The Guy Next Door

chapter ONE



“BUT, MOM! HOW CAN YOU DO this to me?”

Gail Chapman looked up from her morning newspaper and into the angry face of her seventeen-year-old daughter, Holly. “The answer is no,” she said again. “There is no way on earth I am letting you go to Florida alone for spring break. Do you think I don’t know what kind of trouble a girl can get into down there?”

“But I’ll have Hannah with me!”

Gail tried to keep a straight face, but the idea that Holly’s best friend, the voluptuous Hannah Marko, would somehow provide a barrier between her daughter and disaster was laughable. The two of them were Thelma and Louise without a lick of life experience or a decent map. “I said no, and that’s my final decision.”

“God!” Holly stomped her feet like an enraged toddler. “I can’t believe you’d mess up my entire senior year like this! You’re ruining my whole life!”

“Actually, I’m helping you avoid that very thing.”

“Aaauuuggghh!” Holly balled up her fists. The veins and tendons stood out from her neck so much that Gail thought she looked like the Incredible Hulkette in size-three skinny jeans.

“The answer is no, Holly.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“Sure I do,” Gail said, calmly removing her reading glasses and folding her hands on the kitchen table in front of her. “I am not a shut-in, sweetheart. I know all the temptations the world has to offer.”

Her daughter made some kind of dismissive clicking sound at the back of her tongue before she said, “What-evs.”

Gail sighed.

“But Daytona Beach is perfectly safe, Mom!” Holly twirled around on her Uggs and flopped into the other kitchen chair. “There’s lifeguards, like, every ten feet down the sand! And police everywhere! And, you know, their whole economy depends on tourism, so, like, they have to make sure nothing bad ever happens to the spring-break kids because that would be bad PR and totally negatively affect their economy!”

Gail was impressed by her daughter’s logic, but it was all a load of bull and they both knew it. “The answer is no,” she said again, standing up and clearing away her breakfast dishes. As she rinsed them out in the sink, she felt Holly press close behind her.

“Please, Mommy?” Holly made the plea in her cutest, sweetest, little-girl voice. “No.”

“Dad would say yes!” Holly’s voice had magically regained its full measure of teenage torment. “If I lived with Dad, he’d let me go!”

Gail nearly choked as she placed her bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Holly was right. Her dad would likely endorse any vacation that included alcohol poisoning, random disrobing and waking up in a stranger’s hotel room, since that was pretty much his preferred getaway. It was all a moot point, of course. Holly couldn’t move in with her dad anytime soon, since Curtis Chapman would be a guest of the federal prison system for another four years. And that was contingent upon good behavior, which had never been his strong suit.

“No, Holly. That’s my final answer.”

“You’re being unreasonable! Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be allowed to go!”

Gail turned. She put her hands on Holly’s upper arms and held her firmly. She looked right into her daughter’s big, beautiful brown eyes—a move that now required her to look up instead of down because her baby was about an inch taller than her. She spoke slowly and seriously.

“A terrible disease. An unplanned pregnancy. An auto accident. Being hit by a bus. Drowning. A shark attack. An unintentional starring role in the Sluts of Spring Break DVD available for $19.95 on the Internet.”

Holly’s mouth fell open.

“What?” Gail asked. “Did you think I’m some nerdy small-town English professor with no idea of what goes on outside of Beaverdale, Pennsylvania?”

Holly blinked. “Well…yeah.”

Gail kissed her daughter’s cheek, keeping her smile hidden. “I need to get ready for my nine o’clock class. You’ve got five minutes until the bus gets here.”

“But, Mom—”

“We’ll talk about it more this evening,” Gail said, heading toward her bedroom. “Maybe we can come up with some kind of alternative plan, okay? Maybe you and Hannah can do something fun a little closer to home.”

“Oh, right,” Holly said, grabbing her backpack and heading for the front door. “I can see it now—spring break in Amish Country! We could make cheese and go on buggy rides! Hey—you could be our chaperone, Mom! I can’t wait to tell Hannah! This spring break is gonna totally rock!”

“Bye, honey.” Gail got the words out just before Holly slammed the door behind her. She chuckled to herself as she pulled out a brown skirt and beige blouse from her closet, thinking that it wasn’t all that long ago that she’d tried the same thing with her own mom. And lost. Gail ended up spending her senior-year spring break in the backseat of Tommy Brancovicci’s beater 1981 Gran Torino, which, come to think of it, was nothing but a shark attack on dry land.

