Chapter 2
Waiting for another cup of coffee to brew, Natalie Hargrave eyed the lengthy to-do list on the refrigerator. Her oldest sister, Celeste, was the best at all things organizational and Natalie adored her, despite the long-term love affair with checklists.
Admittedly, it was easier to feel sisterly affection on days that didn’t include agenda items such as “inventory lightbulbs by noon”.
But if she ignored the simple task or missed the deadline and something was less than perfect for their guests, Celeste would be frustrated.
Besides, Natalie couldn’t stay annoyed when, thanks to the first item on the to-do list—bake cookies—the kitchen was filled with the warm, welcoming aroma of melty chocolate.
This was Natalie’s week as the primary guest liaison at the Hargrave Hideaway, one of the hottest rental homes on Brookwell Island.
Along with Celeste and their middle sister, Veronica, they traded off so no one was too overwhelmed with the business operation.
Counting lightbulbs aside, Natalie considered this the best normal job to have, though everything she did at the Hideaway felt heavier since they’d lost their mom to cancer.
People kept saying the grief would ease with time.
Natalie wasn’t sure she believed it. Not entirely.
Everyone she met thought she was still herself—the carefree baby sister who was quick to deliver a big hug or sass, depending on the situation. All her life, her sisters relied on her to be the bubbly, outgoing Hargrave daughter.
That persistent and familiar pinch of resentment near her heart was frustrating. She didn’t really blame her sisters for anything. They were her closest friends. If they needed her to take the lead on the social side, so be it. She’d be utterly lost in this world without them.
Losing their mom had wrecked them all in different ways.
Their father had left his medical practice and run off to Europe to recuperate.
Celeste had thrown herself into creating the B&B.
Veronica had similarly used work as a shield with her personal training and physical therapy clients.
And Nat? Well, she’d taken her mother’s final words of advice and followed her broken heart into the art industry.
A risk, definitely. But thanks to Celeste’s lists and organization, she had the safety-net income from the Hideaway and the freedom to find her voice artistically. She was fair with paint and canvas, better as an art teacher, and she positively dominated in mixed-media sculpture.
She held tight to the assumption that her mother was proud of her for following her creative nudges into wonderful experiences.
Although there were times when it felt like a grind managing all the details, it was rejuvenating and much easier than the effort needed to support their mother through a terminal illness.
That had been hard work of a different kind.
“It’s over now,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her midsection. Sometimes nothing more than a fleeting thought jerked her back to those dark and frustrating days when their mom couldn’t find relief.
They’d been without her for a couple of years and in that time had turned the family summer home their mother loved into the popular and profitable bed and breakfast. Since opening, they’d been testing and refining their business approach.
Natalie had been surprised at how much she enjoyed running the Hideaway with her sisters, trading off various responsibilities and guest relations. Now that they’d shifted from multiple guests to a whole-house rental model things were better than ever.
She finished the light bulb inventory and crossed it off the list just as the oven timer chimed. Pulling the two cookie sheets out of the oven, she set them on the stove top. After another minute or two, the cookies would be ready to transfer to the cooling rack.
After that, she would tackle the task she’d wedged onto the list: get outside and enjoy some fresh air and sunshine.
An irresistibly gorgeous day beckoned. Through the window over the sink, she watched the sunlight dance on the water, the rollers coasting gently to the shore. Ribbons of white foam rippled up and over the pale golden sand before sliding back to the ocean.
The constancy of it soothed her as much as it fueled her.
Way back in spring break of second grade, her parents had promised Natalie and her older sisters an entire week of new adventures. They’d been more secretive about the trip than they were about Christmas.
She and her sisters had piled into the van, indulged in the requisite arguing of close siblings, and wound up here on Brookwell Island.
Natalie had fallen in love instantly. Delighted to hear the ocean so close, she’d followed her sisters, dashing past the house with its pale green stucco, tall stairs, and white trim.
Giddy, the three of them danced on a crescent beach her father said was just for the five of them.
When they finally went to explore the house, it felt as if the outside flowed in through windows taller than her father.
The tile floors were cool under her bare feet, and soft coastal colors sparkled in every room.
“It’s our home away from home,” their mom had assured them over and over again. “We can come back as often as we like.”
And with a bedroom all to herself, Natalie could leave her window open and listen to the ocean all night long. It was pure bliss.
As promised, they returned several times a year, usually as a family of five, sometimes with friends or cousins.
Their house and beach had held girl weekends with just the sisters and their mom.
Sometimes their dad would take Veronica out for deep sea fishing trips.
Neither Celeste nor Natalie enjoyed fishing, only the catch.
All of those wonderful, vibrant days had put an indelible stamp on the house and their beach. Those early years built up a solid foundation for the Hargrave family, one that endured through hard times too. And now new opportunities.
The timer went off, drawing Nataline back to the present. She transferred the cookies to the racks and set the baking sheets aside to wash later. She needed that air on her face, stat.
Needed to clear away the lingering memories—good and bad—to embrace what today offered.
At the edge of the sprawling deck they often used for breakfast or late-night cocktails, she slipped off her shoes and ran barefoot down the steps, past the fire pit, and through the path in the dunes until she reached the sandy beach.
The wind caught at her hair and she pulled the tie free, letting her ponytail fall and the wind have its way.
There’s my wild child. The memory of her mother’s voice whispered through her mind.
That familiar pinch caught behind her heart.
It seemed time was irrelevant, despite all the well-meaning people who claimed time could heal all wounds.
Somehow, Natalie still felt caught in the grief, missing her mom desperately.
She took some comfort in the fact that none of them were over it.
Cancer had been a brutal enemy. Their mom had been so brave, inspiring many fellow patients dealing with treatment.
But at the end, this house was where she wanted to be, surrounded by family.
