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Barefoot Bay: A Midsummer Night's Dream (Kindle Worlds Novella) by Vicky Loebel (1)

Chapter One

The last time Master Sergeant Mike Evans (USAF, retired) had been in Mimosa Key, it was as sleepy a town as ever sweltered along the Florida gulf coast. He nudged his Ford pickup out of the creeping line of vehicles along Pleasure Pointe’s open docks and into the Mimosa Theater parking lot, easing into a three-quarters spot marked Reserved for Owner in flaking yellow paint.

Of course, he hadn’t been here since he was a kid. Mike climbed out of the truck and squinted at the rap beating bumper-to-bumper traffic, the tourists dotting the jogging path despite oppressive Fourth of July weekend heat, the scudding sailboats alternating white and dark beneath changeable clouds. Nearly twenty-five years had passed since Mike had stood in this spot, looked out at the water, and learned his world was changing in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine.

A heavy gust of wind signaled approaching rain. Mike walked to the street, scanning the docks for the forty-four-foot Striker fishing boat he’d inherited from his Great-uncle Elias. There she was, Hermia, rocking restlessly on increasing swells. Mike’s fondest memories were of summers spent working on that boat, scraping, sanding, refinishing her teak interior in the homemade dry dock they’d carved out of the guts of the abandoned Mimosa Theater.

“Mom! Mommy!” a high-pitched voice trilled behind him. “Don’t lose Titania!”

He turned to see a woman and two tiny red-headed ballerinas wrestling an enormous kite through the parking lot. No, not a kite. An enormous garment bag—big enough to hold a Civil War ball gown—that snapped and billowed in the stiffening breeze. As he watched, the wind changed direction and whipped forward, jerking the bag from the girls, blowing their staggering mother across the pavement toward traffic.

“Woah.” Mike bounded forward and stopped the woman inches away from a honking van. The garment bag flapped against them. He stuffed it under one arm and helped her back onto the sidewalk.

“Mommeeeee!” The older girl—about eight, with a ruffled tutu and a long, thick red braid—grabbed her mother’s waist. Astonishingly, the smaller girl—in bright red pigtails—went for him, dropping onto Mike’s shoe, wrapping spaghetti arms and purple cowboy boots around his shin, all the while emitting the high-pitched shriek of a malfunctioning jet engine.

“Thank—” The mother’s words were lost in her daughters’ cries. “You-saved-us-you-almost-got-hit-by-a-car-the-wind-stole-my-sunglasses-what-if-Mama-got-blown-into-a-shark?” The older girl took a tighter grip on her mother. “If-we-get-dirt-on-Titania-Aunt-Gussie-will-spit-a-brick….”

At least, Mike was pretty sure she said spit. He folded the flapping garment bag double while the woman raised her voice over the racket. “Gemma, hush. Jemima!” She leaned over and tried to unwind the boa constrictor. “Let the nice gentleman go.”

Mike gazed at the woman. Late twenties, brown hair whipping impractically loose in the wind, her tidy figure was set off by skinny jeans and a nicely filled midriff tee that he could scarcely be blamed for looking down given their relative positions. Mike checked the parking lot for a jealous husband, wondering if he was about to get punched on the jaw. Then he decided he’d punch the guy first for leaving his family to struggle alone.

Fat drops of water began to smack the pavement. The woman tugged her ballerina-cowgirl, glancing at Mike. “Help?”

He tapped the girl’s shoulder. “This is a no-fly configuration.”

“What’s that?” She looked up with koala-bear eyes.

“Unless you move, your pretty tutu will get muddy, and poor Aunt Gussie will have to spit a brick.”

Raindrops pattered closer together. “C’mon, Mima,” the woman coaxed. This time the child allowed herself to be lifted free while Mike kept his gaze determinedly on the woman’s face. It was a pretty face, beautiful really, with large round eyes like her daughters’ and exotic high cheekbones. He had the feeling he’d seen her somewhere before.

“Thanks. Our car’s right here.” She led Mike unexpectedly to a 1965 MGB GT, unlocked the back hatch, and swung it upward. “In you go.”

The girls spilled through the cargo space onto booster chairs on the low bench seat and wriggled out of backpacks, extracting a stuffed plush monster truck from one and a library-bound copy of The Princess Bride from the other.

Their mother gestured at the garment bag. “You can put Titania here, thanks.”

A blast of wind rocked the car. Mike stowed his bundle and lowered the hatchback.

“I can’t thank you enough.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go. We’re running late.”

“No problem.” He followed her to the passenger door. She dived through as the light around them faded to gray. Thunder boomed, unleashing a torrent of rain.

Mike hardly noticed. The woman squirmed into the driver’s seat and hit the ignition, flooding the cabin with the smell of gas. “Damn.” She looked across at Mike. “Oh, dear. You’re wet.”

“I’m good.” He leaned in slightly, wondering for the first time if she even had a husband. He could almost swear the woman was checking him out. “Should you be driving in this weather?”

“It’ll clear up in a minute. And we’re only going to Casa Blanca, not over the causeway.” Her brow crinkled. “I hate to leave you in the rain, though. Do you need a ride?”

Sadly, this was where Mike belonged. “No, thanks.”

“OK.” She flashed a storm-banishing smile. “See you around.”

“Sure.” Unless she had a husband, in which case it would be a spectacularly bad idea.

“We’re getting wet!” the smaller girl—Mima—complained.

“I’m Mike.” He leaned one elbow on the car and tried a smile of his own. “Mike Evans. I just moved to Mimosa Key this afternoon.”

“That’s terrific. I’m—” An angry tune blasted from her pocket. “I’m late.” She ground the starter. This time the engine caught.

Mike shut the passenger door and stepped away from the car. The MG roared backward, sending an icy spray of water straight into his crotch.

The driver’s window inched downward. “I mean, I’m Lane,” she called over a clap of thunder. “Lane Talmadge.”

The older daughter appeared behind her. “We’re single.”

“I’m getting wet!” Her sister’s smaller face joined the lineup. “This is a no-fly configuration!”

“Sorry, gidget.” Lane glanced back. “Seatbelts!”

The window closed and the car surged forward. Mike winced, watching it hydroplane onto the road. At least they weren’t likely to get into an accident. In the last few minutes, Pleasure Pointe had emptied of traffic. The only activity in sight was a family in the docks, frantically tying down everything on their sailboat.

Lane Talmadge. Single.

Mike stood in the downpour while the MG fishtailed out of sight. Lane Talmadge, single, and on her way to Casa Blanca. Unless she was driving to Morocco, that meant the fancy resort in northern Barefoot Bay. It shouldn’t be too hard to track her down and ask her out on a date.

Over dinner, he’d find out more about her. How long had she been single? What did she look for in a guy? Did she have access to that all-important resource for dating parents, an overnight babysitter?

Perhaps by the end of the conversation, he’d work his way around to the big question. Why had Lane Talmadge just stolen his great-uncle’s vintage car?

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