“Goddamn it!” I yelled, holding my hands in front of me to shield my face from the geyser of water that was bursting from the pipe. How the fuck had this happened? I turned my head as I yanked my T-shirt off, attempting to wrap it around the place where the pipe had busted, but instead, the entire piece of piping came loose, breaking off entirely and falling into the pond of water on the floor of my upstairs bathroom.
I stood, splashing my way toward the door, almost slipping once and catching myself. I made my way to the shut-off valve as quickly as possible, twisting the knob with a yank. And though I’d shut off the water, the sounds of drips and flowing barely diminished. The pipe had to have burst sometime that morning. It’d filled the upstairs of my home and was leaking through the ceiling to the floor below.
My house was ruined.
For a moment I just stood there, dripping, my head down, wondering what else this week was going to have in store for me.
After a few minutes, I went in search of my phone.
Archer showed up just as the insurance agent was leaving and about an hour after the landlady had walked through the place, shaking her head and saying, “Oh noooo,” again and again. “These things happen,” she’d finally said, sighing. “That’s what insurance is for.”
I had insurance. I just didn’t have a place to sleep, as my mattress was waterlogged and the ceiling was at risk of caving in.
You can sleep on the couch, Archer signed, thinning his lips in a way that told me he wasn’t sure whether he meant it or not.
“God, no,” I said and even I heard the weariness in my voice. I’d come home wanting to face-plant onto my own couch and instead arrived to a scene from the Titanic. “There’s barely room for the five of you in that little gnome cottage.”
Archer smiled, not offended in the slightest, instead very obviously exorbitantly happy by the thought of said little gnome cottage, and all his people gathered there. But then his smile turned into a frown. There aren’t many rooms—if any—available in Pelion right now.
I grimaced. “Oh shit, that’s right. That blueberry festival taking place on the other side of the lake. Damn,” I murmured. Tourists had begun arriving earlier that day and business had spilled over into Pelion’s B&Bs—which was great news for Bree and all the other businesses in town that benefitted, but not so much for me. “I’ll figure something out,” I said.
He looked at me for a moment. You sure?
“Yeah. You know me. There are any number of women who will volunteer to take me in during my time of need.” I attempted a suggestive smile, but I could feel that it fell flat.
You’re the best! The best!
As if I’d said something that garnered sympathy, Archer pressed his lips together and patted my shoulder. I was sorry to hear about you and Phoebe.
“Where’d you hear about me and Phoebe?”
He shrugged. Around.
A small pang of humiliation went through me, but I kept my face neutral. “I didn’t see us going anywhere, anyway. It was for the best.”
He assessed me for another moment and then finally said, Okay. He must know I was lying—I’d told Bree the week before that Phoebe and I were serious and I had no doubt Bree and Archer told each other everything. They probably signed all their secrets while snuggled up in their bed in their little gnome cottage. Despite my inner eye rolling, the thought made me feel more depressed than ever. In any case, if Archer knew I was lying—which, again, I was sure he did—he didn’t press the issue.
I was grateful.
His shoes plunked in the water as he showed himself out. I stood there alone, feeling unusually . . . well, alone. Maggie and Norm would take me in, but their place was small too, and they didn’t have an extra room. Plus, if I became an unwitting witness to any sort of domestic displays of physical affection between the two of them, I’d have to find a therapist, or maybe a lobotomist, and a serious medical procedure wasn’t currently in the budget.
I thought of my mother but . . . hell no. I’d had a bad enough week as it was. I wasn’t going to make it worse.
I could pitch a tent on my property if I was truly desperate, but I still had to go to work, and getting ready for a shift with no running water would be challenging.
Spencer would take me in. Spencer would give up his bed and sleep in the bathtub or the doghouse if I asked him to. I massaged my temples, the very thought of enduring Spencer for nights and days on end making my head pound. The other guys who worked for the police department were married, but a few of my good friends at the firehouse who were bachelors might be possibilities—but only if all the B&Bs were actually full.
I grabbed my phone and started making calls.
All the B&Bs were actually full.
The rental cottages too.
