Beach Thriller(25)
He shrugs. “It seemed like you needed it. Advil and shampoo aren’t exactly luxury items.” He pauses. “Are you new in town?” he asks.
Now I’m the one who shrugs. “Kind of passing through … maybe. Not sure yet.”
“Are you here with your family? Do you have a safe place to stay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m crashing with a friend. I just don’t have any money. Things have been … rough.”
“Well, I’m glad you have a friend in town. And if you need a little work while you’re here, I might be able to help you.” He hands me a business card. It reads: Conrad Carmichael. The name is familiar, then it hits me: He’s a character in Holly’s book. The card has his email and phone number in very small font, but there’s no actual business referenced, so I have no idea what kind of work he’s offering.
He notices my quizzical expression. “My mother’s health isn’t what it used to be. She often needs help with simple tasks around the house. Nothing major and no pressure. Just beats stealing and getting in trouble with the cops.”
His smile is so warm, I almost believe him.
Chapter 15
Holly
By midafternoon, Jade hadn’t returned from her trip to town. Holly tried not to worry. Why should she? Jade wasn’t her child. She was practically an adult. They hadn’t set any ground rules. That was probably a mistake. She gave herself a pass, having never parented anything with two legs before.
Holly couldn’t have contacted her even if she wanted to—she didn’t have Jade’s number. Did she even have a phone? She must. Then again, people used phones to stay connected, and Jade seemed alone in the world.
Except me. Now she has me, and I don’t know where she is, Holly lamented.
She released her semi-inexplicable, though not unjustified, worry. Jade would return to the house at some point—she was more resourceful than a fox. And foxes needed to eat, which reminded Holly that she should have extra food in the fridge, and probably fresh sheets on the bed, and clean towels, and …What the hell? The night before, she had been desperate to rid herself of the urchin in the attic. Now she was acting like her caretaker. Maybe she felt as alone as Jade must.
As Holly searched for her car keys to make a run to the grocery store, a silver Acura arrived in her driveway. A large blue pickup truck pulled in right behind it.
Gail Provost emerged from the Acura, her plastered-on smile tailor-made for a highway billboard. The driver of the pickup appeared from his vehicle shortly afterward. Holly’s gaze settled on a man in worn jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and heavy work boots. He carried a toolbox in his right hand and a coffee thermos in his left.
He wasn’t flashy—broad-shouldered, yes, but more lean than bulky, his frame shaped by real work, not gym vanity. His dark hair was wavy and a little unruly, like he’d already had a full workday. Something about him felt quiet and decent. Holly had the impression there was a softness beneath his calluses, perhaps a poet’s soul trapped inside a builder’s frame. A kind smile confirmed her suspicion. He didn’t look her over, didn’t flinch at the graffiti-scrawled siding or the sorry state of her home. No judgment—just calm focus on the task at hand.
Holly couldn’t pull her eyes away. As a writer, she was always inventing stories about people. In this man’s wistful gaze, she saw someone who had faced his share of ups and downs. It seemed likely he carried more tales than tools in his toolbox.
“Holly, this is the handyman I promised you, Ethan Greene. Ethan, meet Holly Sinclair, Beauport’s most famous author. She’s also the homeowner—for now.” Gail shot Holly a telling look. Ethan noticed, suppressing a smile. He seemed to understand how Gail operated.
Holly tried to act casual as intrusive images flashed through her mind. It wasn’t her fault that his T-shirt was almost transparent and it was easy to picture him without it. Ethan, shirtless, replacing the shingles on the house, fixing the kitchen sink, then taking a nice cool shower … Okay, okay, that’s enough. She didn’t write romance novels. Wouldn’t she need a romantic life first? Her imagination was good, but it wasn’t that good. Even so, at the moment, the handyman fantasy was vivid enough to make her blush.
In her defense, she’d had such a long dry spell that her body likely qualified as a desert ecosystem.
“Seems like you’ve got a bit of work to do,” said Ethan, still smiling as he stepped back to survey the graffiti, a broken window, and an obvious area of rot.
Meanwhile, Holly surveyed Ethan. She noticed his eyes were caramel-colored, like Max’s, the boy she once pined for—and he was strangely familiar, too, but only in the vaguest sense.
When he came to stand beside her, Holly felt a spark. Her mind clicked into thesaurus mode, as a writer’s brain is wont to do. Intrigue? Allure? Desire? Her palms turned clammy, and her cheeks flushed. A wave of lightheadedness hit her hard, as if she might topple over.
But this wasn’t swooning—no, something was wrong. She was genuinely not feeling well. A flash of light blinded her, and when it started to clear, little stars danced before her eyes. A tingling sensation, like a prickling of a limb falling asleep, traveled up and down her hands. But it was the ethereal light show that she found most unsettling.
Holly clutched the railing by the front steps, bracing herself. She had no idea what was happening or why, but the sense of unreality, as if she’d entered a dream, only intensified.