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Still, I have great affection for the Garbage Pail. I could get the dents fixed, but on this island, no one bats an eye, and it does really well on gas. Hanging from the mirror is a pair of fuzzy dice that my father won for me at an arcade when I was a teen, before he ditched out on us, and my glove compartment is stuffed with Tic Tacs, which I have a borderline addiction to, ferry receipts, and who knows what else.
I get in, and even though I’m not driving through town to get home, I already know what Cynthia means. On the sides of the main road leading into the center, cars are lined up and parked in haphazard lines. This isn’t normal for a Thursday afternoon in June. It looks more like the crowds we get during our Saturday market during the peak of summer, but on steroids, and I guess instead of people perusing the organic vegetables or hemp-based clothing or homemade vegan vagina purses (yes, those are a thing and they’re exactly what they sound like), these visitors have their cameras and phones all ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of the renegade royals.
I shake my head and turn off the road, glad that I don’t have to deal with any of that today. I still think that maybe Cynthia’s mistaken about all of this. I mean, I like living here because it’s gorgeous and affordable and I can be a recluse and no one thinks anything of it, but I’m not sure why Prince Eddie and MRed would be attracted to this place. I mean, yeah, it’s beautiful and secluded. But you’re also kind of stuck here too.
My house is located at the end of a peninsula called Scott Point, one of the most affluent and tightly knit communities on the island.
Naturally, I’m like a sliver you can’t get rid of along the narrow finger of the peninsula. Yes, we own the house, an adorable cedar-shingle three-bedroom that used to be the servants’ quarters to the mansion next to it, but I still drive the Garbage Pail among all the shiny Range Rovers and Teslas (full disclosure: the GP used to be my mother’s car until she wrecked my Kia Soul, but anyway . . . long story), and my mother and I aren’t exactly overly friendly with our neighbors. We don’t belong here, but we make it work.
It sure is stunning, though. The only way through is via a narrow road that cuts through the middle of the peninsula like an artery lined with evergreen arbutus trees, their peeling red bark as thin and delicate as Japanese rice paper. On either side are houses hidden by tall cedar fences, each with a witty name like Henry’s Haven and Oceanside Retreat carved up on custom-made signs. Between the houses you can catch glimpses of the ocean, the sun glinting off it in such a way that shivers run down your spine. That glint at this time of day tells me that summer is in full swing, and summer is my dreaming period.
I’m already dreaming about getting a mug of tea and heading down to the dock to enjoy the sun when I suddenly have to slam on my brakes.
Instead of the usual deer or quail family crossing the road, there’s a very tall, broad-shouldered tree of a man standing in the middle of the road at the top of the small hill, holding his hand out to me like he’s trying out for the Supremes.
Shit. Pins and needles start to form in my lungs, my heart pounding. My anxiety has no problems jumping to the worst-case scenario, and it’s always that something has happened to my mother while I was at work. There’s not a moment when that exact fear isn’t lurking at the back of my mind, so the fact that there’s a very grim-faced stranger in a dark suit striding downhill toward me makes me think my worst nightmare is going to come true.
My window is already rolled down, so I hear him say, “Excuse me, miss?” in a very strong, raspy British accent. He’s more curt than sympathetic, which makes me calm just a little.
“Yes? What’s wrong?” I ask him, trying not to panic.
Now that he’s up close, I can get a better look at him. His suit is navy blue with a touch of teal, looking sharp and well-tailored, with a pressed white shirt underneath and a dark gray tie. It’s the kind of suit that screams money, and not the kind of money that the people on this street have, more of a worldly, next-level kind of money. The kind that class brings.
He’s also way more imposing up close, built like a Douglas fir, barrel-chested and sturdy in a graceful way. My eyes trail up to his face and see that it matches the brusqueness of his voice. He’s got aviator sunglasses on that reflect my own bewildered expression (and make me realize my hair is a blond rat’s nest from driving with the window down), but even so, I can feel his eyes on me. If they’re anything like the wrinkles in his forehead and the seemingly permanent line etched between his dark arched brows, then I’m definitely intimidated.