I looked at the last B&B listed on the Pelion website I’d gone to. I’d disregarded it because it was in a sketchy area, right on the edge of town, a sort of no man’s land, that wasn’t exactly Pelion, and definitely not the ritzier side of the lake.
The Yellow Trellis Inn.
It was inexpensive compared to the others. And from what I’d heard, for good reason.
It was also run by a woman I’d heard the town refer to as “Batty Betty.” I thought I’d gotten wind of a story floating around about a dead husband and suspicious circumstances but couldn’t recall anything specific.
I picked one foot up, water streaming from my shoes. It couldn’t be worse than this. And definitely better than Archer’s well-worn couch where he and Bree had done who knew what in that little gnome home on the lake.
I picked up the phone and booked the last room they had available. “It has a lake view,” the woman on the phone promised, enthusiastically.
“Great,” I said. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, but in that moment, the promise of a lake view buoyed my mood just a tad. Even this rental I lived in didn’t have a lake view. Then I packed some clothes, my work gear, and a few accessories into a duffel bag, all of which thankfully hadn’t been rained upon by upstairs plumbing, grabbed a dry pair of shoes, and headed to my car.
**********
The room definitely didn’t have a lake view.
“Right there,” the woman named Betty with the frizzy halo of blonde hair said, pressing her face against the glass and angling it to the side. “If you crane your head just so, you can see the edge of the lake.” She turned and smiled brightly as if having to meld yourself with the window to see an inch of water made it the finest room in the house.
What I could see—clearly and directly outside my window—was what appeared to be a headstone. “Is that a grave?” I asked.
“Oh that.” She waved her hand, dismissing it. “That’s where an old barn cat that used to roam the property is buried.”
I peered out the window again. The headstone seemed sizable for a barn cat. Not to mention there was no barn in sight.
Batty Betty. Yet she seemed mostly normal.
I gave her one more suspicious glance before looking around the room. It wasn’t terrible. It was actually what I’d call somewhat . . . charming. Or at least on the verge of charming. Within range of charming. More importantly, it had a bed and a bathroom, so I wasn’t going to complain about not having a view of the lake, but instead, a cat’s tombstone. I’d been looking at that particular lake since I was born.
As far as the tombstone . . . I’d keep the shade closed.
“Well,” she said, clapping her hands together, “you’ve . . .” She frowned, blinking rapidly, finally using her fingertips to tap her forehead somewhat violently, her head snapping up, “Arrived!” she declared.
“Yes. I . . . have . . . arrived?” What was that about?
She shook her head. “No, you arrived just in time for the social hour downstairs.”
“Social hour?”
“Right. It’s in the room at the back of the house, where guests are welcome to mingle and such. We serve my sister Cricket’s homemade hooch.”
My brows flew up. “Prison wine?”
“That’s right. She perfected it in the toilet inside her cell during her time away, and now it’s a family favorite and all the rave at social hour.”
I stared. Speechless.
“Of course, we don’t make it in a toilet, seeing as we have other options.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“That would be unhygienic,” she clarified needlessly.
“Among other things.”
She laughed faintly.
“Anyway,” I went on, shaking myself, as though I’d stepped outside reality for a moment. “Sounds . . . interesting. I’m a little tired though so I’m going to skip social hour for tonight.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll just get out of your way then.”
After the door had closed behind her, I stripped off my clothes and made my way to the shower and then, clad in my boxers, fell back on the bed, the springs making a loud creaking sound. Despite the obvious age of the mattress, the bed was comfortable. I lay there for a few minutes, expecting to fall asleep immediately. Instead I stared up at the ceiling, wide awake. There was a tall potted plant next to the bed and I turned to it. Living things feed off energy. “How’s it going?” I asked the plant, hitting a new life low.
The soft sound of laughter drifted to me from below.
Social hour.
Complete with hooch.
And here I was, alone and talking to a plant.
“Why the fuck not?” I muttered after a minute, pulling myself from the bed and dressing in jeans and a T-shirt. If any day called for some hooch, it was this day.
