“My guys? The guys I inherited from the last maintenance man? The guys who can’t scratch their own balls without an instruction manual?” Temo’s color rose. “Too bad none of them can read a manual, English or Chinese or Spanish or any other language known to man. Maybe Klingon!”
“All of them are idiots?”
Temo sighed and subsided. “Two of them are okay. The rest of them have to go, but not until I find someone to replace them.”
“Have you checked in town?”
He eyeballed her evilly.
She backed away. “I just asked!”
“I’m looking around the US, trying to find old friends. If you don’t mind, I’ll go to LA and check on…friends.”
The way he said the word friends made her think he was trying to tell her something. But while she remembered every chart and schedule she’d ever seen, she couldn’t understand the unspoken words of a man who had faced too many challenges. She took his hand. “Go when you need to. Just…come back.”
“Sure. I can’t stay down there. There’s nothing for me there. My mom…and that guy she calls my stepfather.”
“What about your sister?”
“Poor kid.” He shook his head. “Poor kid.” He attached his leg, shoved his arms through the sweatshirt hanging on the back of his chair, got up and stretched. “I’ll go rescue that carcass from the scavengers. I could use a ride in the fresh air, plus it’s the only way I know to get Smart Home to call, so they can complain I was out of touch.” He headed toward the coatrack, wrapped himself in a muddle of scarves, hats and the warmest gloves he could root out. Yep, that was Temo. Add the slightest touch of winter and the guy froze. You could take the boy out of LA, but you couldn’t keep him warm.
Birdie walked out of the changing room.
BIRDIE HAYNES:
FEMALE, 24, 5’10”, 130 LBS., AMERICAN OF COLOR—HISPANIC, AFRICAN AND FAR EASTERN. BIG RAW HANDS, LONG FINGERS, CONSTANT BAND-AID ON AT LEAST ONE KNUCKLE. BEAUTIFUL SMILE IN A NOT-BEAUTIFUL FACE. ARMY VETERAN, HONORABLE DISCHARGE. RECENT WIDOW. EMPLOYED 70 DAYS. LEAD MECHANIC, GARAGE MANAGER. BEST FRIEND.
Birdie wore a starched white button-up shirt, the resort’s blue scarf and black slacks, and she held keys in her hand. When she spotted Kellen, she headed right for her. “I’m off to the landing strip to pick up the guests. I’ve got nobody to ride shotgun. Can you come?”
“I’m not dressed.” In the appropriate outfit for welcoming guests, Kellen meant. Then she looked around.
Temo was gone. Mitch had returned and slipped into greasy coveralls. Adrian was dirty, and due to his big mouth, he was never appropriate to greet guests.
Kellen ran through the working roster in her mind; in the whole resort, everyone was either on vacation or trying to cover for everyone else. She was stuck. “Only if I can drive.”
“Feeling out of control?” Birdie asked.
“Driving would help.” Driving always helped. Feeling the vehicle respond to her command promptly, smoothly, efficiently gave her a measure of peace. “Do you have the hors d’oeuvres?”
“I ordered them. You get them from the kitchen. I’ll bring the van around.”
“Give me thirty minutes. I’ll change and meet you at the kitchen door.” She grabbed an ATV and drove fast toward her cottage at the farthest corner of the resort’s property. She had to hustle; it had been her idea to serve hors d’oeuvres to newly arrived guests. Invariably, the travelers were tired, hungry and crabby, and a prompt application of salmon cakes, tofu bites with chai tea crema, and prosciutto-wrapped artichokes never failed to put them in good humor. Kellen had implemented a successful strategy: a pain in the rear, but successful.
At her cottage, she jumped into her hospitality costume: like Birdie’s, a starched white button-up shirt and blue scarf, black slacks. Then she did as Xander advised; she looked around and took a moment to breathe.
She loved her cottage. Its rustic exterior blended well with the wildness of the coastline, its blue door gave it a shocking pop of color and the interior was pure Pacific Northwest: comfortable furniture, an efficiency kitchen and a bedroom loft that had sloped ceilings, gable seats and a bed so comfortable the resort sold them to enamored guests. The decor was a blend of Asian, Native American and local artists. After a day dealing with suppliers, staff and guests, she relished the coziness and the isolation.
Kellen reached the resort kitchen as Birdie pulled the van under the portico. She nipped into the kitchen. The pizzalike boxes waited for her on the counter; as she picked them up, she realized she’d interrupted a violent scene.
Chef Reinhart was shaking blood off his hand while Chef Norbert roared with laughter. The kitchen staff continued their work as if this madness was an everyday occurrence.
Kellen ducked out, placed the boxes in the van on the floor behind the driver’s seat and climbed in behind the wheel. “Chef Reinhart was bleeding, Chef Norbert was laughing and no one seemed to care.” Kellen put the van in gear and drove.
“I would never date a chef,” Birdie said. Which seemed like an odd thing to say, especially in a voice that ached with loneliness. During four years of deployment, Birdie had never been wounded. Then she came home, got married, and within two months, her husband, a Detroit police officer, was killed in the line of duty, ambushed outside their home. He had died in her arms.
“How’s it going?” Kellen asked gently. “Parents talking to you yet?”
“On the phone. My mom and my father-in-law, while my dad and my mother-in-law yell in the background.” Birdie’s parents and in-laws hadn’t wanted the new widow to take a job so far away, but she’d been looking for work when her husband died, job prospects in Detroit hadn’t improved and at Yearning Sands she could do what she’d been trained to do without the constant reminders of what she had lost. “I only remember at night.”
Kellen wanted to scoff at the idea of an eternal love. But although the welter of bitterness and pain tainted her marital memories, she knew most wives had never lived through hell, and no other woman had watched Gregory murder her cousin in her place…
*
The gas explosion sent a blast at Cecilia that lifted her, then slammed her into the ground. She lost consciousness, then came back, panicked. She smelled burning cloth. Burning flesh. Sweet Jesus, smoke drifted past her face.
Someone threw a coat over her head, blinding her, panicking her.
She fought.
Suddenly she was free. Her ears were roaring with some…sound.
A man leaned into her line of vision. He was shouting at her, gesturing toward his own head, then hers. She read his lips. “Lady, your hair was on fire!” She turned her head away from the direction of the house, coughed. Smoke clouded the air. A cab was parked haphazardly at the end of the drive where it met the road.
He was the cabbie. Not Gregory. The cabbie.
She lifted her head, looked toward the house.
Nothing was left but the foundation and burning pieces of wood, charred plaster and singed insulation dancing on the wind.
Off the cliff. Gone.
The roaring in Cecilia’s ears diminished. She could hear the cabbie’s voice now; she couldn’t yet distinguish the words, but he had his jacket in his hands, offering it to her, and he was averting his eyes and peeking at the same time.
She looked down at herself. Her linen slacks and cotton blouse had been shredded by the blast. Her panties and bra still covered her, but barely. Cecilia wrapped his jacket around herself. The arms were too long, and the hem barely reached her thighs.
Kellen was dead. Cecilia felt nothing but shock. Kellen, who had been so alive, so brave… How could she be dead?
And Gregory…was gone? Dead? Blown to bits? Cecilia felt shamed relief. And guilt. So much guilt.
The cabbie was still talking.
She could almost understand him. She stared, watching his lips.
“Are you hurt? You, uh, you were standing so close. You okay?”
She nodded. A lie. She wasn’t okay. Her lungs hurt. Her head hurt. She had blisters on her belly and blisters on her shoulders, and they burned like live coals. It didn’t matter. She was alive.
“I was called to pick up a passenger,” the cabbie said. “Saw the explosion. Was Mrs. Lykke in the house?”