“So what is the truth?” I asked.
He gave me a hard look. “Don’t know that it’s ours to ask. It’s Doro’s life. And I can’t say I’d want people digging up my past. I think folks should just let some things be. That woman has put up with a lot because of that book, all because her daddy couldn’t say no to those kooks.”
“Did you hear about the charges filed against her? For harassing guests?”
He spit over the rail. “I believe they probably harassed her, tried to get some money out of that deal. You gotta understand. That’s the kind of thing those folks pull. They’re a weird bunch. If I was her, I’da shut this place down right when that book came out. And sued the hell out of the lady that wrote it.”
KITTEN
—FROM CHAPTER 4
Kitten, dripping from the bath and clutching a towel, walked to Fay. She caught her hand, and Fay stiffened.
But then Kitten bestowed a tiny, tender kiss atop one of her knuckles. Fay felt a rush of surprised pleasure and delight. The child was so simple, so free in her expressions of affection. It was really quite extraordinary.
Then Kitten spoke.
“Dear Fay,” she said, eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s my treasure drawer. I’d like it if you stayed out of it.”
Ashley, Frances. Kitten. New York: Drake, Richards and Weems, 1976. Print.
Chapter Ten
Fifteen minutes later, I caught sight of a wide dock, banked with sea grass and scrubby pines. It seemed to be at the very southern end of the island. Behind the dock, I could see what looked like miles and miles of forest. To the north, I caught a glimpse of plains stretched out along the curve of the island. The marsh. The intricate ecosystem of interconnected creeks and sea life that rose and fell with the tides. Where Cappie, the character based on Kim Baker, had died.
There was a young man standing at the end of the dock, hand shading his eyes against the setting sun. As we neared I got a better look. He was a stunner, in his late twenties, brown-skinned, with hair that skimmed his shoulders. When we bumped the dock, he helped tie us up, loping down the dock, expertly looping ropes over huge metal cleats. He looked up at the wheelhouse behind me. His T-shirt stretched over a set of well-defined abs, and, to my shame, I actually shivered.
“Got anything for me?” he called out to the captain.
“Just her,” the captain yelled back.
I crossed the deck and took the young man’s offered hand (warm, rough), leaping from the boat to the dock in an ungainly arc. The captain shouted behind me—“Heads up!”—and a knotted plastic bag sailed over my head. “See you in a few! Tell Laila I’ll have her some peach wine soon!” The guy gave him the high sign and hefted the plastic bag over his shoulder.
He had a jaw like a scythe and eyes that I couldn’t look away from. It might’ve been a contradiction, but they were both dark and bright at the same time.
“I’m Meg,” I said and awkwardly pumped his hand, the one I was already holding.
“Koa.” He grabbed my Louis Vuitton duffel, which suddenly seemed wildly out of place and vulgar, and started toward a dirty, green, stripped-down Jeep that was idling at the head of the dock. I trotted after him, nearly smacking into his backside when he stopped and shifted the bags into his other hand. He whipped out his phone, listened for a moment.
“Got it,” he said. “I’m on my way.” He shoved the phone in his pocket and tossed both bags in the back of the Jeep, on top of a messy collection of tarps and pickaxes and rope. He secured everything with an abundance of bungee cords. Before I could ask questions, he’d slid into his seat and fastened his seatbelt.
“Sorry,” he said. “But we’ve got a stop to make before we go to the house.”
“No problem.” I was still trying to strap myself in when we started to jounce over the sandy trail that rounded the southern tip of the island, presumably to the hotel. Instead of following it, he wheeled left—inland, away from the shoreline—and we headed down a wide, smooth track sheltered by gnarled oak trees. After we’d driven for a while, I cleared my throat and yelled above the wind.
“So how long have you worked on Bonny?”
“Coming up on a year,” he yelled back. “From Texas, by way of Louisiana.”
“And you’re Native American?”
“Caddo Nation. Natchitoches.”
I had no idea what that meant.
“Does your name, does Koa mean something in that . . . your language?”
“In Caddo?” He gave me a sidelong look. “No.”
“Ah.” I glanced away, into the tangle of trees to the right of the track. Great. Not ten minutes on the island, and I was showing my ignorance. I had no experience with Native culture, I couldn’t remember ever having met any indigenous person, not from any tribe. But I did think I remembered hearing that they placed great significance on names and their meanings. At least, I thought I’d heard that. It was entirely possible that I had just said something completely offensive. Or, at best, fantastically dumb.
To possibly the most attractive man I’d met in a long time.
Fantastic work, Meg.
Koa gunned the engine, and the Jeep leapt forward, nearly snapping my neck. I grabbed onto the roll bar. The road narrowed to parallel sandy tracks, but this didn’t seem to slow Koa at all; he stomped on the gas pedal, and we rocketed through the thicket of trees. Branches scraped at my arms, and I found myself subconsciously leaning toward my chauffeur, until he reached down to shift gears and tapped my leg.
“Hang on to whatever you can.”
I clamped onto the roll bar with one hand, clutched the back of Koa’s seat with the other, and set my teeth so they wouldn’t rattle. We drove deeper into the forest—bounced over holes, skidded across ruts, and, after what seemed like forever, hit another stretch of the main road. It was a wide, washboard surface—sand and gravel and flattened grass. Koa spun the wheel and accelerated.
I readjusted my death grip. Was this how every guest arrived on the island? And where were we going? We were definitely heading north, away from the main house.
But then, suddenly, we cut through a thick screen of sea oats, and we were on the beach. The breathtaking expanse of flat white stretched for miles under the massive blue dome of sky. I caught my breath as the Jeep made a sharp quarter turn, spraying sand. We shot down the shore, the line of trees and scrub on our right, foamy green ocean on our left. There wasn’t a beach umbrella or cooler anywhere in sight. Just the blue and the green and the white.
A blob of brown undulated just ahead of us. I squinted, not believing what I was seeing. It was a herd of horses—manes and tails streaming—galloping straight toward us. Koa slammed on the brakes.