Page 11 of The Bloodfeather Promise
Devon’s head rotates until I’m scrutinized by her pale, blue eyes. Although we’ve only known each other since our senior year of high school, we have a very close friendship. And if it wasn’t for me, Noah would have never asked Devon out on their first date. I talked him into it, needling and prodding him. Frustrated and tired of my nagging, my best friend finally marched into Serene, the home décor boutique her parents owned. Then Noah, much to my disgust, just stood amongst the designer pillows and hand-poured candles, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. A rather comical staring contest ensued until Devon took pity on him. She said even if Noah was too scared to ask, she would still go out with him. He scowled, and stomped out of the store. They’ve been together ever since.
“Emerson doesn’t need lotion,” Devon drawls. “She needs to get laid.”
“Ewww,” Noah mimics my earlier response with an exaggerated scowl.
“No, thank you!” My second response is just as brightly upbeat as the first. However, it’s beyond embarrassing that Devon is absolutely right. I do need to get laid. Problem is, there is only one person I’d want to do the laying and not a chance in hell ofthatever happening again.
“Let’s go barhopping. Pier City. Dance. Get drunk. Find you a man,” Devon murmurs in disjointed fragments as Noah rubs her shoulders with one hand. “You’re working too much.”
“Still training the new girl. You know I’m lucky getting some beach time in before the season really starts.”
“How’s she doing, anyway?” Noah asks, abandoning Devon’s massage in favor of a beer. “She seems flighty.”
“Lacey’s not, really. She’s worked in her parents’ bookstore in Savannah since she could walk, so it’s really just learning how I do things. She’s reliable but young.”
“Says the ancient, twenty-five-year-old,” Devon mumbles, burying her face deeper into the crook of her arm.
“She just turned twenty-one,” I protest. “Besides, I’m allowed to call anyone younger than me a baby.”
“That’s because you work like you’re fifty or some shit.” Noah frowns. “Take some time off.”
“I can’t.” I shrug in apology, and Noah settles back with a grunt of frustration. He takes a long pull of his beer, his lean, muscled form gleaming with saltwater and a bit of sweat. I can tell he’s dying to say something about my woefully boring life, but he won’t.
“You haven’t dated anyone since Justin,” Devon says after a few moments of silence. “You can’t let one asshole put you off men forever, you know.”
“I know,” I readily agree, hearing the undertones of sympathy in her statement. I’m unwilling to engage in yet another discussion regarding my former boyfriend and the reasons we broke up. Or more precisely, the reasons he dumped me. With a sigh, I make a stab at placating them both. “I’ll have more free time when Lacey learns the routine. I’m hiring another person on, so things will get better. Just have to wait for graduations to get over so I can hire someone who can stay longer than just the summer season.”
I really do wish I could take a break from my little bookstore because I work every day except one. Mondays are my Saturdays, and I hoard that time jealously. As soon as my new full-time employee learns everything there is to know about running my bookstore, I can take some time off.
Other than Lacey, I have two other employees. Lloyd and Luann Strat are an elderly couple who work as a pair. Always have. When Grandpop left California back in the eighties, they followed him and my grandma. He opened Sea Tales in this tiny, planned beach community carved from sand dunes and gnarled, wind-stunted oaks in the Florida Panhandle, and they’ve been here ever since.
A swanky, yet hometown charm revolves around the carefully designed master plan of Sea Cove. Hugging the emerald green coastline, with not a high-rise condo in sight, people quickly discovered this unique village and the blinding white, soft drifts of sand and open skies. People come here in droves. Vacationers, families, investors. Many find their way back here after their vacation, searching for a slower, less of the rat-race way of making a living. Add the appeal of the beach, and over the years, Sea Cove bloomed beyond all expectations.
Sophisticated cottages in muted shades of white, sand, yellows, blues, greens, and an occasional sun washed pink or coral are nestled amongst the trees. Interior streets are dotted with these smaller structures while larger, genuine masterpieces of architecture occupy the shorelines. Everything you need is just steps away, or at the most, a bicycle ride, from your front door.
The Run, the main road, is two lanes with a maximum speed of fifteen miles per hour. It runs east and west through the town. There’s not even a stoplight, just a four-way stop that snarls the summer traffic consisting of luxury vehicles, bicycles, and high-end, tricked-out golf carts. Various shops and eateries line both sidewalks.
North of the Run is the Green, a large open area used for outdoor movies and plays, even more shops, restaurants, antique stores, clothing boutiques, and the Sunshine Market. A post office the size of a dollhouse and a scattering of townhouses peek between storefronts and drifts of hibiscus. Just a few steps south of the road lies the beach, a long, white, glittering stretch of sand holding back the aqua-hued water and horizon.
Everywhere you turn, little parks are tucked away where you least expect them. Cool, shady green oases where people lounge on decorative iron benches, enjoying a bit of ice cream or a fruit slushy, or even a glass of wine, waiting for twilight. Locals and tourists toast the sun as it sinks below the horizon.
It’s a lazy, lyrical existence of pastel, designer resort-wear and a town intent on maintaining beauty and a small-town feel. No one bothers you, even if you are a celebrity or just famous. It’s a southern thing, I suppose. An unwavering politeness. You might be asked for an autograph, but you won’t get mobbed. Everyone is entitled to relax and enjoy the beach. Sea Cove is a curious puzzle. A blend of exclusive privilege and public tourism. Somehow, swimming against the tide of twenty-four-hour news, social media, and selfies, it thrives and people always respect the unwritten code.
Don’t be an ass. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself. Respect others. It’s all good.
“Hey, E.J., you see the new owner of Lullaby Tides yet?” Devon asks me, drowsily.
Lullaby Tides sits just to our west and was built during the early days of Sea Cove’s existence. It’s been known as Lullaby Tides for as long as I can remember. No one uses street addresses for residences other than the post office—all the houses and cottages have names. The beachside mansion is the biggest house in town, perched high in the middle of four lots, overlooking the beach on the steepest bluff in this section of shoreline.
It is grand, beautiful, and was somehow grandfathered in during construction, bypassing code restrictions that grew increasingly strict as the years passed. Having little in common with its southern styled beach house neighbors, it carries a decidedly Mediterranean air, with marble floors and terraces, everything dipped in muted gold, cream, white, and touches of soft turquoise. After recently sitting on the market for a hot minute, some lucky soul snatched it up about a year ago. It’s also a very private residence. A rarity in a public place like this.
“Nope,” I reply.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus… He’s so haawwtttt!” Devon exclaims in a sing-song voice.
Noah shakes his head in mock disgust. “I can’t believe you.”
“Well, he is! Only saw him for a moment, though. It was last week, right before we closed. He got out of the car and looked around for a moment while the designer ran inside the shop to grab something for his house. Now, she’s a bitch. Pretty sure you could freeze ice cubes on her ass. I think he’s a vampire or something because you never see him actually out in the daylight.”
