Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) (2 page)

So nothing is going to keep me in this tiny, ingrown, backwater town past the end of the tourist season. I'll take Ellen to the last big fireworks display in East Hampton on Labor Day weekend, then start packing. I want to see the fireworks, too, for the new story I am working on, or would be working on soon.

The idea for the new book came from all the idiots setting off firecrackers on the beach near my mother's house all summer long. Some were pretty, but most were just loud enough to wake the neighbors and scare the dogs. Inevitably, some kid burned his hand or lost a finger or set the dune grasses on fire. Just as inevitably, the slobs left beer bottles and trash and still-burning coals on the bay-side beaches. Paumanok Harbor's small police force tried to stop them—the bigger, more dangerous ones at least—but the shore was long and dark, and no one wanted to ruin the Hamptons' summer economy by chasing down and arresting tourists. Or their own neighbors' kids.

Illegal firecrackers were easy to come by. I'd seen them sold on street corners in Pennsylvania and Florida. Fools bought them—and recklessly transported them in their own cars!—even though everyone knew only a licensed pyrotechnician, a Grucci-type, could safely set off the really spectacular displays.

That's what I wanted. Not some gunpowder geek, or once-a-summer sparkler setter, but a fire wizard, a pyro-mage, a red-hot superhero. He'd shoot flames from his fingertips, encircle bad guys in blazes, fight evil with fire. He'd start backfires for forest rangers, and warm stranded mountain climbers until help arrived. A regular Lassie with a flare. Literally.

And there he was, right in my living room when Ellen and I got back from breakfast in Amagansett, the next town over. A man I'd never seen before was fast asleep on the sofa. Tall enough that his feet hung over the end. Dark and handsome, he had an unshaved shadow on his strong jaw, a thick lock of sable hair fallen on his forehead, another sticking up in a boyish cowlick. He was nicely built from what I could see under Mom's patchwork quilt and the black T-shirt he wore. Yup, my hero, except his mouth hung open, an empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table, and one of Mom's old dogs whined next to the couch. The white-muzzled retriever wanted his quilt back.

Ellen took a seat near the sofa and sighed at the stranger. “Oh, my. That's better than the raspberry muffin I just ate. And not half as fattening.”

The guy might be a good model for me to sketch, but he sure as hell wasn't an invited guest. I stayed standing up, ready to reach for the fireplace poker or the heavy dog-breed book on the coffee table.

“Quiet,” I whispered to Ellen, not ready to defend us from a waking trespasser. “I bet he's one of Susan's strays,” My mother brought home old, injured, or abandoned dogs. My cousin brought home men. With abandon.

“Can I keep him?” Ellen asked. “Please.”

“He belongs to Susan.”

“He's too old for Susan.”

He did look more late thirties than mid-twenties, but age didn't count, according to Susan. If a man was breathing, he was fair game. Everyone figured that my cousin's collision with cancer changed her attitude. I never heard of chemo killing a person's scruples, but I made allowances for her, which was why she lived in my house. Besides, she was a great cook.

“He has dimples!”

“Come on, El, we don't even know if he's housebroken.”

“Any man this gorgeous has to be.”

“Okay. We'll get him a collar and you can take him back to Connecticut with you. Maybe you should buy a six-pack to win his loyalty away from Susan.”

As if the name conjured her up, Susan shuffled into the room from the kitchen, a blue pottery mug—mine from one of the craft shows—in her hand. She was wearing an oversize Snoopy T-shirt—mine, too, damn it!—and her hair, pink this week, was in pigtails. She looked about sixteen instead of twenty-six. No one would guess she was head chef at our uncle's restaurant. She was definitely too young for the Romeo in repose.

At least she hadn't put in all the eyebrow hoops. And the nose stud must have been too uncomfortable because I hadn't seen it this week. Not that I missed it.

“He's not too old, and he's not mine,” she said now, sitting on the edge of the coffee table sipping her tea. “But he does look cute sleeping like that.”

