Jack

“I need the whole thing painted. All three storefronts.” Wyatt Jones scrubs his nails in his scruffy grey beard and cocks an eyebrow at me. “You up for that?”

The door on the orange Ford step-side I bought off a used-car salesman in Madison makes a loud popping sound when I pull it open. “It’ll take me at least a week. Maybe two. That okay?”

“You working alone?”

“Unless I can find a kid who needs a summer job.”

“Summer’s over around here.”

My lips curl into a frown—I didn’t think anything changed in Oceanside Village. “It’s still August.” Dog days…

“Kids started back August first,” Wyatt says. “Keeps ‘em out of trouble.”

He narrows one eye at me, and I choose to let his insinuation pass as I climb into the hot cab of The Beast. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, son.”

With another loud pop, I slam the door shut. Every noise is a reaffirmation of my new reality. No more plush vacuum seals. No more buttery, conditioned leather. I’m hard edges and steel.

Plain and simple…

Paint and sweat…

Lots of sweat.

“I guess some things haven’t changed.”

“If that’s the case, I won’t save you a seat.” He does a snarky grin.

“No thanks.” I have no interest in attending service at the First Church of Marjorie Warren. The only thing that ever lured me to that shout-fest presided over by the town matriarch was Emberly.

Emberly…

A flicker of some old sentiment moves through my chest, but it’s only a ghost. She’s long gone, and those days are ancient history.

Wyatt rocks back on his heels, his thick brows rising with the corners of his mouth. The cock-eyed grin makes me uneasy.

“Welcome home, Jackson Cane.”

“Lockwood.”

“You’re using Lockwood now?”

“It’s my name.”

“Oh, I know it.” He chuckles. “I remember you as a little guy. Your daddy used to bust your chops, but you were tough enough. You’re more like him now.”

My shoulders tighten. I haven’t talked to my father since I left my firm. I haven’t talked to anyone besides Wyatt and a used-car salesman. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“You staying at the cottage?”

Nodding, I prop my arm on the open window of the door.

“All right, then.” Wyatt clears his throat and starts off at a brisk pace toward his hardware store. “Monday morning. Bright and early.

Nodding, I turn the key. “Every day,” I repeat under my breath.

It’s all I want—hard work and no trouble.

---

Pushing through the door of the cottage, I flick the light switch and survey the weathered wood and white interior. Dad sold his house in Oceanside and relocated to the city after I started law school. He never wanted to have anything to do with this town again. He made his millions and got out.

I cross the yellow pine floors to the grayish-brown farm table. At first I’m confused. When I left the cottage was nothing more than an abandoned shack. I’d expected to find it closed up and empty. Instead, it’s polished and clean and completely renovated.

I switch a quiet window unit on high and continue down the hall, past a smaller, office room, to the master bedroom. A king-sized bed is covered in a white Matelassé spread and matching pillows. It’s all very Cape Cod and very new. Am I in the right house?

The sudden ring of a phone startles me, and I look around the place. A white cordless phone is on the bedside table.

Reaching slowly, I lift the receiver. “Hello?”

“Who is this?” I recognize the forceful male voice on the other end of the line at once.

“Dad?”

“Jackson? What the hell are you doing at the cottage?”

For a moment, I hesitate. I hadn’t intended to have this conversation with him so soon—at least not until I’d sorted it out in my own mind.

“Well, my original plan was to clean it out, fix it up, and live here for a little while.”

“I’ve already done all of that.”

“I see you have.” Walking through the two thousand square-foot residence, I take in the elegant décor—white paint, navy and white striped fabrics, driftwood accent pieces. “It’s nice.”

“I’ve been using it as a rental property. The manager just called to ask if I’d rented it without telling her. I didn’t even know you still had a key.”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I try to think. “I can stay somewhere else.”

“What the hell are you doing in Oceanside? You’re supposed to be at work.”

Here we go. “I took a job here.”

“A job? Doing what? Wills and estates?”

“Painting. Wyatt Jones has these three old storefronts he needs repainted. I expect it’ll take me at least a week to finish. Maybe longer.”

“You’re doing what?” His voice is a rasp. “What is the meaning of this? You’re the newest partner at Wagner and Bancroft—the youngest partner they’ve ever taken on. I just read the fucking article last spring! It’s unprecedented.”

“I resigned.”

“You can’t resign!”

“Actually, I can, and I did. I’m sorry, I assumed my mother’s cottage would be empty. I’ll clear out and find somewhere else to stay in town while I work.”

The line is silent for several long seconds. I’m about to say goodbye and disconnect when my father speaks again, his voice grave. “Are you in trouble, son?”

My muscles clench, and I take a deep breath. I’m not ready to talk about this with him. I’m still working out what I’m going to do. It’s why I came here—to do manual labor and sort out my thoughts, decide what needs to happen next.

Still, to answer his question, “I’m not in trouble.”

He’s quiet a beat longer, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to believe me.

