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Vignettes assail me constantly, taken from before he went missing, of him pulling himself out of the pool and the water dripping down his hard muscled body, honed from years in the Army and then his work at the gym. I remember the way his eyes would pass over me like I wasn’t even there, and how I’d wish for them to settle on me for just a moment.
Of course, they never would.
I was seventeen when he disappeared. He was thirty-nine. But he’s forty-two now – at least if he’s not dead – and I’m twenty. Mom and Dad have an age gap of twenty years and they met when she was around my age.
Maybe we could be the same.
“Let’s focus on the good stuff.” Lena grins, stuffing another handful of clothes into the suitcase. “Like how you’re going to stand on top of our Medina apartment and serenade the whole silent city.”
My tourist guidebook tells me the old hilltop city – with a population of only about three hundred – is called the silent city because they have strict noise pollution laws there. It’s a beautiful place, with yellow stone buildings looking down upon the village of Rabat, glittering brightly in the guidebook.
“It wouldn’t be very silent then, would it? Plus I don’t want to get us kicked out.”
“I’m going to get us kicked out then,” Lena declares. “I’m going to type so loudly they send in the cavalry to drag me out.”
I giggle and shake my head. She’s always been able to make me laugh, no matter what’s happening, no matter what crazy avenues my thoughts are dancing down.
“Make sure you do some sightseeing too,” Mom says. “And some sunbathing. You know, normal touristy things.”
“We will,” I say. “But you know Lena. If she goes two days without writing she turns into a madwoman.”
“Turns into?” Lena giggles. “I’m always a madwoman, Kelly. I just hide it well. Anyway, this is a work trip as well as a holiday.”
I nod, pride blooming in my chest. Lena is the same age as me, and yet she’s already landed a contract with a publisher for her second romance novel. Her first was set in Miami, a sexy sun-fueled adventure that had me tearing through the pages, and she’s decided to set her next in Malta after reading all about it on the internet.
“You’re just going to keep setting your books in more and more exotic places, aren’t you?” I tease her. “Just so you can have an excuse to go there.”
“Well, duh. I think maybe I’ll do Fiji next or Majorca.”
I shake my head, stunned at the love and support moving through me. There’s no resentment nestled within, which is a constant source of amazement for some. She’s much further along in her dreams of being a writer than I am in my singing career, but she’s my friend, my best friend, and I don’t begrudge her a single second of it.
“What are you going to do if Lena becomes a writing machine?” Mom asks, turning to me.
“Oh, there’s loads to do and see there.”
I smile as I think about having two weeks free of my waitressing job, especially since I’ve been working double shifts to save for this vacation. Mom and Dad said they’d happily pay for it, but I wanted to do it myself, to prove to them – and myself – that I could be a proper grownup.
Because when Kane returns, he’s going to want a woman, self-sufficient and mature, not a silly little girl.
I stomp on that thought.
“I want to see Valetta,” I murmur. “Apparently when you stand at the top, you can see right down to the ocean. They designed it that way so it was easier to spot invading ships.”
I don’t mention the ships invading my heart, every second of every day when I think about my best friend’s dad.
Chapter Two
Kane
Dead men tell no tales.
That’s how the saying goes, and it fits me like a damn glove. There’s no way I’ll speak about why I had to leave the States, why I had to shatter my daughter’s heart, why I’ve become a nomad roaming across Europe, working odd jobs here and there, unable to access my cash reserves since it would involve reemerging stateside.
Maybe I could ask my military buddies to help me siphon off some cash, but the risk is too high. I can’t give them a reason to go back on what we agreed.
But still, I can’t complain on a day like this.
The sun is baking Medina, the silent city so that the sand-colored bricks seem to shine like golden panels. I’m wearing a polo shirt and shorts and yet a fine layer of sweat still hugs onto my hulking body.
It’s hulking because I still work out like a demon any chance I get, even if it’s in some grimy gym down a forgotten alley in Paris, or a hotel’s exercise room in Turkey, grunting and growling as I throw the weights around.
