Page 61 of Moonlit Hideaway
A lone gull’s plaintive cry seemed to ask why she stayed chained when these sands offered rebirth. Sierra had no answer except the patient strum of guitar strings, as constant as the tide, reminding her that, for now at least, she was still breathing.
Still alive.
And yes, being in love made her more alive than ever, and witnessing the rebirth of Hank’s life, where he’d come out of his grief to envelop her with his big heart… She had to capture forever in a song, and even now, with all the turmoil, the lyrics and chords flowed from that deep, untapped well within her.
As she let that last chord linger, a flash of white in the channel snatched her attention. Squinting against the glare of the setting sun, she spotted a sleek yacht gliding toward the harbor. She wasn’t aware that the island was a prime tourist stop in late October. Wouldn’t the party yachts be cruising Florida or the Caribbean, where the water was still warm?
Unease tensed Sierra’s shoulders as she wondered about the presence of the yacht. It could be a well-to-do local or anyone who loved the peaceful and unspoiled beaches of the island during off-peak season. She shouldn’t be paranoid—everything wasn’t about herself. Perhaps the yacht belonged to the real estate investors determined to transform this sleepy island into another version of Atlantic City.
Taking a deep breath, she tried to regain the peace of the wind and the sea. This island was home to people she loved, and their courageous heritage and way of life would be destroyed by the crowds and casinos that energized her.
Shuffling footsteps and a cough alerted Sierra that she wasn’t alone. Turning, she spotted Howie, the inn’s other tenant, walking over the dunes toward her.
“Seajane, it’s good to see you back.” Howie’s weathered face was creased with a smile as he doffed his bucket hat in greeting. “What are you up to?”
“Hey, Howie,” Sierra greeted him absently, her eyes still focused on the distant yacht. “I was just, um, working on a new song.”
“Ah, I see.” Howie settled down on the rocks beside her, stretching his legs with a grunt. “Quite a fancy boat just pulled into the harbor. Biggest one I’ve seen round these parts in years.”
Just as she suspected.
Keeping her tone light, she commented, “So you’re saying we don’t get many high rollers here?”
“Sure don’t. Nothing for them to do. Got one bar that’s a coffee shop by day, no nightclubs, and no rock concerts. But maybe those fellas wanted a taste of the simple life.”
“You’ve seen them around town?”
“They checked into the inn while you and Hank were away. Claim to be writers, but between you and me, they seem too polished.”
“Polished? What do you mean?”
“All gussied up in them fancy clothes and poking their noses where they don’t belong. Don’t seem like writers to me. Maybe I’m old fashioned, but writers have that tortured look like they’re constipated, but these fellas are too busy chatting up Emma and Mabel to be doing any writing.”
“Talking to Emma? Does Hank know?”
“Well, now that you mention it, they checked out fast once Hank stormed in to have a word with Emma. I was manning the front desk, and here they come like cockroaches scuttling into the pantry.” The grizzled older man scratched his white beard. “I asked them if they found the accommodation pleasing, and they just paid a big wad of cash, smiled, and told me to keep the change—never answered my questions. Tightlipped except around the ladies.”
“What did they talk to Emma and Mabel about?” Alarm bells jangled Sierra’s nerves.
“Aw, just making themselves a bit too friendly, if you ask me. Following those girls around with their little notebooks, asking all sorts of questions—for their research.”
“Research? Did they say what they’re writing about?”
“Something about a historical fiction novel set on Hattokwa Island.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, “And Mabel says she caught ’em poking around the inn late one night. Up to no good if you ask me.”
Sierra’s pulse raced, and guilt flooded her at the thought that Hank was away protecting her while leaving Mabel and Emma to the mercies of the two strangers.
“You said they checked out. Do you think the yacht is here to pick them up?” She put her hand over her eyes to shield it from the sun as the yacht disappeared around the point.
“Beats me,” Howie said. “The men don’t tell me nothing. I asked them where they were going, and they said, ‘Have a nice day.’ At least they’re not hovering around Emma anymore.”
Sierra’s heart clenched at the thought of anyone using Emma for their own purposes. The girl had been through so much already; she didn’t deserve any more trouble in her life.
The pressures of an impending headache set Hank’s teeth on edge. He’d barely returned to Hattokwa when Mayor Winston pulled up in his luxurious SUV with the realtor, Linda Marshall, riding shotgun. He didn’t have the patience to exchange pleasantries, and he left them with his mother, who invited them in for tea.
Now, he had to confront Emma about the social media posts. Thankfully, Sierra took off after a few hugs for Emma and Mom, saying she had a song brewing in her head that she had tocompose. The last thing he wanted was to get double-teamed by his daughter and his girlfriend to take them to a show or concert.
Taking a deep breath, he stood before his daughter’s closed door. The sound of Sierra’s top hits blared from inside, and he had to pound the door for Emma to answer.