I followed the sound of voices to the large screened-in room, coming to an immediate halt in the doorway, my surprised gaze bouncing between Haven Torres and—my eyes narrowed—Easton Torres.
Well. This was unexpected. And either more bad luck, or an amazing opportunity.
Haven was in the midst of a conversation with the woman next to her, but Easton spotted me, his shocked eyes widening. I gave him my best evil smile and he blanched.
“Chief Hale?” Haven had noticed me.
I turned away from Easton, approaching the place where Haven sat. She was wearing a pair of leggings and a long T-shirt that fell off one shoulder. Her chestnut hair was pulled back the way it’d been both times I’d seen her, escaped curls haphazardly framing her face, somewhat reminiscent of Medusa. If Medusa had had a heart-shaped face, big expressive eyes, and lips the color of the wild pink roses that grew along the fence on my property. My heart did a strange unfamiliar something. Sort of twisty. Sort of squeezy. Maybe I was about to have a heart attack. It would be the perfect way to end a perfect week, spread out on the floor of The Yellow Trellis Inn, my life in the hands of my nemesis and a group of strangers drunk on hooch.
The woman Haven had been talking to had turned and was now engaged in conversation with an older woman with long, blonde hair liberally woven with white, and sporting a pair of overalls. “Haven from California,” I said.
“Are you following me, Chief Hale? This level of stakeout seems overkill for the minor crime of reckless driving.”
I stopped, glancing back at Easton. His alarmed gaze had followed me, as a rabbit might track a wolf.
“Ha. No. Did you flood my house in a desperate plan to get more viewing access to my . . . adequate muscles?”
She put her hand to her chest. “You are a good investigator. I’ve been exposed.” She gave me a look of actual sympathy. “Are you serious about your house?”
“Sadly, yes. It’s a rental, but most of my things are ruined.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
I shrugged, gesturing to the room at large. “This is your summer residence, I assume. It’s about as far as you can get from the club without staying in Pelion.”
“It was in the right price range,” she explained. “You might be shocked to learn that smoothie bar operators must keep to a strict budget.”
I smiled. “Though you’re rich in personality.”
She returned the smile. “This is true.”
“I’m surprised you’re here though. I’d think the chief of police would have plenty of more . . . upscale options.”
“The upcoming blueberry festival,” I said in explanation. “Most places are booked. I own a plot of land, but I’d have to pitch a tent if I wanted to stay there.”
“Ah.” She glanced at Easton, her smile dipping, brow wrinkling slightly. “Do you know my brother?”
Her brother. Aha. “We’ve met,” I said smoothly.
“Oh . . . at the club?”
“No,” I said, not offering more.
“I’m so glad you made it after all!” Betty said, entering the room and smiling as she approached me with a jug of purple liquid.
“Yes. I’ve arrived. Again,” I said.
She laughed. “Indeed. Hooch?” she asked, holding it up as though it was the finest bottle of French champagne.
I glanced at Haven and she gave me a bright smile. I could see the amusement dancing in her eyes.
“It can’t be worse than that smoothie you made me drink,” I muttered, grabbing a cup from the tray on the table next to me and holding it toward Betty while she poured.
Once she’d turned away, I sniffed at it hesitantly. It didn’t smell like a toilet bowl at least.
Haven laughed. “It’s actually pretty good. But it does pack a punch. Be careful.”
I took the smallest of sips. And grimaced. “Holy hell. It tastes like sweetened battery acid.”
Haven laughed again.
I glanced at a potted plant nearby, noticing others flanking the room. I nodded at one of them. “Your refugees?”
She smiled. “Yes. They’re doing beautifully.”
“Probably because of all the company and stimulating conversation.”
Her eyes brightened and she grinned. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly.” We stared at each other for several beats, that strange feeling flaring in my chest again. I raised my hand to massage it away when Betty approached.
“Everyone, I’d like to introduce you to our most recent resident,” Betty said, placing the now empty jug of hooch down and clapping her hands together. “Chief Travis Hale.” She waved a hand back to me and I glanced around at the welcoming faces, all except one of course. “And now we have a full house,” she said. “All six guest rooms are filled. Isn’t it exciting?”