“Yeah, as cuddly as a teddy bear. Get rid of him. You know I draw the line at finding your lovers in my living room.”

“I told you, he's not my lover. He stopped by the Breakaway for a late meal last night on his way back to the city from Montauk, but his car died in the parking lot. No one answered at Kelvin's garage to come tow the car, and all the motels were booked with the Labor Day crowd. When the restaurant closed, I offered a ride and the couch. That's all. What was I supposed to do, make him sleep in his car? We stopped off to admire the sunrise.”

I'm sorry to admit I snorted at the unlikely tale. The sound wasn't ladylike or mature, and showed a big lack of faith in my own cousin. Little Red, the three-legged Pomeranian, started barking at the sudden noise or when he finally realized yet another stranger had invaded his territory. The bark turned to a snarl when I tried to shush him. Red weighed six pounds but had a seven-pound mean streak. He'd been abused before he came to Paumanok Harbor, so we all made allowances for him, too.

The stranger jerked awake. His eyes, a nice soft brown with yellow flecks, focused on the angry dog, the other dogs, Ellen, me, then finally Susan. You could see his relief at recognizing someone in the room. He gave her a tentative smile.

“Barry, this is my cousin Willow and her friend Ellen. Ladies, this is Barry Jensen.” Susan sipped her tea again while the man blinked and brushed his hair back from his eyes. He was definitely cute, but now that he was sitting up I could tell he was older than I thought. The lack of sleep didn't help, but the lines and wrinkles added character to his face, without taking away from the good looks. Clark Kent with a dash of maturity. I could go for that. For my book, of course.

He looked at me. Not at Susan who every male found adorable, and not at Ellen, who was pretty in a wholesome, unfussy way and whose lush figure still made heads swivel when we walked through the village. I made myself pet Little Red instead of trying to hide the coffee drips on my ancient T-shirt, or finger-combing my windblown blonde hair, trying to cover the darker roots, wishing I'd had it colored last week. Wishing I hadn't had a million-calorie muffin for breakfast, too.

“I am so glad to meet you,” Barry said. “I've heard great things about you.”

“Me?” Okay, I wasn't great at conversation, either.

“When Susan told me who lived here, I was floored.”

“You must mean my mother. She's famous. Too bad she's still in Florida.”

“Your mother's the dog-lady, isn't she?”

I nodded, gesturing toward the canine collection. “That's my mom, all right. She can do anything with a four-legged stray. Three legs if you count Little Red.”

Barry ignored the animals. “But you, you're Willy Tate! I've admired your work for years. I was at that convention where you won the YA graphic novel award. I've followed your career ever since.”

So maybe he was a hero after all, instead of a marauder or a mooch. Darn few people outside of friends and family knew my name. “Thanks.”

“I've met a bunch of authors in my day. I work freelance for a small-town news syndicate and website. I do the book page. And I've sold a couple of reviews and articles here and there. But to write and illustrate, both. Wow. And now here I am, on your couch. How's that for luck?”

Luckier than sleeping in a broken-down car, I supposed, or on the beach. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I could put some on. Or tea? I think we have orange juice.”

“Nothing, thanks. I don't want to impose.”

Ellen went to get the coffee anyway and came back with a bowl of cereal, a creamer of milk, and a glass of OJ.

Barry smiled his appreciation, but kept looking at me. “Damn, I wish I'd met you last week when I didn't have to worry about getting back to Manhattan, or finding a place to stay until the car is repaired. I'd love to write an article about you. You know the kind of thing, how the author lives, a personal glimpse into the real world of a fantasy writer. I can see the picture now, you on the beach, dogs romping in the waves. It could be a winner.”

Ellen leaned forward from her chair next to the sofa. “It would be great publicity, Willy.”

“I bet Barry could sell an article like that to a bigger audience,” Susan added. “Or get it all over the web. I know you're a big fish now, but your pond is kind of small. With the right PR, you could sell a lot more books. Maybe get a bigger advance on your next contract. At least you could get your expenses paid for the next ComicCon.”

