Chapter 2
Calista
“Without pain, we can’t appreciate pleasure.”
—Eloisa Hobby
When Calista Dempsey was nine years old, her father, along with the support of the American judicial system, stole her and her older sister, Athena, away from their mother.
Dallas, Texas, courthouse steps at high noon. The bright August sun blinded her as sweat trickled down the armholes of her new blue sea-silk dress.
A smirking, mustachioed lawyer in a tailored pin-striped suit pumped Benjamin Dempsey’s hand, offering congratulations in a too-loud voice that made Calista want to press her hands over her ears.
Her father stood tall, his shadow falling over her.
His face wasn’t angry—it was something worse.
He smirked the way he always did when he crushed his adversaries.
Stiff-shouldered grandparents waited nearby, their dour mouths and narrowed eyes disapproving of everything. Cantu, their longtime chauffeur, waited at the back door of the shiny black stretch limo parked at the curb.
Full custody to the father. No visitation rights.
The words the robed judge spoke just minutes before he banged down his gavel echoed in Calista’s head. Courtroom spectators had risen from their seats while their mother let out a keening wail and collapsed to the floor.
Calista tried to rush to Mamá, but a refrigerator-size bald man with a silver name badge clamped a viselike grip on her shoulder and dragged her back.
She darted a glance at Athena, but her sister inched closer to their father, slipped her hand into his, and did not meet Calista’s gaze.
He patted Athena’s head, tugged her close, and glowered at Calista.
Alone, she stood stiff as a toy soldier, scared, trembling, and out of her mind with grief.
Four concerned-looking older women swept her whimpering mother away through a side door. She wanted to scream no and run after Mamá but feared Father’s strict punishment. Instead, she popped her thumb into her mouth and cried silent tears as snot dribbled from her nose.
“God!” Her father’s voice barked, sharp and loud.
Calista flinched, his tone twisting her stomach in knots.
He yanked her thumb from her mouth so hard her wrist hurt.
She knew better than to talk back. He was bigger, stronger, and she never knew what he might do when he got that look in his eyes—the one that made her feel small and breakable. “You’re disgusting. Wipe your face.”
Once outside, in the broiling sun, she curled her hands into fists. No sympathy from him, no loving kindness, no comfort. She could count only on herself.
“Let’s go.” Her father waved them all toward the limo.
Everyone jumped to do his high-handed bidding, with Grandmother and Grandfather Dempsey leading the way, noses in the air, chins granite. No soft hugs from these two, ever.
Cantu swung open the door, and her grandparents slid inside along with Athena, but Calista balked. Fear gobbled her up. She did not want to go.
“Calista, get in the limo,” Father said through drawn lips and clenched teeth as the sun glinted off the gold cuff link of his initials, blinding her.
BD.
Short for “bad” in Calista’s childish mind, and she shook her head.
Her father loomed over her, grabbed her by the shoulder, and dug his sausage fingers into her collarbone with force meant to hurt. “Get in the car.”
She wrenched away.
“Calista!”
They both turned to see her mother running down the courthouse steps. The four older women who’d helped Demetra from the courtroom rushed behind her, urging her to stop.
“Mamá!” She broke free and raced toward her mother, who held her arms outstretched.
“Calista, get back here!” Father’s voice smacked her ears.
She flung herself into her mother’s arms, and Mamá held her close, showering her face with kisses. “I love you, Calista. I love you, love you, love you, forever and always.”
“Don’t let him take me,” she begged her mother. “Please, please . . .”
“The court says you must go with him.” Tears streamed down both their cheeks, mingling together, the taste of salt overwhelming Calista.
“I don’t want to.”
“I know, I know. I don’t want you to go, but you have to,” Mamá said.
“Please take me with you!”
Mamá, smelling of peppermint and sweet flowers, squeezed her hard and whispered close to her ear, “I can’t.”
“I’ll run away, and I’ll come find you.”
“No, no, please, moro mou, don’t make this harder on yourself. He’ll take it out on you. Behave, do what he says.”
“I hate him.” Calista spat out the words.
“Listen to me.” Mamá rubbed her fingers over Calista’s heart. “You are stronger than you know. You will survive this. You’ll bloom into a beautiful young woman, and you’ll make your own way in the world, but I will always be with you in spirit. Always loving you.”
With trembling hands, her mother took off the gold locket from around her neck, the locket that held a picture of Calista and Athena when they were little, and pressed it into Calista’s sweating palm.
