No Sunshine When She's Gone (5 page)

Jill stubbed her toe on a crate of grapefruit as they exited a stall selling citrus. She’d been eyeing a bag of tangelos and not watching where she was going.

“You’re leaving a trail of beads,” Carrie said, looking down on Jill’s sandals.

Jill lowered her gaze and saw that several tiny brown beads were missing on her favorite pair of disc sandals. She’d worn them for three summers now. “Better beads than bread crumbs,” she said, grinning. “Whoever notices I’ve lost the beads is standing too close for my comfort.”

Carrie scrunched her nose and said, “You can afford to buy a new pair.”

Jill could, but she economized. She’d come from having nothing to having something. The nothing stayed with her, even after she had a regular paycheck and decent cash flow. She refused to spend unnecessarily. She’d wear the sandals until they fell apart, which would be any day now.

“By the way,” Carrie said, “I contacted Trace Saunders this morning to let him know we were in town. During our conversation, his wife, Shaye, came on the line and invited us to supper. Does tonight work for you? I need to call her back.”

Trace was Aidan Cates’s brother-in-law and Shaye was his sister. It might prove interesting to meet his family, especially as Trace was so tightly connected to the Richmond Rogues. It seemed only polite.

“Works for me,” Jill agreed. “Ask Shaye what we can bring. I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”

A semitrailer backed up close to one of the stalls, and a group of men began unloading produce. The noise level rose considerably.

“Be right back,” Carrie said. “I need a quieter spot to make my call.” She walked off.

Jill turned into a booth and considered a selection of cantaloupes, honeydews, and seedless watermelons. She picked up one cantaloupe, then a second. She was holding both before her when a young woman tapped her on the back. The redhead seemed to think Jill worked there.

“I’m in a hurry,” the woman said. “How can you tell if a cantaloupe is ripe?”

Jill glanced over her shoulder, but couldn’t locate the produce vendor. So she answered from experience. She’d worked at Cormet’s Deli during high school; the deli had specialized in fresh fruit platters. She weighed both cantaloupes on her palms and said, “When it’s ripe, the fruit should feel heavier than it looks. It should also smell musky and sweet. You should be able to press your thumb in slightly on the bottom side and there should be a lip around the stem.”

“Thank you so much,” the woman said. She quickly tested several cantaloupes for ripeness. Finding one that suited her, she sped off to a nearby checkout table where cash payments went into a metal box.

Jill moved out of the way of a teenager carting crates of bananas, only to step into another man’s path. A man who cast a big shadow and now breathed down her neck. She knew before she turned around who stood behind her.

“So we meet again,” Aidan Cates said.

Heat skimmed down her spine like a stroking finger. She felt a rush of nervous energy. He leaned in, so close his chest brushed her shoulder and his thighs bumped her bottom. “From psychic to produce vendor,” he spoke low near her ear. “You do get around, don’t you?”

J
ill’s hand shook and she spilled her coffee. The splash barely missed her left foot. She refused to turn around. Let him talk to the back of her head. “This isn’t my stall,” she informed him, “but I was assisting a customer.”

“You tend to be helpful.” Aidan edged even closer.

“I know produce.”

“So I heard.” A sensual roughness deepened his voice. “I usually shake or squeeze for ripeness, although a thumb to the bottom sounds far more interesting.”

Her blush was immediate. She’d never met anyone who made mature fruit sound sexual. She hated her reaction, hated worse that he’d embarrassed her. She drew a steadying breath and asked, “Are you following me?”

His chuckle was all male and dangerous. “Don’t flatter yourself, babe. I’ve just returned to town, and have family and friends at the farmers’ market. Coming here is the fastest way for me to catch up.”

“Don’t let me keep you.” Her throat was tight.

“I’m going . . .” Still he stayed.

She decided to move if he wouldn’t. She turned on him. Her gaze hit him square in the chest and she was forced to look up. “You have people to see,” she prompted.

