Even though it was still fairly early, a lot of folks were already out and about. I passed three women with toned arms and surfboards heading to the beach. Teenagers who weren’t sleeping till noon were spreading out blankets next to the volleyball nets. Families with toddlers were building sandcastles, and those with older kids were flying kites. It wasn’t until I was on the boardwalk that I realized most of them, if not all, had to be paranormal creatures of some kind.
Stepping around a watercolor artist and his easel, I nearly ran into a couple holding latte cups and the leashes of five little dogs. They were that breed you see in televised dog shows—the ones with dreads that make them look like happy-go-lucky mops. I’d never seen one in person though, not to mention five.
They didn’t bark at me, just wagged their mop-tails. But when a sizable group of gray-haired cyclists cruised past, they barked up a storm at them, hopelessly tangling their leashes and spilling their owners’ lattes.
I quickly learned that none of the roads in this strange little beach town were straight. They twisted and curved every which way, and many of them seemed to just dead-end and go nowhere. I was thankful I’d had the foresight to grab a map, although I don’t know how helpful it was. There seemed to be subtle changes to it every time I looked.
I turned down what I thought was a side street, and the road opened up onto Nightshade Avenue, one of the town’s main drags. Despite the ominous name, it had vintage street lights, brightly painted shop doors, and lush pots of hanging flowers everywhere you looked. The city gardener clearly had a green thumb.
Nothing about the island or its inhabitants was congruent. None of it made sense…and yet it all seemed to work.
A multitude of interesting shops lined both sides of thecobblestone street. Dark Tarts sold questionably named hand pies from a walkup window where people were waiting in line to be served: Kill-Him-Tomorrow had a filling of pineapple and corpse berries; Teacher’s Pet was made with lemon and crab apples; and Hide-the-Body was a chocolate cream. The young woman in line with glasses, yoga pants and a computer bag looked like a writer. She was probably getting a Dark-Night-of-the-Soul.
A little farther down was Atwater’s Surf Shop. They sold beach wear and fishing licenses, rented beach equipment and, according to the posters in the window, offered various water excursions.
I paused in front of Island Candy, mesmerized by the taffy puller machine in the window stretching and folding long ropes of candy. If someone offered a meditation class where all you did was sit cross-legged and watch a machine pull taffy, I’d sign up in a hot minute. Especially if they gave you samples at the end.
I popped inside and bought a small bag of their Island Princess mix from an elegantly dressed woman with sleek gray hair and rainbow-colored irises. Given the Island Candy logo, I strongly suspected she was a unicorn. I had to do some meditative breathing to prevent myself from blurting out my childhood fantasy of wanting to own one of her kind as a pet. I doubt that would have gone over well.
On the other side of the street, just before a bend in the road, was an old-fashioned movie theater, its marquee advertising a noon showing ofNight of the Living Dead.I shivered and hoped that some monsters were still fictional.
Midnight Garage and Nails turned out to be as strange and eclectic as I’d imagined. A scalloped black awning hung over the front entrance, and a wood placard with grungy pink script dangled underneath. As if you happened to be strolling down the street, saw the sign and decided, hey, I think I’m going totake my car in for servicingandget my nails done. The same scripted font was also prominently painted in the front window. It was designed to appeal to women…and men who weren’t afraid of a little pink. I loved it immediately.
The garage doors were open, and two cars were up on the lifts. Noticeably absent were the sounds of power tools and noisy compressors, even though mechanics were busy working inside. It took me a moment to realize the garage must be charmed. A spell had been placed to filter out the loud noise. I smiled to myself. I was getting better at this.
As I reached for the handle, the door opened unexpectedly, and I nearly bumped into a mom and two girls coming out.
“So sorry,” the woman said with a bright smile. She wore a beach coverup and those thin salon flip-flops you get when you forget to bring your own. The girls were in one-piece swimsuits and jelly sandals. “You know what it’s like herding cats.”
That made me think of George. I hoped he was having fun exploring the charmed area outside our little villa.
Wait. Cats?
I looked at the woman and her girls again. All three of them had unruly blonde hair that framed their faces. Lion-shifters, maybe? A split second later, I had my answer as the girls shifted into cubs right there on the cobblestones. One minute they were human, thenpoof, they were little lions with sparkly pink claws.
“Girls, stay close,” their mother called.
I stood there for a moment, awestruck as I watched them go, and wondered what it would be like to see Travis turn into a wolf.
Inside, an impressive chandelier of gleaming chrome car parts and crystals hung from the ceiling, and the reception desk was made from the front half of a muscle car. To the left were several mani-pedi stations, and to the right was a large window looking into a tidy garage. The waiting area chairs on the salonside were upholstered in pink leather, while the ones on the garage side were black. Car and fashion magazines were stacked on the side tables.
The receptionist/service advisor behind the car-desk was a beefy, tatted-up guy with a fade cut and multiple piercings. If it weren’t for the school-age girl sitting next to him painting his nails black, he’d look pretty gruff.
“How can I help ye?” he asked in an accented, pack-a-day voice. He didn’t smell like cigarettes though, so maybe his smoking days were behind him.
“Dad!” the little girl scolded. “Hold still. You’re going to make me mess this up.”
“Sorry,” he said, giving me a look of mock horror over the top of her head.
I bit back a smile and held up the boots. “Is Portia here? If not, can I leave these for her?”
Before he could answer, heels clicked on the tiles, and Portia rounded the corner. She wore stylishly ripped jeans, animal print stilettos and a fair amount of eye makeup. She was one hot mama. “Daphne! I thought that was you.”
“Thanks for letting me borrow these,” I said, handing her the boots.
Her eyes twinkled. “So…did they bring you good luck?”
Good luck?