As she dressed, Gail ran through the day’s schedule in her mind. She taught her Intro to American Lit class at nine and her Honors Hemingway Seminar at two, with student conferences from ten-thirty to noon. She was meeting Kim for lunch—it had been far too long since she’d seen her best friend. And she had a department meeting at four and had to pick up the dry cleaning on the way home. Oh! And she should swing by the campus print shop for her new business cards, so she could proudly tell the world who she’d become: Gail Chapman, PhD.

She shook her head at the irony of it. The heck with Holly and Hannah! What did two impossibly young and free girls need with a vacation? Gail was the one who’d earned a spring break!

She froze. Holly’s sarcastic proposal began echoing in her head.

Chaperone?

Maybe her daughter was onto something.





GAIL PICKED AT HER CAESAR salad with a fork, trying to summon the courage to answer Kim’s question. “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing…”

Her best friend laughed. “Come on, Gail. I’ve known you for thirty of your thirty-six years on the planet. There’s nothing left to be embarrassed about. We’ve gone through sex, love, money, heartbreak, divorce, parenting, various career crises and Curtis’s embezzlement trial. How could your choice of vacation destination be embarrassing?”

Gail looked up at Kim and shrugged. “We’re talking my dream vacation, right?”

Kim nodded. “Right.”

Gail took a deep breath. “Well, the one place I’ve always wanted to go—you know, like my ultimate fantasy getaway—is Key West. And I figure now is the perfect time. The girls get their spring break and I get my trip of a lifetime.”

It took exactly one second for Kim’s face to go from excitement to stone-cold disappointment. She shook her head back and forth and closed her eyes. After taking a moment to compose herself she said, “Is this a Hemingway thing? Because if this is a Hemingway thing, I swear to God I’ll—”

“Not completely.”

Kim put her hand on Gail’s arm. “Key West is wild, honey. It’s the home of street parties and dangerous smugglers and all-you-can-drink booze cruises.”

“I realize that, but the girls would have restrictions and a curfew,” Gail said. “They’ll be heading off to college soon, anyway, and I figured this will give them a taste of freedom but with adult supervision.”

Kim looked dumbfounded.

“What?” she asked.

“I was referring to you, Gail.”

She waved Kim off. “Oh, you know I’d never let anything happen to me.”

Kim roared with laughter, drawing the stares of some of the other diners at their favorite lunch spot near campus. “That’s what I’m worried about, Gail—that you wouldn’t let anything happen to you, that a trip to Margaritaville would be completely wasted on you, that you’re going there solely for some kind of Ernest Hemingway geek-fest!”

It was Gail’s turn to laugh, and it felt good to laugh that hard. Kim’s reaction didn’t surprise her, and Gail couldn’t fault her friend. The whole idea did sound suspiciously work-related. But it was the truth—for as long as she could remember she’d been fascinated by the lore of Key West, the city’s wild and romantic history and, yes, its connection to the romantic Papa Hemingway legend. He’d written some of his best work there, after all.

“If I went to Key West I’d find a way to relax a little,” Gail assured her.

Kim sighed. The waiter came by to refill their iced teas, which gave her a chance to study Gail carefully until he was out of range. “I know what your version of relaxation is,” she said, a note of accusation in her voice.

“Books. Reading. And if you’re feeling like a really naughty girl, you’ll write notes in the margins.”

Gail giggled.

“That wasn’t intended to be funny.”

Gail rolled her eyes. She knew Kim meant well, and there was certainly a seed of truth to what she was saying, but this was all fantasy anyway. She had no idea if she could get a hotel room for herself and the girls at this late a date. She had no idea how much it would set her back. She had no idea if the girls would even agree to this plan. Most of all, she wasn’t exactly the world’s most spontaneous person, so this whole flight of fancy was way out of her comfort zone.

Yet, despite all that, Gail hadn’t been able to get the idea out of her head since getting dressed that morning. Something about it felt right. Maybe it was time she did something out of her comfort zone. Maybe it was time to live a little.

“You need to get out, Gail.” Kim took a gulp of her tea, as if fortifying herself to finish her thought. “You’re the poster child for deprived women everywhere. You need to go out and get funky on the dance floor. Have a couple cocktails with umbrellas in them. You need to enjoy the company of a handsome man of dubious character who makes your legs weak.”

Gail shook her head. “You know I’m only interested in someone who’s honest and loving. The rest of that stuff isn’t important.”