In addition to Easton and Haven and myself, three others made up the guest list. There was the already infamous Cricket—the woman with the blonde and white hair, and sporting the overalls—and next to her, Clarice, a striking woman with jet-black hair and aqua eyes in town as a vendor at the blueberry festival where she told fortunes and sold crystals to fools and hippies (the description of her customers being my—inevitably correct—judgment alone, and not part of Betty’s introduction). Admittedly though, it was eerie the way Clarice smiled knowingly at me like she’d read my mind.
And then there was Burt, a blind man in town on a birdwatching expedition. “It’s probably more apt to call me a bird listener,” he said, his deep-brown skin crinkling at the corners of his milky eyes.
Betty put her hand on my arm, leaning closer. “Burt became a bird . . . oh dear, oh dear,” she said, frowning, her eyelids fluttering as they’d done earlier upstairs, two fingers hitting her forehead as though trying to shake something loose.
“Enthusiast,” Cricket said.
“No, no,” Betty answered, looking distressed, tapping harder. “Well, yes, but no.”
“Aficionado,” Burt interjected.
She let out a sharp breath, smiling. “Yes! That’s it. Aficionado. Burt became a bird aficionado after the most amazing turn of events,” she said. “He’d lost his will to live after losing his sight. You see, it was very unexpected and he wasn’t adjusting well.”
“Drank myself stupid one night,” Burt chimed in eagerly.
“He made his way up to the top floor of his apartment building and climbed out the window at the end of the hall,” Betty continued.
“I stood on that ledge, the breeze in my face, nothing but silence all around me,” Burt said, seamlessly picking up the conversation. “It was early morning, and not a soul was awake yet on my quiet street. All of a sudden, this bird starts singing. The sweetest song I’d ever heard. It felt like that bird sang just for me. I stepped back inside and a moment later, that birdsong faded and I heard the rustle of wings rising back into the sky.” His eyes teared up as though he was hearing it right that moment. “Saved my life,” he said quietly. “Saved my life.”
Despite the oddity of this whole situation, I felt a small lump form in my throat.
“Burt still hasn’t identified what type of bird it was,” Betty added. “But he will someday,” she said warmly.
Burt smiled in her general direction.
There was a three-legged cat lounging on an ottoman, because of course there was.
“That’s Clawdia. C-L-A-W-dia,” Betty enunciated, giggling when she obviously noticed me staring at the cat. “Get it? C-L—”
“I get it, Betty,” I assured her. “It’s . . . clever.”
A full house of eclectic misfits. And I was now one of them.
Betty turned and began talking to Clarice, so I leaned slightly toward Haven. “There’s a grave beneath my window.”
“I know,” she said. “I saw it a few days ago when I took a walk down to the dock. Betty says an old barn cat is buried there.” She paused and my shoulders relaxed. Betty had told me the same thing. “Who names a cat Bob Smitherman, though?”
“This hooch gets better by the glass,” Burt said, moving my mind from the supposed barn cat named . . . Bob? . . . Smitherman? . . . with the oversized tombstone below my bedroom window. Maybe I should check the police department’s database later and find out if Betty’s dead husband had been named Bob.
Cricket nodded. “That it does. Of course, not making it in a toilet means it lacks a little something.”
“We’re all grateful for that, Cricket,” Haven offered.
“You think so,” Cricket said, turning to her, “but I’m telling you, the flavor is that much better when excess bacteria aids the fermentation process.” She tapped her head. “Prison science.”
“You should write a book on that,” Clarice said, shooting her a knowing wink.
“I am,” Cricket said. “It’s almost done. Do you want to read it?”
“God, no.”
Cricket laughed, slapping her hand on her knee. “You do have to have a tough disposition to seek out certain forms of knowledge. Some don’t have a choice though. The knowing of things that no one wants to consider finds them,” she said, sagely.
That struck me as true, and wise. We all possessed unpleasant truths, based on where life had taken us, and what we’d encountered, whether personally or professionally. Most people didn’t mention such topics during social hour. Most people didn’t like to think about those things alone in their own head.