He stared down on her; his eyes were shielded by the bill of his baseball cap. “I’ll get to them. The market’s open all afternoon.”

What to do? Jill debated. There was no point standing there, checking out the width of his shoulders, the thickness of his chest. The flatness of his abdomen. The long length of his legs. She had the wild urge to touch him. To feel his muscles beneath her palms. She clenched her fingers instead; kept her hands to herself.

Where the heck was Carrie? she wondered. Her friend loved to chat on the phone. She would be Shaye’s new best friend before their conversation ended. “I have someone to find,” she said, rising on tiptoe and scanning the crowd.

“Male or female?” Aidan asked.

“Does it matter?” She took a sip of her coffee, playing it cool.

He shrugged. “I’m tall and can see over the crowd. If you describe—”

“I don’t need your help.” She hadn’t meant to sound rude, but having him so near unnerved her. She’d locate Carrie on her own. “Excuse me,” she said, easing around him.

“Wait,” he said.

Now what?

He stooped down, picked something off the ground, and stood again. He held out his hand to her, and six brown beads rolled across his palm. “You might want these,” he said.

She couldn’t believe he’d returned her beads. She opened her bag and watched as he dropped them inside, one by one. “Thank you,” she managed.

“There’s a shoe repair on Gulfwing Drive,” he told her. “Two streets off the main drag. I have my work boots repaired there. The soles wear out before the leather.” His smile was slight. “No man discards broken-in boots.”

She liked his way of thinking. He hadn’t told her to toss her sandals and buy a new pair. Instead he’d given her directions to get them fixed. His suggestion set well with her. She’d locate the shoe repair shop tomorrow.

“’Bye, Aidan.” She bumped his hip as she eased around him. His masculine heat branded her.

“I still don’t know your name,” he pressed.

“I’ll tell you next time we meet.”

“Our paths might not cross again.”

“I’m betting they will,” she said. “I’ve seen you twice in one day. The odds are good.”

He appeared hesitant, but let her pass.

She went in the direction she’d last seen Carrie. Hurrying down the aisle, she cut around a corner stall piled with corn. She happened to glance back, hoping Aidan had moved on. He had not. He stood right where she’d left him. His gaze was on her, sharp and assessing. She’d never seen anyone look so serious. What was he thinking? Perhaps she was better off not knowing.

The man made her body tingle. Goose bumps rose over her breasts and skimmed her inner thighs. She hastened away from him, darting between booths of zucchini and cucumbers, quickening her pace.

She located Carrie near the edge of the tent. She stood beside a table stacked with red and green peppers. After disconnecting her call, she walked toward Jill. Her braces flashed as she smiled.

“We dine at seven p.m. at Shaye and Trace’s beach house. I took down directions,” Carrie said. “It’s casual—Trace is going to grill. I asked Shaye what we could bring; she suggested mixed greens or coleslaw.”

Jill proposed a layered salad. “We can mix fruits, veggies, and nuts.”

Carrie agreed. “Sweet and crunchy. I like.”

Jill followed Carrie up one aisle and down the other. Selecting the salad ingredients was easy and fun. They paid each vendor as they went, splitting the price of their purchases. Salad dressing wouldn’t be necessary. The juice from the fruit would suffice.

All the while they shopped, Jill kept one eye on the produce and one eye out for Aidan Cates. She never did see him again. She was as relieved as she was disappointed. Aidan added male dimension to her life. He made her stomach go soft and her heart flutter, purely feminine feelings.

The two women took a breather next to a stall with assorted herbs. Jill inhaled deeply; the scents of lemon balm, mint, and rosemary tickled her nose. Her mother had kept a small clay pot of mint on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. Her mom had never added mint to her cooking; she’d used it as an air freshener.

Their row house had been dark and in need of repairs. The building had smelled old, even when it was new. Growing up, Jill had stood at the sink and breathed in the mint. The clean fragrance erased the harshness of the outside world, where trash littered the streets and the smell of spilled liquor made her nauseous.

