The beach house had an open floor plan. The great room and kitchen were separated by a long counter with six bar stools and an open pass-through, making it easy for Liz to chat with guests while cooking in her dream kitchen, which Chef Pierre had designed as part of her homecoming surprise. She went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and headed to the bedroom. As she passed her office, she glanced inside. Her desk mocked her from its lack of use; her open laptop, a mere prop in case someone dropped by unexpectedly. Her favorite good-luck writing mug sat on the table next to the printer. Since her move back, it hadn’t rekindled her desire to write, but she liked that it waited patiently for her, like an old friend. She felt a familiar tingle in her fingers.
Perhaps it was time?
Then she shook her head and continued to the bedroom, then into the bathroom, where she quickly performed her bedtime routine. It only took her about ten minutes, compared to her great-aunt’s sixty. She looked in the mirror at her fair skin and blue eyes the color of bleached denim. A pale face that wasn’t allowed to tan because of the scar. She wanted to surf, feel the elements, feel alive. She wasn’t a great surfer; she was actually pretty mediocre compared to Kate and Kate’s older brother, Skylar. When Liz went down to the beach, she looked like Norma Desmond from Sunset Boulevard, wearing a humongous floppy hat, hiding from the sun under a huge umbrella, while staring out to sea or reading an Agatha Christie novel.
Thank heaven for Christie.
Last week, Liz walked into the Indialantic’s kitchen and found Pierre with his feet up, reading The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, reminding her of her teenage days when she and Pierre would lounge on the terrace overlooking the ocean, reading Christies while sipping Pierre’s famous lemon-limeade. Now, as a distraction from her past, and with the approval of her therapist, Liz was on a mission to read everything Christie had written. She kept a notebook of her progress—six books down—seventy-four to go, not counting the short story collections. Liz didn’t want to read heavy literary best sellers, and she completely avoided the New York Times Book Review. The competition and pressure of trying to remain on top of the list had been one of the reasons leading to her and Travis’s demise.
Liz went into the bedroom and changed into an oversized Columbia University T-shirt. Francie Jenkins had made an amazing hand-sewn quilt that she’d framed and hung on the wall behind the bed. It was made from vintage fabrics in sea colors, some of which had been donated by Aunt Amelia and came from old trunks stored in the hotel’s luggage room. The king-sized bed faced a floor-to-ceiling glass window with a no-holds-barred view of the Atlantic. Every morning when she woke, she felt like she was on the deck of a ship, only there weren’t any rolling waves to make her seasick.
She turned back the duvet, got in bed, and nestled down into cool, high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, then switched on the bedside lamp and reached for Evil Under the Sun.
Chapter 6
Friday morning, Liz woke to a jewel of a sunrise. She took a shower, pulled her hair up into a clip, added some mascara and lip gloss, put on a simple pale aqua sundress, and went in search of her father. When Liz got to the outside door of her father’s office, she didn’t knock; instead she burst in. “What a morning! I’m ready to hear more about my new assignment, and I want to know what you think about a raffle for the Spring Fling by the Sea to raise money for the Barrier Island Sanctuary.” She stopped short when she noticed the stranger from yesterday’s dinner sitting in a chair across from her father.
“Uhh, sorry, Dad. Didn’t know you weren’t alone.”
“Obviously not,” the man said, twisting slowly in his chair to face her. He gave her the same annoying once-over he had at last night’s dinner, and Liz’s face heated in anger. His dark, almost black hair was on the longish side. His deep brown eyes assessed her from under hooded lids with thick lashes. She met his piercing gaze with what she hoped was cool disdain. He seemed the type that enjoyed making a woman squirm. But not this woman. Liz had to admit he was attractive, but he wasn’t her type—actually the opposite. Kate would go for him in a heartbeat. Then she thought about Travis. He’d been her type, a bookish academician, and look how that’d turned out.
“I’ll come back later,” Liz said.
The guy snorted and turned back to her father.
Her father closed the file in front of him, oblivious to the negative vibes in the room. “We’re almost finished here. Just give me five minutes.” As an afterthought, he said, “Ryan Stone, this is my daughter, Liz. Ryan is on leave from the New York City Fire Department to help his grandfather in Deli-casies by the Sea, until Pops’s new knee heals.”
So much for typecasting him as a villain. Pops was kind and sweet, always smiling. Ryan must take after someone else in his family, not his grandfather.
Ryan turned and gave Liz a dismissive gaze her father couldn’t see. His lip curled up on one side. “A pleasure, I’m sure.” Then he turned and said, “Mr. Holt, I really