“When you’re eighteen, come find me. I’ll wait for you and Athena, always. I’ll send you cards and letters, and I’ll call—”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind, Demetra.
” Her father’s voice was as hard as the Italian marble in his cold, glossy kitchen.
“You’ll obey the court order, and you’ll stay away from my children, or I’ll have you thrown in prison.
You know I will.” He grasped Calista’s arm, wrenched her away from her mother, and dragged her back to the limo.
“Mamá!” she screamed, reaching out, desperate, yearning, pleading for this to be different.
Her mother sank to her knees on the courthouse steps, and her friends surrounded her.
And that was that.
The memory of that awful separation flashed through Calista’s mind as she stood on the loading dock in Everly, Texas, waiting for the ferry to Hobby Island.
Three days had passed since Calista received word of her mother’s death. Now, it was Friday midmorning and in her hand, she fiddled with the golden ticket—which had arrived via express mail the night before—bending it between her fingers, folding the stiff cardboard back and forth.
How was she supposed to feel about her mother’s death? Sad? Check. Remorseful? Check. Hurt? Check. Numb as hell? Check and double check.
On this day, June 5, a perfect seventy-two-degree breeze ruffled the hem of Calista’s sage-green paisley-print midi skirt and sent a strand of long, dark curly hair tickling across her nose. She brushed it back and scanned the area.
Behind her, the souvenir shops, nautical-themed restaurants, and vendor kiosks lined the weathered boardwalk bustling with happy tourists.
Families with excited children, couples arm in arm, all eager for a beach getaway.
Calista felt like an outsider among them, a dark cloud in their bright, carefree world.
She spied a palm reader’s sandwich board, and the woo-woo side of her wanted to cross the street to visit the fortune teller just for fun.
Or for stalling.
Yes, well, she wasn’t looking forward to her stay on Hobby Island. This visit would be difficult, but then nothing came easy to Calista, well, except for golf, her one natural talent.
The edges of the golden ticket bit into her palm, and she glanced down to see her fist clutched around it.
She welcomed the discomfort, a distraction from the hollow ache in her chest, and turned the ticket over, her gaze snagging on the small handwritten note on the back she’d read a hundred times since yesterday.
Your mother’s last wish was for you and your sister to reconcile. Please come in remembrance of your beloved Demetra and let our island magic soothe your soul.
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips. Peace, what a farce. Peace was an ill-afforded luxury while her mother’s ghost still haunted every corner of her mind, when she and her sister hadn’t spoken to each other in five years.
She tucked the showy ticket into her shoulder bag.
The breeze picked up, carrying with it the briny sea scent.
Fingering the locket around her neck, the jewelry she never took off, Calista lowered her lashes and counted to ten, steadying herself.
She had faced much worse, and she could handle a few days on an island paradise, even if it meant confronting the history she fought so hard to escape.
The ferry bobbed toward the landing, the inevitable countdown. Time to face the past, although she refused to linger there. She would deal with the details of their mother’s estate and then leave as soon as possible.
Someone tugged on her skirt.
Calista glanced down into the tearful blue-eyed gaze of a sweet young girl in a blue jean jumper and puffy-sleeved white blouse who looked to be about five.
The child clung to a worn stuffed bunny, missing a button eye and with patches of fur worn thin.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath that shook her little body all the way to her Grogu Crocs.
“I can’t find my mommy!”
Empathy flooded Calista’s aching heart. She understood what losing your mother felt like and knelt to the child’s level, giving her a gentle smile.
“It’s okay,” she said, “we’ll find her. Where did you see her last?”
“Over there.” The child pointed to a refreshment kiosk. “She was getting lemonade, but I assadenally dropped BunBun, and when I looked up, Mommy was gone.” The girl hugged her stuffed bunny as fresh tears watered her eyes.
Calista’s heart clutched, grief both old and new squashing her chest. “What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“Emily, I’m Calista. Let’s go sit on that bench, and we’ll look to spot your mommy.”
“Okay.” Emily bobbed her head.
The girl’s mother must be frantic. Calista scanned the crowd, on the lookout for a distraught mom. The child reached for Calista’s hand, and her heart melted. They settled onto the bench, Emily leaning back, clutching the bedraggled bunny in her arms.
“Is BunBun your favorite stuffed animal?” Calista asked.
Emily’s head bobbed. “Uh-huh. He’s my bestest friend.”