Like me. A drowning I’d arrived at years ago came to mind, the way the five-year-old victim’s mother had screamed his name until her voice was nothing but a ragged whisper. And then the memory of a coffin flashed, the way my father’s lips had been sewn shut, the way I’d screamed for him in my head, begging for him to come back. The way I still pictured him sometimes, even in heaven, trying to smile around the tight thread.
Next to me, Haven’s face had gone curiously blank as though she too was reliving a painful memory. I wanted to know what she was thinking. I had this strange urge to take her hand in mine.
I took another drink of hooch, this one more a swallow than a sip.
Easton, seeming to take advantage of the fact that everyone was turned toward Cricket, slunk out of the room, glancing back once at me before turning the corner and disappearing out of sight.
“He’s acting so strange,” Haven said, her brow furrowed, her gaze lingering on the place where her brother had just exited the room. “He didn’t even come over and say hi.”
I took a sip of hooch. It was true, it got better the more you drank. I could only imagine the headache one would wake up with after drinking too much of this rot gut. I set my cup aside. “Well,” I said, “it might have something to do with the fact that I walked in on him in bed with my girlfriend—ex-girlfriend now—last week and, thinking he was a sexual predator who’d broken into her apartment, had pulled my gun out and was aiming it at his head. The big one. Not the one stuck inside my girlfriend at the time.”
Her mouth had dropped open and she clapped a hand over it, her big eyes round saucers in her face. “Oh my God,” she breathed, dropping her hand. She grimaced and then met my eyes. “Your revenge. He’s the object. Oh, God.” Her face had gone colorless.
“Do you blame me?”
She let out a long sigh, shaking her head slowly. “Not exactly.” She paused, her worried gaze moving over my features. “How exactly do you plan on exacting said revenge?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” I flashed her a devilish smile but she remained serious, finally sighing. But in all honesty? I had to admit I’d lost some interest in my revenge, even since that morning. I couldn’t say exactly why, but there it was.
“Maybe he deserves it.” She tilted her head, giving me a sympathetic look. “How serious were you about the girl?”
“I was considering marrying her.” It was true, wasn’t it? So why did that feel like a lie?
“Shit.” She reached out and put her hand on my arm. It was slender and tanned, her nails short and unpainted. The nails of a woman who liked to dig in soil. You’re Never too Old to Play in the Dirt. “I’m sorry. On his behalf.” She looked so incredibly sincere and I felt a small knock in my chest.
“You can’t apologize on someone else’s behalf.”
Our eyes locked for several moments and something passed between us. Something I had no idea how to interpret. Sympathy? Understanding? “No,” she finally said. “I know. I know that. Sometimes I feel responsible for his behavior, though. I practically raised him. For so long, it’s just been him and me. He’s . . . well . . . I don’t even know what to say.”
Haven looked away and I studied her profile for a moment, taking in those runaway curls that definitely had a mind of their own. I wondered what her hair would look like down . . . all that wildness dancing around her face. “What are you two doing here?” I finally asked.
Her gaze found mine again and she gave me a very slight smile. “We left California—where, as you know, we’re from—two years ago.” She shrugged. “We’ve been exploring the country together, stopping for a couple months here, a few months there when we got short on cash.”
I whistled. “Nomads. How’d you choose Pelion as the place to enjoy the summer?”
She smiled and tilted her head. “Honestly, I’m not sure. We saw the lake through the trees as we came upon the sign for Pelion and we stopped to stretch our legs. Standing there, the roofs of the buildings just within sight, the sound of the lake lapping the shore, and the smell of pine all around . . . it just felt so peaceful, you know?” She glanced at me and smiled. “Well, of course you know.” She shrugged. “Anyway, we checked in here, and then found the jobs at the club the next day. It just worked out.”
I was mesmerized by her description of Pelion, the way she made it sound so calm and picturesque. Did I see it the same way she did? In some ways, yes, but in other ways, there were so many locations that held painful memories. Why had I never jumped in my truck and left town? Seeking something that Pelion could not provide? I loved my job, and the people of Pelion, but I could have been a police officer anywhere. I’d never considered leaving, and that suddenly seemed like an interesting choice I’d never even pondered on.