Carrie glanced at her watch. “It’s almost three-thirty,” she said. “Did you skip lunch?” When Jill nodded, she asked, “Do you want to grab a snack?”

“I can hold off until supper,” Jill said.

“Let’s go, then,” said Carrie. “I feel dusty and in need of a shower.”

Jill needed one, too. The air was humid and her skin felt gritty. They found the nearest exit, and then headed for the parking lot.

Traffic continued to file in. Those on their way out carried large grocery bags to their cars. Jill climbed into her Triumph and Carrie into her Nissan Cube. They’d each driven their own car from Richmond to Barefoot William, as neither one wanted to depend on the other for transportation while they were in town. Carrie followed Jill back to the bed and breakfast.

One block off the beach, the Barefoot Inn was ideal for vacationers. Jill stood on the narrow stone sidewalk before walking up the steps. The relaxed atmosphere calmed her. Surrounded by tropical foliage and a wraparound porch, the sun-yellow, two-story inn offered ten guest rooms. A continental breakfast was served out by the pool. Jill had enjoyed a freshly baked orange muffin and a cup of coffee that morning before heading to the psychic fair.

Laugher now rang out poolside. She listened, smiling. Happy hour was underway. A chalkboard near the reception desk listed all daily activities. From four to six p.m., two drinks per guest would be blended at the chickee hut bar. The frozen cocktails included Paradise on Ice and a Barefoot Breeze; both were local rum-based favorites.

Carrie beat Jill to the front door. Her friend carried both bags of produce, by choice. “You coming?” she called.

Jill waved. “I’m right behind you.”

However her steps slowed as her thoughts deepened. She was thirty-three years old, and had never had a real vacation, at least not one where time was exclusively her own. She had four days ahead of her to settle in and do exactly as she pleased. That included sunbathing at the beach, enjoying the rides and amusements on the pier, and shopping the boardwalk, all at a leisurely pace. She would welcome Carrie’s company if her friend wanted to join her. Otherwise, Jill would go it alone. Carrie was confident and capable of entertaining herself. She was a homebody, whereas Jill had a restless streak.

By the time Jill entered the inn, Carrie had already consulted the owner, Sharon Cates, about storing their produce in the commercial refrigerator in the main kitchen. The food took up one shelf and the crisper drawer. Sharon was a gracious hostess.

“I’m tired,” Carrie said, stifling a yawn as they left the kitchen and crossed the lobby toward the staircase.

Wide windows cast Florida sunshine over the entrance. Blond hardwood floors, pale aqua furniture, and brass accents completed the décor. A complimentary rack of tourism pamphlets directed guests to local and state attractions. Jill mentally added Disney World, Busch Gardens, Zoo Miami, and Key West to her bucket list.

“A nap would be nice,” Carrie said as they climbed the stairs. “First impressions are important. I don’t want to be tired when we meet Shaye and Trace.”

Jill nodded. “Ditto that.”

They showered in their separate rooms, then ended up sleeping longer than they’d planned. Ninety minutes later, they met again in the upstairs hallway. “I could use a cup of coffee,” said Carrie. “Sharon has a Keurig in the kitchen.”

They found their way downstairs. Carrie brewed two mugs of summer-sweet raspberry before they started on their salad. The flavored coffee tasted light and fruity. Carrie next removed their produce from the refrigerator and Jill washed the fruits and vegetables.

Sharon Cates had thoughtfully set out a glass serving bowl on the butcher block island, along with knives and a melon baller. The friends became creative. Hand-torn romaine soon lined the bottom of the bowl, followed by a layer of diced red apples. Jill halved the cantaloupe and scooped mini–melon balls. Carrie shaved a cucumber so thin, Jill could see through the slices.

Two diced bell peppers came next, one green and one yellow. Jill went on to peel an orange, then carefully chopped the sections into smaller bites. Fresh basil followed, cut into ribbons. Chopped pecans topped layers of blueberries and strawberries. The zest and juice of a lime was added last.