“It’s the end of the season. I can have Claire take the cottage off the market for a while. As long as you need.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I insist. Technically it’s your place anyway. It was left to you in her will. Why do you think I never sold it?”

Because you loved her? The thought enters unbidden in my mind, as if my father has a sentimental bone in his body. I don’t even know if it was ever true. I don’t even believe in love like that anymore.

“Because it’s a good investment property,” I answer.

“Damn right it is.” He exhales loudly. “However, if you’d rather use it as a residence, that can be arranged. I’ve been keeping whatever profits it makes in a separate account. It’s all yours.”

Stepping over to a small closet in the corner of the bedroom, I try the knob. It’s locked. “I’ll stay, but only for a little while. Don’t change your plans because of me.”

Again we’re quiet, and I’m ready to end the call. My father and I are both take-charge individuals. Giving orders and expecting them to be followed is our most comfortable way of relating to the world—not this quiet concern.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

I’m just about to disconnect when he adds, “You’ll find the things you left behind in a small locked closet in the bedroom. I put the key in the hall safe. The combination is the same.”

“Thanks.” I put the receiver back on the plastic cradle and stand for a moment listening to the sound of bugs screeching outside the window.

When this place was just an abandoned shack in the woods, it was my fortress of solitude—at least that’s how I imagined it as a little kid. Later it became something else, a place I could take girls… one girl.

One girl, so many memories.

Tapping in the code, I find more than a key in the hall safe. Several small boxes are also inside, but I’ll save those for later. I’m more curious to see what of my things my father chose to preserve. I hope it’s what I’m looking for.

Back in the bedroom, I unlock the small closet. It’s short and deep, a glorified crawl space with a door. I bend down and pull the string hanging from a bare bulb. At once the space floods with light, and I see them. It looks like they’re all here, leaning against the wall.

Quickly I pull the long canvases out of the stuffy space. It takes a moment or two to arrange them around the room. They’re my paintings—acrylic on canvass.

Some are brilliantly colorful: orange skies at twilight, a bridge over black water, a towering oak with small leaves and a labyrinthine root system.

None of them are what I’m looking for. My chest tightens, and I fear it’s gone. Moving away the last box, I see it. I don’t know why it’s separated from the rest, but I’m glad. It isn’t damaged or distressed, and I turn it once to the side so the tall end points up.

Here she is in all her petite, magical glory. Sitting with her legs strategically crossed, her hands in her lap. Her face is turned to the side, showing her profile, her full lips. Her torso faces front, her creamy shoulders straight and her perfectly rounded breasts bare. One lock of glossy brown hair is arranged so that it swoops down, the ends curling around the tip of her dark nipple.

Tightness moves low in my belly… An old familiar tightness of desire registers in my cock. I get a semi just looking at her. I thought I knew what it would mean to be her first. I had no idea. The way she looked at me when I kissed her, her eyes full of so much trust. When she looked at me, I believed I could do anything.

We were so damn young—she was even younger. I’d known her since we were little kids, but that summer everything changed. It was my last summer here…

It was our first summer together.

I can still see her on the beach, long wavy hair whipping in the breeze, dark eyes sparkling with magic and mischief and fun. She’d never been kissed, and she insisted I teach her. It wasn’t long before I’d teach her everything. Then it became impossible to keep our hands off each other, which led to this day.

I remember it so well…

It was raining steadily. We were here in this cottage—only in those days, we didn’t have a fancy bed or elegant furnishings. She’d sat on my T-shirt on the floor.

I remember telling her how to sit. How to hold her hands in her lap, turn her head to the side, lower her chin, raise her shoulder…

She was so fucking beautiful.

I was hypnotized by her breasts, distracted by her narrow waist, mouth watering at the sparse dusting of soft hair on her pussy…

Ember Rose.

My chest burns at the sight. I can still taste her clean, ocean-water flavor. Her body is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Sketching her, painting her had been electric. It had been like taking her body all over again, but even more intimately, if that’s possible.

My fingers tingled with each stroke of my pencil, as if the lines were laced with electricity. Her full lips had trembled as if she could feel me drawing them, shading them, caressing them with my fingertips.

Every curve, every shadow, every intimate place… She would melt when I touched her.

I remember touching her…

When we touch, everything grows brighter, hotter, faster, more desperate.

I’d painted her in warm gold, bright yellow, pure cream, and deep brown, and on the back I’d hastily written Shine Like Ember.

Her eyes glowed. She loved it, but at the same time, she’d been afraid. She was worried someone would find it. I’d promised her no one but me would ever see it.

Tearing my eyes away from her beauty, I look around the transformed cottage, and I realize I didn’t keep that promise. We didn’t keep a lot of promises. Still, why didn’t I take this with me?

I know why.

I had always thought I’d come back for her. I had thought we would live here, and this painting was here waiting for that vision to become reality.

“Grow up, Jackson,” I say, clearing the thickness from my throat.

Adjusting my fly, I lift the canvas and push it back inside the crawl-space closet, jerking the string to kill the light, hiding its magic.