I refused to think of having to speak at another of those huge conventions. Instead, I admired Barry's dimples and nice white teeth.

The idea of free publicity won me over, not the dimples or the smile, I swear. “Why don't I give you a ride to the garage? We could talk along the way. Then, if Kelvin says your car needs a lot of time for parts or whatever, maybe I could ask around town for a place where you can stay.”

“That would be great! Maybe some of your talent will rub off by proximity. Or maybe I'll learn enough just listening to you to start the novel I always wanted to write. You”—he politely gestured toward Susan and Ellen, after me—“can be my inspiration. Three beautiful women.”

Red snapped at his moving hand. “And a ferocious watchdog.” He tossed Cheerios at all three dogs.

Yeah, cute. And Mom always said you could judge a man by how he treats a dog. Besides, I needed to see more of him to develop a feel for my fire wizard, facial expressions, musculature, the way his body moved. Character development, you know, research. So I invited him to come watch the fireworks with us.

CHAPTER 2

B
ARRY JENSEN WAS NICE. Almost too nice, if that makes sense. He was too pleasant, too complimentary, too interested in me and the village. Or maybe I simply hadn't gotten over the idea of him being one of Susan's leftovers. On the other hand, I was flattered that he'd preferred my company to hers this morning. No one ever accused me of an abundance of logic.

“I've never been to Paumanok Harbor, barely heard of the place,” he said when we stopped to get him an egg sandwich on the town's main street.

He didn't seem to notice how Joanne at the deli had the sandwich ready and waiting for him. She winked at me while he looked around at the shops on either side of the wide village green that divided the town, New England style.

“I used to come out to Sag Harbor, but this time I was visiting friends in Montauk. I only stopped off at the Breakaway because I'd read a rave review of your cousin's cooking and wanted to try it for myself. The review didn't do the place justice. Susan is an amazing cook.”

Susan was generally a pain in the ass, but she was my baby cousin and I was proud of her. “She uses only the freshest local ingredients, a lot from my grandmother's farm.” I didn't say that Grandma Eve's herbs and spices were exotic and possibly ensorcelled, or that Susan's cooking was known to affect a diner's mood. No way was I going to tell a stranger, no matter how nice he was, that I suspected my family of being witches. Actually, I firmly believed my grandmother could cast spells; the jury was still out on Susan.

“It's a cozy little town, isn't it?” he was saying as we decided to walk the few blocks to Kelvin's garage. The weather was perfect for a summer morning, not too hot yet, with a soft breeze and no humidity. “Sweet.”

Sweet was one word for it. Bizarre was another, but I wouldn't let that ruin my enjoyment of the day or the company.

“While I was waiting for Susan at the bar last night, some guys were laughing about how Paumanok Harbor had more than its share of harmless characters and kooks, but bad stuff, too. Drug busts, kidnappings, murder, and mass—”

“Hysteria.” I quickly interrupted him. “I know. Don't you know better than to believe a bunch of drunks?” Who were telling the truth.

He laughed. “Yeah, and so far I don't see anything out of the ordinary.” He turned to smile at me. “Except a lot of sweetness.”

I was too old to blush, wasn't I? I pretended to help Little Red up a high curb—and almost got my fingers bitten. Barry's flirting was as refreshing as the gentle breeze with the hint of honeysuckle in the air, but I couldn't let him continue. That is, my ego could have listened to his silly flattery all day, but my rational mind couldn't let him get too curious about Paumanok Harbor. We were part of the whole clandestine Royce-Harmon Institute for Psionic Research, with psychic Royce descendants settling the place centuries ago and inbreeding with witches, shamans, mystics, and nut jobs ever since. I knew our locale was a forbidden gateway between worlds. And I knew better than to discuss the Harbor or its inhabitants with anyone else. I changed the subject. “I bet the same people at the bar still believe mad scientists are conducting mind control experiments in the tunnels under Montauk.”