My Killer Vacation by Tessa Bailey
Chapter 1
Taylor
* * *
To all the people who’ve called me cheap in the past…
How do you like me now, jerks?
It is only through pinching pennies and rationing resources for years that I have been able to afford this truly luxurious beach house for six whole days—on a second grade teacher’s salary. The bright white jewel with sparkling windows is right on the Cape Cod coast, boasts a wraparound porch and walkway straight down to a semi-private beach. My toes are already wiggling in anticipation of digging into the sand while the New England sun bakes my skin north of translucent and most importantly of all, my baby brother gets a change of scenery to recover from his heartbreak.
Wheeling my suitcase in one hand, holding the house key poised for immediate lock insertion in the other, I look back over my shoulder to find life returning to Jude’s boyishly handsome features. “Damn, Taylor. I guess ripping your napkins in half paid off.”
“No one needs a whole napkin if they eat carefully enough,” I sing back cheerfully.
“No arguments here. Not when you’ve scored us this view.” Jude adjusts the surfboard under his arm. “So, someone owns this place and rents it out? I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to live here year round.”
“You would be surprised. Most of the homes on this street are rentals.” I nod at a nearly identical home across the narrow lane with shingled siding and purple hydrangeas bursting in all directions in the front yard. “I looked into that one, too, but there was no clawfoot bathtub.”
“Jesus.” He draws out the sarcasm. “We’d practically be camping.”
I stick my tongue out at him over my shoulder, stop in front of the entrance and slip the key into the lock, turning it with a heightening sense of excitement. “I just want everything to be perfect. You deserve a nice vacation, Jude.”
“What about you, T?” asks my brother.
But I’m already pushing inside and oh. Oh yes. It’s everything the owner promised online and more. Panoramic windows overlooking the turbulent Atlantic, a hillside of seagrass and wildflowers tumbling down to that sapphire ocean. High, beamed ceilings, a fireplace that turns on at the push of a button, big inviting couches and tasteful nautical-themed décor. There is even a hint of something in the air…a scent I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s got a kick. And best of all, the ocean plays a gentle soundtrack that can be heard anywhere in the house.
“You didn’t answer me,” Jude drawls, leaning his board against the wall and poking me in the side. “Don’t you think you deserve a nice vacation, too? A year of Zoom classes with children who were secretly playing Minecraft off camera? Then straight into another year of bringing a new class up to speed, basically covering two years’ worth of material? You deserve a trip around the world at this point.”
I suppose I do deserve this vacation. I am going to enjoy myself, but I’m much more comfortable focusing on Jude’s good time. He’s my baby brother, after all, and it’s my job to take care of him. It’s been that way since we were children. “I forgot to ask if you’ve heard from Mom or Dad at all recently?” It’s a question I always hold my breath after asking. “They were in Bolivia the last time I spoke with them.”
“Still there, I think. Potential riots on the horizon and they’re clearing the national museum, just in case.”
Our parents always had the weirdest job at career day. Officially, they are archeologists, but that title is a lot more boring than their actual duties, which include being contracted by foreign governments to protect and preserve art during times of civil unrest when priceless treasures could potentially be destroyed. Inevitably at career day, a child in the front row would say, “You’re kind of like Indiana Jones,” and my parents—who were prepared for this—would bellow, “Snakes! Why does it always have to be snakes?” Perfectly synchronized.
They are such fascinating people.
I just don’t know them very well.
But they gave me the greatest treasure of my life and he’s currently sprawling out on the closest piece of furniture, as he is wont to do, effortlessly belonging everywhere he goes in flannel and Birkenstocks. “You take the biggest room, all right?” he yawns, dragging suntanned fingers through scruffy dark blond hair. When I start to argue, he points at his mouth and makes a zipping motion, indicating that I should shut up. “It’s not up for debate. I couldn’t even afford to chip in on this place. You get the master.”