“Whatever you say,” Kim said, displaying the same doubtful look Gail got every time she swore off chocolate forever. Again.

“Perhaps I need to refresh your memory,” Gail said, stabbing at her salad with a little too much wrist action. “The last time I fell for a handsome man of mystery I got pregnant and ended up pledging my troth to Bernie Madoff Jr.”

Kim’s giggle turned into a sigh. “Fair enough,” she said, “but life isn’t over for you, Gail. Don’t cheat yourself like that. You’re still young. There’s a whole world out there. A whole world of men.”

Gail pretended to be fascinated with her romaine lettuce.

“How long’s it been since you had any fun?” Kim asked.

Gail looked up and answered matter-of-factly. “I went out for a beer with some of the other professors a couple of weeks ago.”

“Uh-huh.”

She groaned, realizing that Kim wasn’t going to let her off easy today. Her friend was well aware that it had been two years since she’d had any kind of sex and six years since she’d had decent, meaningful sex, or at least what she’d told herself at the time was decent and meaningful. A few days afterward, Curtis admitted to his multiple fidelity “slip-ups” and expressed his desire to become her ex-husband. Soon after that, he was arrested for embezzling nearly two million of his investment clients’ dollars.

“Besides,” Gail told Kim. “I’m not sure how much weak-kneed dancing I’d be able to do. If I went to Key West I’d have Holly and Hannah with me, remember?”

Kim shrugged. “You could find a way. All you’ve done for the last five years is teach, work on your dissertation, raise Holly, worry about money and fall into bed exhausted at night, only to do it all over again the next day. You deserve to cut loose a little.”

Gail rolled her eyes. “Fine. Maybe you’re right.”

“Hell yes, I’m right!” Kim smiled, as though it was all settled. “Go have your spring fling in Key West, then. And I’m truly sorry I can’t get away from work to go with you. Do you think you can handle those two girls by yourself?”

“Of course I can,” Gail said. “The three of us will have a blast together.”





JESSE DOMINIC BATISTA cradled the cordless phone under his chin while he made his morning patrol of the cottage grounds. As he listened to his agent’s long-distance lecture on the importance of meeting deadlines at this crucial comeback point in his career, he scanned the small yard that fronted Margaret Street. In his left hand he clutched a plastic trash bag and a paper sack for recycling. He used his Playtex-Living-Glove-encased right hand to snag the empty beer bottles from the grass. As usual, they’d been tossed over his privacy wall during someone’s late-night stroll home from the Duval Street bars. Jesse opened the wrought-iron gate to scan the sidewalk for any trash, cigarette butts or the occasional condom wrapper.

It was official. Spring break had come to Key West.

Jesse straightened, using the latex glove to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun. He repeated his position to his agent. “Tell them I need two more weeks, Beverly,” he said into the phone. “Tell them it’s real simple—if they want a manuscript, they can have it today. If they want a good manuscript, they’ll have to wait two weeks.”

Jesse heard Beverly produce another heartfelt sigh before she updated him on his latest mediocre sales figures and a movie studio’s bid for his screenplay.

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of days about everything. Promise.” Jesse said his goodbyes and hung up, shoving the phone into his pocket.

Since he was already on the sidewalk, he decided to pick up the trash in front of his absentee neighbor’s house, a cute craftsman bungalow rental shaded by two old palmetto trees. Being Saturday morning, he knew the current invading horde would soon be heading out. Then the cleaners would swoop in to do their magic—scrubbing bathrooms, hosing down porches, cleaning the pool and wiping down the inside of the fridge. By late afternoon, a new group would move in, thrilled by the charm and comfort of their temporary island home, excited that their vacation stretched out before them, days of azure skies and eternal ocean followed by nights of booze, music, food and laughter.

Jesse didn’t begrudge them their good time. Most of the renters were polite and responsible. Every once in a while, he’d meet someone truly interesting. And a couple of times, he’d lucked out with a group of beautiful women escaping their minivans and office cubicles for an all-girls week of mischief.

Jesse swallowed hard, thinking of Cammy. She’d seemed so sweet and real. And yet, she was neither. To this day, it still amazed him how months of pain had been the price he paid for a few nights of pleasure. Jesse shook his head. Never again would he do something so profoundly stupid. If he wanted to remain sane and solvent, Renter Chicks would be forever off-limits—no matter how pretty they were. No matter how sweet and real they seemed.

Jesse returned to the cool shade of his own little private oasis and locked the gate behind him. He couldn’t help but smile. Yes, the steady stream of tourists was part of life in Key West, but it was worth it. He got to call the most unique city in the United States his home.