What kept me here?
There was a whole world of other places where I wouldn’t be “one of those Hale boys,” or “that asshole Travis,” or “the guy who lost the town,” or “the one with the crazy, bitch of a mother,” or even “second best.”
“When do you plan on stopping for good?” I finally asked. And how do you know when you’ve landed in that spot?
She shrugged. “At some point, I suppose we’ll head back west. But for now, we’re fully enjoying ourselves.”
“That’s definitely true of your brother. I saw just how fully with my own eyes.”
Haven grimaced again.
I held up my hands. “But you, you are here in our town doing the good work of rescuing plants from landfills.”
She tipped her head. “Everyone has a part to play.” She smiled, playing idly with the fringe on a throw pillow. There were secrets in her eyes and I wondered what she wasn’t telling me about this trip they were on. I remembered that Archer’s wife, Bree, had ended up in Pelion because she’d been running away, and wondered if Haven was leaving something specific behind as well. “And what about you? What parts, other than chief, do you play?” she asked, turning the subject to me.
“Uncle, for one. I have two six-year-old hellions for nephews, and a six-month-old niece who is still suspicious of me.”
Haven laughed. “Family,” she said, and I detected a wistful note in her tone. “Sounds like you have a close one.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t necessarily say that. I could tell you some family stories that might curl your toes,” I said, attempting to make light of life-changing events that, in all actuality, would follow me—and my brother too, hell, most of the population of Pelion—all of my days. But family dynamics that, at least, would end with my generation. Maybe my half-brother and I weren’t the closest siblings on earth, but our relationship had grown over the years, as his trust in me had been rebuilt, and I knew for sure that Charlie and Connor would have each other’s backs forever. Bree and Archer would tolerate nothing less.
Haven gave me a rueful smile. “I suppose all families have their issues.”
“What about yours? What do they think about this two-year-long adventure you’re on?”
“Oh, well, it’s just Easton and me, which, you know, is why we’re especially close, despite that I want to sock him in the gut sometimes. A lot of times, actually.”
“No one at all?”
She cleared her throat, looking away momentarily. “No, like I said, just us.” She put her hand over her mouth and let out a big yawn. “I didn’t realize how late it was getting,” she said, beginning to stand.
I stood too. There was no reason I should want more from her, but I felt an almost fundamental need to have answers. Who were your family? How can you not have roots? But I wouldn’t push. Yet. Mostly though, I was disappointed she was ending our conversation because I liked talking to her. “I’m going to get to bed as well.”
“I enjoyed chatting with you.” She tilted her head, biting her lip. “I really am sorry about what my brother did and well, the repercussions. And you know, just for the record, I’m not opposed to putting a mild amount of fear into him.” She paused. “If you need any help in that endeavor, let me know.”
I raised a brow. “What makes you think I don’t want more than to put a mild amount of fear into your brother?”
She smiled and it was soft. “I just have a feeling that’s not really you, Chief Hale.”
I laughed, leaning in and speaking softly. “Maybe you don’t know me so well, Haven Torres.”
For several moments our eyes held, breath mingling and a spiral of heat whirled through me. “Maybe,” she conceded, pausing. “But maybe not.” She leaned away, and held out her hand. “In any case, can I consider you a friend?”
The whirling spiral of heat cooled and fizzled.
I gripped her hand. It wasn’t as if I was even very attracted to her. She was pretty, I could see that now. But she was far from my type.
I dated prom queens.
This girl was a plant lady.
A plant lady with a penchant for pushing horrific things called wheat germ on me, an uncontrolled riot of haphazard curls that sometimes likened her to Medusa, and a lone family member—my now sworn enemy—who’d seduced my girlfriend and was apparently the best.
“Friends,” I agreed.
We said goodnight to the room at large, a chorus of farewell greetings rising as we left—some sober, some not so much—parting ways at the top of the stairs, me turning left, Haven turning right.
I got into bed and this time, whether it be from my crazy-ass day or the barely palatable hooch, I did fall right to sleep.