Those days are over.

Daydreams are for children. I need a drink.

---

I’m out on the strand, alone, entering the Tuna Tiki on a Saturday night. It’s as crowded as it ever was and equally cheesy, and just as I pass through the entrance, a big guy in a damp tee bumps into me. I move him away, forward into the crowd, and somebody cheers. Nobody seems to care.

“Drunk tourists,” I mutter under my breath, hating what’s become of this once pristine landscape. I guess I have my dad to thank for it… and he has all his money to show for it.

It’s an open-air bar, so the constant breeze keeps us cool while covering us in fresh salt. Music drifts around me. It’s Bob Marley, but it doesn’t sound like one of his millions of familiar recordings. Lifting my chin, I try to see if there’s a live band. That would be a switch from eleven years ago. I can’t see anything from this spot in the crowd.

The sky is deep royal blue, and the lights from the bar drown out the stars. I don’t expect to see anyone I know here. It’s been too long, and when I left, nobody came out to the strand from Oceanside Village. They were all so bitter and angry that it destroyed the town. That’s what they said… I’m not sure that’s true. They might not have come here to socialize, but this place brought tons of jobs to the area.

I’m not looking to make amends for the past, so I push up through the barstools, a twenty flagging in my fingers.

The bartender is heavy-set with dark hair and a bright red lei necklace. A hibiscus is behind his ear, and he’s clearly Latino. Still, they’re going for a Hawaiian vibe, and I’m willing to bet everyone thinks he’s Samoan. Either way, he’s moving fast, mixing drinks, monitoring draft beers, and taking orders.

He sees me, and I lift my chin. “Vodka rocks, twist of lime,” I shout.

A chin up, and I know he’s got my order. I lean back against the bamboo countertop to wait as I check out the crowd. I was barely old enough to come here when this place opened eleven years ago, but if all’s the same, they have pretty decent drinks, and I need something strong to kill the memories.

I almost asked for Fireball since I’ve always been partial to cinnamon, but I’d like to get out of bed in the morning. I don’t know what I was thinking coming back to Oceanside—did I think she’d be waiting?

I know she’s gone.

I remember what my dad said.

I remember how it kicked my guts out and set me on the path to what I am now. My dream was over. Might as well live out my dad’s dream for me.

Only, now that dream is all fucked up, too.

A new song begins, and sure enough, a live band is situated in the back corner. Three guys strum acoustic guitars while one is on a small drum kit. A tap on my arm, and Pablo hands me my vodka. I give him the twenty and turn back to watch the show. I’m just collecting my change when I see her.

Jet-black hair swept up in a red kerchief, severe bangs, and blood-red velvet lips. An hourglass figure wrapped in a tight red dress…Tabitha Green is across the bar swaying her hips to “Jamming,” holding the arm of some guy I don’t recognize and laughing. She hasn’t changed a bit.

For a moment, I’m frozen, unsure where to go or if she’ll even recognize me.

It doesn’t matter. The moment her green eyes land on mine, they blink twice quickly, then widen so big I can see the whites around them.

Her chin jerks forward as if she choked on her drink, and I try to fall back, to disappear into the crowd, but my back is against the bar. I’m trapped. This is happening, and Tabby never walks away from a showdown.

“Jackson Cane?” Her voice cuts through the din. The party doesn’t even pause.

She crosses the small space to where I’m caught in the rope swings. Squaring my shoulders, I get ready. I’m not afraid of this ghost.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Perfect black brows pull together over her eyes, which are shooting sparks.

“Hi, Tabby,” I say, taking a sip of my drink and doing my best to act casual. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“Why not? I live here.”

“At the Tuna Tiki?” I give her a wink. In my experience, it disarms angry women, although I know Tabby better than that… or I used to.

“Are you flirting with me, Jackson Cane?”

“I’m trying to be friendly. I haven’t seen you in ten years.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Why are you here?”

“Well, despite this warm welcome, I like to think of Oceanside as my home.” I exhale and take another sip of vodka. “I grew up here. My mother grew up here.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming back like this.”

This adversarial bullshit is pissing me off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s just what a lying bastard would say, isn’t it?”

“I’m not a liar.” My jaw tightens as anger flares in my chest. “If this is about my dad, I can assure you he didn’t expect business to centralize out here the way it did. Mark it up to unintended consequences.”

Her eyes flash like I just jerked her ponytail. “Your dad?” Her velvet lips part. “You don’t…” For the first time I’ve ever known her, it appears Tabitha Green is at a loss for words.

Standing up straighter, I’m at my full six foot two, looking down on her. “I know this is part of your persona or whatever.” I gesture to her Bettie Page getup. “Tough girl. But I’m just looking to have a quiet drink. Take it easy, Tab.”

I slug the last of my vodka and leave her standing there gasping like a fish out of water. I guess coming back to Oceanside I thought I’d find peace and quiet, home and comfort, a place to sort out what’s become of my career.

My gut led me here… I’m starting to think I shouldn’t trust my gut.