Easing the front open, Olivia was unsurprised to find the interior riddled with spiderwebs and the carcasses of moths and beetles. The doll family had long since been removed from the house and all the furniture was gone, save for a four-poster bed and a claw-foot tub.
“Please. Be here,” Olivia whispered hopefully and then stuck her fingers into the oversized fireplace located in the formal front parlor. She grasped a faux brass andiron and pulled—the motion as familiar to her as though she’d repeated it yesterday. The entire fireplace came away in her hand, revealing a small hidden cavity. Inside, there was a square of wax paper, which Olivia unfolded in hurried movements. Holding the treasure to the dust-filtered light, she sighed with relief.
Her eyes ran over the contours of the gold starfish pendant while her fingertips unclasped the fine gold chain. She bent her head, enjoying the feel of the cool gold against the back of her neck and the weight of the starfish as it nestled into the soft depression of flesh between her collarbones.
“Mother.” She closed her eyes and cried silently for a little while. The dull ache in her heart throbbed to life and the image of her mother—tan, freckled, and laughing as she leapt through a fan of sprinkler water—appeared before Olivia’s eyes. It was one of the last times they’d been together, and Olivia remembered the ghost of a rainbow shimmering in the water’s mist, her mother’s long legs severing the colors, only to discover they’d re-formed instantaneously in her wake.
Olivia stood, thinking that her few precious memories of her mother were as ephemeral as that summer rainbow. Wiping her eyes, she brushed off the dirt clinging to her knees and pulled out her cell phone. “Enough!” she declared as she began to punch in numbers.
That woman in the food market was right, she thought. The people of Oyster Bay saved my life. They found me on that boat and cared for me until Grandmother came. Devitalizing abandoned buildings, hiring the jobless, and opening the finest restaurant this place has ever seen has made me wealthier but I’ve done nothing selfless to repay that debt.
She listened to the cell phone ring. “Oyster Bay can have this house. As soon as I’ve expunged its history.”
A man’s voice burst a greeting through her phone’s speaker and she walked out of her little girl bedroom without looking back, the only treasure left within its confines now safely hidden beneath her shirt. “Clive? It’s Olivia. Listen, I’d like you to halt your work on the King Street building for the moment. Something more pressing has come up. Can you meet me at the lighthouse keeper’s cottage right away?” She paused, listening to him ask what she had in mind.
“A total overhaul. New roof, siding, flooring, plumbing, you name it. And Clive”—she walked out of the house and didn’t bother to shut the door—“I need it fast.”
Several weeks later she called Camden Ford and offered the Bayside Book Writers the use of the banquet room of her restaurant, The Boot Top Bistro.
“Just this once,” she informed him firmly. “By your next meeting, I’ll have arranged for a more permanent gathering place.”
“Splendid!” Camden gushed. “And will your supple slave girl be making her debut at our meeting? Kamila, Queen of the Harem! Ruler of Pharaoh’s ruler.” He chuckled wickedly.
Olivia smiled at the other end of the phone. Ever since she’d put on her mother’s necklace and awoke each morning to the sounds of hammering, nail guns, shouting, swearing, and salsa music coming from the crew working on the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, she’d felt lighter in spirit than she had in years, but there were limits to how much change she could handle at once. “I think I’ll stick to eavesdropping,” she replied, though part of her longed to take a risk and open her work up to criticism. “I’m not quite ready to commit”
“I suspect you’ve said that phrase many times in your life,” Camden commented without judgment. “Darling, life is messy, but sometimes it’s fun to get a little dirty. Spread your wings, jump off the diving board, make mud pies—I’ll keep going with these clichés until you agree.”
“Save them for your book,” Olivia parried playfully and then changed the subject. “What about food?”
“Oh, whip us up some tapas-type tidbits,” Camden ordered casually. “I’ll treat this time, since we’ll be celebrating our freedom from all things Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
They discussed the meeting time and then said good-bye, but not before Camden threatened to call Fodor’s and AAA and complain about cutting his tongue on a shard of shell found in The Boot Top’s clam chowder if Olivia didn’t agree to become a member of the Bayside Book Writers.
Olivia hissed, “You wouldn’t!”
“I won’t, because you’re going to be at the meeting. I won’t make you read this time, but consider it your only reprieve.” Olivia heard the smile in Camden’s voice. “I told you, my blond Amazon, we need one another.”
Feeling momentarily expansive, Olivia answered, “As I’m being forced against my will, then I might as well see to the drinks. I can’t sit through any more heaving bosoms without bourbon.”
“Purely medicinal,” Camden agreed readily and hung up.
A few evenings later, Olivia realized that the food she had chosen to serve the writers was completely wrong.
Michel, her chef, had outdone himself in producing a selection of succulent hors d’oeuvres. When a waiter had delivered the polished silver trays laden with black truffle canapes, smoked salmon roulades, prosciutto and gruyere pinwheels, shrimp won tons, and lamb meatballs in a pinot noir sauce, Olivia had been pleased with the artistic arrangement of the epicurean fare. But for a reason she could not fathom, the food had barely been touched by the author hopefuls gathered in the private banquet room.
Should I have served beer instead of wine? Olivia second-guessed her decision to decant two bottles of Meritage. Were the vintages too cigar box to the taste, too fruity, or overly hefty for her guests’ palates? They had barely sipped from their Reidel tumblers.
Olivia’s hands itched to be wrapped around a glass filled with half a finger’s worth of twenty-five-year-old Chivas Regal, her customary evening intoxicant. Having become rather immune to the comfort or contentment of other people (unless they were patrons of The Boot Top), Olivia found her desire to gratify these strangers unsettling.
I should have ordered Dominos and served wine in the box, she thought, growing more irritated by the moment. The silence in the room was cloying and she distracted herself by fiddling with the floral centerpiece. That done, she checked her watch again. Where the hell is Ford?
“I suppose we should tell you who we are.” The husky, melodious voice emanated from the exotic, part-Asian beauty whose black hair was now pink striped. Her dark brows were pierced with rows of silver hoops and she wore a diamond nose stud. She was attired in a short plaid skirt, a faded Hello Kitty shirt, and black leather boots. “Name’s Millay Hallowell. Twenty-four years old, artist, and bartender. I’m writing a young adult fantasy novel. You know—the spicy kind where a bunch of sheltered virgins get raped by satyrs and stuff.”
“Did I hear someone mention being ravished by goat boys?” Camden Ford inquired as he breezed into the room. “How delicious!”