Though he’d been in the cottage for two years now, it still gave him a rush of pride every time he stood here, on the walkway, looking up at the original Batista homestead. He’d put a huge chunk of money into the place and poured his heart and soul into returning it to its original beauty, and now it suited him perfectly.

Of course, he hadn’t always been thrilled with the prospect of owning the place. When grandmother Ella left it to him five years before, he felt put-upon. He didn’t want the hassle or the responsibility. Just because he was a well-known author didn’t mean he was filthy rich, and it was obvious that restoring the dilapidated house and grounds would be an enormous undertaking.

But the cottage was his family legacy, and if he didn’t take it on, who would? His brother who lived on a ranch in Wyoming? His brother’s chronically broke ex-wife, Lelinda, who hustled a living off the tourists? His unemployed cousins in Miami?

So Jesse set out to save what he could—the bathroom’s original vintage tile and claw-foot tub, some of the exterior clapboard and all the Dade County pine flooring, the rosewood fireplace mantel, the carved front door and the ornate wrought iron from the upstairs back veranda. Everything else was gutted and rebuilt, and as soon as work was completed, he sold his condo.

Though the Queen Anne cottage was now a historic landmark and part of most of the city’s architectural walking tours, to Jesse it was simply home. It was where he let his imagination run free, where he slept with the windows open to the sea breeze whispering in the banyan tree and where he wrote. It was his retreat. His heart. The cottage was his place in the world.

Jesse went to the side of the house to ditch the trash and recyclables and check on a hurricane shutter that was coming off its hinges, making a mental note of what tools he’d need to repair it. He went back around to the front and climbed the porch steps, opening the door to a view of gleaming floors and an elegant center staircase. It never ceased to amaze him that his great-great-grandparents came from Cuba with nothing, yet within a generation the Batistas had become one of the most influential families in the Southern Keys.

And to think—Jesse was the last local descendant of the original clan. He was the proverbial end of the road.

The phone in his pants pocket began to ring. It was Fred Luna’s number on the caller ID. Jesse knew what this meant, and his heart sank in sadness—Fred’s wife, Yvette, was probably back in the hospital and he needed Jesse to captain the boat. Of course he’d do it. Spending an evening as “Captain J.D.” on the sunset cruise was the least he could do for his lifelong friend. As a bonus, a night in the company of drunken tourists almost always gave him an idea for a future fictional character. Between the occasional captain gig on Fred’s party boat and helping Lelinda with her walking tours—one of which, unfortunately, he’d long ago promised to do first thing tomorrow morning—Jesse was never hurting for inspiration.

“No problem, man. Of course I will,” he told Fred. I’ll be at the dock at four. Give Yvette my love, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”





HOLLY HAD DECIDED SHE’D make the best of it. It wasn’t as if she had much of a choice. The way her mom had put it, it was either spring break in Key West, with her coming along as chaperone, or spring break in Beaverdale, also with her as chaperone. Duh! Holly and Hannah talked about it and decided they could work with that first option.

A guy they knew in Honors Biology knew a guy at the college who could get fake Pennsylvania IDs custom made for fifty bucks a pop. Holly and Hannah scrounged up the cash and were quite pleased with the results. (Holly’s claimed she was twenty-three years old and a resident of Philadelphia.) They had the IDs packed in their suitcases, along with their new bikinis, anklets, suntan lotion with body glitter already added and all kinds of cute outfits and sandals.

At first, Holly’s best friend was really worried the trip wouldn’t be any fun. Hannah had all kinds of questions, but Holly had convinced her to give it a try. What if Key West didn’t have the same all-out party scene as Daytona or South Beach? she’d asked. (Then they’d make their own party scene.) What if the guys were older? (That might be a nice change of pace—older guys tended to have more money anyway, right?) And how would they possibly be able to slip under the Mom Radar to have any fun?

That one had been the easiest for Holly to deal with.

First off, Holly assured her friend that her mom wasn’t the worrywart type. “She trusts me completely. I’ve never given her any reason not to.”

Hannah laughed. “You just haven’t been caught.”

“Exactly. And anyway, you know my mom’s asleep by nine every night. As long as we’re home by sunrise, she’ll be clueless.”

So at that moment, as the plane descended onto what already looked like a tropical paradise surrounded by a neverending blue-green sea, Holly and Hannah gave each other a wink and a thumbs up.

Let the partying begin.