Jill popped a leftover blueberry in her mouth and admired their salad. “There’s something for everyone,” she said. “Cormet’s Deli back home in Philly sold a ton of these salads. None of the other employees liked to layer, so I had job security as a kid.”

Carrie leaned her hip against the island counter and grew thoughtful. “You were fourteen and gutsy,” she said. “You snuck in the backdoor of the deli, picked up a knife, and started chopping carrots, without anyone noticing. Mr. Cormet finally saw you, and was amazed at how fast you worked.”

“I begged for a job with my whole heart,” Jill recalled. “I told Mr. Cormet I was sixteen. He stared me down, but never questioned my age. The deli was my lifeline back then. Mr. Cornet paid me cash. And his wife sent home leftovers, which my mom appreciated.”

Jill crossed to the main counter near the sink and searched several drawers before she found a roll of clear Saran Wrap. Covering the salad, she placed it back in the refrigerator. She finished off her coffee, feeling relaxed and ready to face the evening ahead.

She was excited to meet their hosts. Trace had the connections and clout to bring the Rogues to Barefoot William. Shaye was also known for her strong business ethic. She kept Barefoot William in the black. They were a power couple.

Carrie tapped her watch, one with an oversize face and roman numerals on a red leather band. “It’s almost six. We’d better get a move on. We need to change clothes, then locate their beach house. Neither of us is good with directions.”

Somehow they managed to be punctual despite the fact that Carrie changed clothes twice and Jill missed a turnoff. Carrie had had a tough time interpreting
Florida casual
and it took her thirty minutes before she tucked a blue-and-white nautical striped top into a pair of navy capris. Navy canvas wedges with bold white stars complemented her red toenail polish. Her feet looked very patriotic.

On the hour, Jill parked her Triumph in the Saunders’s driveway. Carrie had held the salad bowl on her lap during their drive; she’d reminded Jill with every passing block not to hit a bump or pothole. She didn’t want to jar the salad.

Jill had accidentally turned right instead of left on Pink Shell Lane, and was forced to make a U-turn. Several cars had honked when she’d blocked traffic. Still, they’d arrived safely with the salad layers intact. That was all that mattered.

Sliding from her sports car, she looked around. The sun was close to setting; the last of the daylight struggled to survive. The beach house was barely visible through the foliage. What she did see was amazing; two stories of glass and steel peeked between the palms.

A breeze off the Gulf flirted with the hem of her lavender sundress with a narrow, turquoise necklace strap. The dress was an extravagance for her, but Carrie had insisted she buy it. Feminine and flirty wasn’t Jill’s usual style, but the sundress updated her wardrobe. She accented with arm candy, the more bangles the better. She wore ten bracelets that glistened aqua, red, and champagne in the twilight.

“This place is incredible,” said Carrie as she scooted from the car. She held the glass bowl to her chest; her eyes were wide. “Big bucks went into building this home.”

Jill nodded her agreement. The back of the house faced the street, the front stared at the ocean. They followed a blue pebbled path through the formal garden, taking time to appreciate their surroundings. An ancient banyan tree spread its branches across much of the grounds, providing shade. Topiaries populated the yard, shaped as seagulls, pelicans, and flamingos. Plants and flowers exploded with color from exotic birds of paradise and purple parrot tulips, to beach sunflowers and butterfly weed. The exotic floral scents mixed with the salt air.

Jill was so engrossed with the scenery that she stubbed her toe on the cement base of a decorative fountain where a dolphin spouted water. Additional beads broke from her right disc sandal. She scooped them up, slipped them in the side pocket on her skirt. She was glad she hadn’t been carrying the salad. She’d have dumped it on the dolphin.

The path soon connected to a wide, wooden plank walkway that curved toward the main door. The windows reflected the coppery glow of the sunset. King Midas could live here, Jill mused, awed by the home and the coastal beauty. The scent of charcoal snuck around the corner of the house. Grilling would soon begin. She was hungry.