest next time, not staff.” She gestured to her uniform, shame rippling through her. It sounded so much better in her head. The last time she felt this idiotic was, well, never.
“Parties like this—even barefoot in the sand—are just a chance for people to show off. I don’t think you’re missing much.” Was it Anna’s imagination, or did a dark cloud pass over his chiseled features?
She smiled, blushing. “Well, I’m about to get fired for taking too long.”
“The boss is on you, huh?”
Anna returned an emphatic nod. “She’s a little … um, strict.” She stole a glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see Maeve storming her way. “She called me a mutt because I didn’t serve the caviar on time.”
His eyebrows shot up. “A mutt? That’s awful.” She assumed he was trying to be sympathetic, but his voice carried an edge of amusement.
Anna became bolder. “What a raging bitch, right?” She hoped he would agree. He seemed like an ally, but his expression remained impervious.
“Oh yeah, I know better than most,” he said, his dimpled smile widening. “She’s my mother.” He extended his hand toward her. Anna went stock-still. “I’m Conrad Carmichael. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Anna warily took his hand. His touch sent a rush through her body, a strong jolt that wiped away her crushing embarrassment. A profound realization took hold—this was a rare connection, like a gift from the stars.
But alarm bells went off, too. Was this the terrible event she had feared all night? She wasn’t sure. All Anna knew was that, for better or worse, this man was her destiny.
Holly returned the pages to the box, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and excitement.
She hadn’t thought about this story in years.
And to her surprise, the book did sing. It wasn’t great literature—not by any stretch.
It was youthful and unrefined, but not unfixable.
And Jade believed readers would feel curious after the first chapter: What happens next?
Does Anna’s terrible premonition come true?
Who is Conrad’s betrothed? Do Conrad and Anna have an affair? Does she get fired?
In hindsight it was naive to use real names for her story, but back then, Holly thought it would help her get the characters right—ground her narrative in verisimilitude. Or maybe it was just therapy. Either way, she had planned to change the names later, until later became never.
Holly sighed. She had more pressing matters to deal with than what to do with an old manuscript that held ghosts pressed between its pages. Jade. She had a difficult choice to make. She didn’t know what was best for Jade, and it wasn’t her decision to make.
Resigned, Holly looked up the number for the Beauport Police Department and hit the call button—always there when you need them, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week: handing out tickets, arresting vandals, stopping drunk drivers, calming angry vacationers, and leaving only one cause and manner of death as “undetermined.”