Friends had come and gone almost as often as the doctors and hospice nurses.
“I have got to move on,” Natalie scolded herself.
She was going through the motions, sharing the vision and responsibility now that they’d turned the house into a B&B.
All three of the Hargrave sisters were now permanent residents on Brookwell Island.
Natalie was pursuing her art and finding success.
She was proud as hell that the town had commissioned her for permanent art installations at various locations.
And yet, she still felt like a fraud with that grief lurking in her heart. Part of her worried that she would always be grieving, even here in this small-town paradise.
Brookwell Island wasn’t quite in step with the rest of the world. The pace was slower, conversations familiar and relaxed, even with strangers. But that was the whole point of a beachside community. Here, with a population almost equally divided between locals and tourists, life was good.
A generally safe adventure.
Especially at Hargrave Hideaway, where there was someone new to meet nearly every week as their guests came and went.
So why didn’t she feel more like herself? Lately, she only got clear of the sadness when she was involved with an art project or guest teaching a class. Though she kept busy, she couldn’t be “on” all the time.
Over the last couple of months, she’d started worrying that this might be a sign of a bigger issue. She squeezed her toes as the tide sucked the sand from under her feet. She really didn’t want to be the depressed Hargrave sister.
The obvious cure was to get out of her own head. She could call her sisters and get together. Talk about it. Laugh over fond memories.
Or she could go into Charleston tonight and dance with a stranger. Have fun with folks who didn’t know her or her weaknesses.
For now, she waded along the tide line, admiring the views and colors, considering how she might turn the ocean into a sculpture. A familiar exercise that filled her creative well and helped her find her gracious-hostess mode before their guest arrived.
The water and sand tickled her toes. She turned her face to the breeze and breathed deeply of the salty sea air. Gathering up her skirt, she waded out up to her knees. She studied the coastline, then turned back to study the house.
It was so charming from every angle. She never tired of sketching it. A couple of charcoals had been turned into prints they sold on the website and at a couple of shops in town. The extra money was helpful—consistent revenue that made her life easier.
Something bumped the back of her leg and it took all her willpower to remain still. Having grown up around the ocean, she knew better than to panic. Glancing down, the sunlight bouncing off the ocean made it hard to see what was under the surface.
She shifted slowly toward the shore, moving away from what was probably a hunk of driftwood or a curious fish.
Whatever it was bumped her again, this time dragging across her heel.
An eerie cringe skittered down her spine.
As the wave washed back out, it sucked the sand from under her foot and she stumbled backward.
Her foot landed on something that was neither fish nor sand.
She looked down and saw an arm. Limp, only the movement of the water gave it life.
Startled and shocked, uncertain, she realized that arm was still attached to the body. That was a good thing, right? Better than a body part out here all by itself.
The next roller came in and she sidestepped as the persistent waves nudged the body closer to the shore.
Swearing under her breath so she wouldn’t vomit, she caught the limp arm and tugged the body onto shore. The authorities couldn’t do anything if she let the body wash back out to sea.
She dug into her pocket for her phone to call the police and remembered she had left it in the kitchen. Cursing that poor choice, she waffled between staying with the body and hollering for help or leaving it long enough to call from the house.
The nearest people were the construction crew at the neighboring property. They’d never hear her over the tools and equipment. She had to handle this before their guest arrived.
Confident she’d dragged the body away from the ocean’s reach, she raced up to the house, stumbling a little in the loose dry sand.
Crossing the dunes, she found her footing and aimed for the back door into the kitchen.
“Hey! Hello?”
A deep, masculine voice hailed her from the driveway.
She nearly tripped as she skidded to a stop.
He was gorgeous. As in model-athlete, paparazzi-should-be-hovering gorgeous.
His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunglasses, but his sandy brown hair was ruffled by the breeze and his skin had a healthy golden glow of a man who enjoyed the outdoors.
A sexy scruff of beard shaded his jaw. A man in vacation mode.
His t-shirt hugged his muscled torso and the board shorts revealed strong legs.
Her fingers tingled. And her lips. She was momentarily consumed by the fantasy of kissing him. What on earth? She’d never experienced such a visceral, immediate attraction.
Well, only once. All she’d gotten out of that encounter was a fascinating hour of conversation over coffee and a business card.
Hang on. Her brain backpedaled. “Trent?”
“You remember.” The slow smile only made him more irresistible. “Hi, Natalie. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh.” She forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Are you checking in?”
In the back of her mind, she frantically assessed the angles, hoping he couldn’t see the body behind her in the cove.
“Yes,” he said. “The Guardian Agency arranged it.”
“You’re a guest. The guest.” The elite security agency often booked the Hargrave Hideaway. Sometimes as part of a protection detail, sometimes just for employees or clients meeting with their regional coordinator’s office in town. Why hadn’t he mentioned the connection at their first meeting?
“I’m early,” he said, “but when I saw you were my contact, I thought I’d take the chance. The front door was locked, so I came around back and…” His voice trailed off. “I can come back at check-in time.”
He was definitely early. And if he was with the Guardian Agency, he might understand her sudden predicament. Best not to test that until the authorities arrived. Whatever purpose brought him here, it couldn’t be related to the body on the beach behind her.
“Well welcome!” She smiled, but it must have looked a little crazed because he didn’t come closer.
Of course he didn’t. Though being close to Trent had become a frequent fantasy. For her. “Let’s just go on in here and get you registered,” she managed.
“Do you need an ID?” He reached for a pocket on his shorts as he approached.
“Yes.” She waved him closer. “In the house. I’ll show you around. As soon as I send a text message.”
She grabbed her phone and texted Celeste to call the police. Now she just had to figure out how to keep Trent distracted.
Dead bodies did not fit the Hideaway B&B brand.