Page 3 of Safe in Clua

THREE

Laia

My fingers tap over the keyboard, and the reservation details appear on the monitor. I double check them against the pink Post-it stuck to the side of the screen, hit enter then lean back into my chair. Done. And on my first day too. Not such an idiot after all.

“See? Told you you’d get the hang of it.” Kenzi, the other receptionist, pats my shoulder.

I only just manage not to shrink away from the contact. Probably best that I don’t let my crazy out of the bag on my first day. That doesn’t mean I don’t let out a little breath of relief the second she removes it and goes to sit in her own chair.

“I’m so glad they finally brought in another receptionist.” She shoots me a wide, straight-toothed smile. “It’s just been me since the grand re-opening last month.” The same sing-song lilt all the locals speak with colors her words, making it easy to smile back. It’s a very cool accent.

The guy from the market spoke with the same curled R’s and elongated vowels too. Though in his rough voice it had more of a … I blink away the memory. Not helpful. I clear my throat. “Re-opening?” Shifting to adjust the high waistband of the gray pencil skirt of my uniform, I spin my chair to face her.

Her large, blue eyes sparkle, perfectly arched brows lifting. “Believe it or not this place used to be a crappy old family-run hotel.”

I smooth my hand along the polished driftwood of the reception desk. It contrasts perfectly with the gray-veined marble of the floor. And probably costs more than I’ll make in a year.

There’s nothing crappy about this place anymore—A normal person would have said something like that.

“Oh.” Is the genius reply I come up with. Friendly. I know.

Seemingly undeterred by my epic awkwardness, Kenzi turns her chair to face mine. “They say they had the marble flown in from Italy.” She clicks the low heel of her black pump against the shimmering floor. “Freaking Italy. I mean, who even has that kind of money?” She folds her arms over her white blouse identical to the one I’m wearing. “And the best of it is, nobody has a clue who it is.”

She’s waiting for me to talk. You know—like people do when spoken to.

Seconds pass. I swallow. Take a breath. Then say the first thing that comes to my mind. “Don’t look at me. This outfit is officially the most expensive item in my life right now.” I hold my hands out and drop my gaze to the uniform I changed into after my meeting with the boss, or just Pete as he insisted on me calling him. I’m not even making sense. “I mean—” I shrug lopsidedly. I should probably just shut up now. “You sure it’s not Pete? He looks pretty expensive.”

Kenzi eyes me seriously but shakes her head. “That’s what everybody thought at first too. But it’s not. And he’s not talking. Not to me anyway.” Her lips press together then she sighs. “It’ll come out eventually. Everything always does in this place. But enough about that mystery. I wanna know about you. How is it living in Mrs. D’s son’s house?”

“How do you know I’m living there?” I don’t even try to control my face. My pulse roars unevenly in my ears. My address isn’t even to be stored here in the hotel files. Pete assured me my details would be kept off everything. If Kenzi can get them then what’s to stop anybody else from getting them?

“This is Clua, Laia. Everybody knows everything.” Kenzi rolls her eyes, oblivious to the panic attack currently trying to pull me under. “Mrs. D’s great, isn’t she? She’s like Clua’s favorite aunt. I think she’s taken in half the island at one point or another.”

“What do you mean?” I clench my hands into a fist to stop my fingers from twisting together. By taking me in Mrs. Devon has me labeled as a charity case? So much for keeping to myself.

Kenzi’s face sobers at whatever she finally reads on my face. “Mrs. D is a good woman. The best. She even took in one of my friends back when we were kids.”

“Oh. Well. I’m just renting the bungalow. Nothing else to tell. No taking in of anyone. Just your everyday rental.” My smile feels fake even to me. I rub my thumb over the pendant around my neck as if somehow, it’ll offer me the gift of normal small talk. “What about you? Are you from here?”

Her lips pinch. “You suck at deflecting.”

I hold my breath and wait for more questions I can’t answer. More reasons for her to decide I’m not worth the energy it would take to be my friend. It’s what usually happens. The reason I made the whole of zero friends back in Arizona.

The questions don’t come though. Instead, she just blasts me with another of her megawatt smiles and shrugs. “Born and raised here. My parents live on the other side of the island. I’ll take you over one day. That side’s got the best beaches.”

A mini tingle of hope lifts my lips into a smile—a real life, God’s honest smile. Maybe I’ve not scared her off just yet. “I’ve only made it as far as the market in Fern Bay yesterday. But I’d love to explore more of the island.”

“You were at the market yesterday?”

“Yeah, it was lovely. Until some jerk in a van nearly painted the parking lot with me.”

Her mouth drops open then closes again in an even wider grin, and she claps her hands together and swings her chair back to her desk. “This weekend you’re coming out with me. You’re off on Saturday, right?”

“I am, but—” I shake my head. “I’m not really into going out.”

“No buts. You’re coming for a drink.”

Saturday arrives way before I’m ready. I bailed on Kenzi and her night out. I’m not ready. Not yet.

Sun streams through the kitchen window, bathing the yet untouched mangos in a warm afternoon glow. They’re goading me from their bowl.

It’s been almost a week and I’ve still not done anything with them. Every time I start to, I just … don’t. And it’s driving me crazy.

Make the pie, Laia, just make the fricking pie.

I narrow my eyes and stalk up to the counter, grabbing a knife from the drying rack on the way by the basin. Okay. This pie is getting made. Today. I puff out a few short breaths like a boxer gearing up for a fight and reach for the fruit.

“When will you get it through that thick skull that your parents lied, Laia. They lied. You’re about as good at baking as you are at everything else…”

The air leaves my lungs, and I slam the knife down on the countertop beside the hand-painted fruit bowl.

Eyes squeezed closed, I try to evict his poisonous voice from my mind. Why is it always the bad memories that linger, while the good ones, the happy ones just seem to drift further and further out of reach? Blowing out a long sigh, I stare at the intricate patterns on the ceramic bowl and the fruit it holds. One more day and they’ll be too bitter to use.

Frustration burns up my throat. With myself for bailing on my first maybe friend on the island, with Damon for existing, with my parents for dying on me when I needed them the most, but most of all with these damn mangos.

I throw the knife into the basin, the steel blade clattering against the metal. I grab the bowl and stomp to the garbage bin, step on the pedal and tip it until the mangos thud out.

“Laia?”

Bowl held up in front of me, I spin around, ready to launch it towards… “Kenzi?” My head jerks back in surprise at the sight of her, one foot already inside the open French doors. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” she asks, staring horrified at the garbage bin and the mangos peeking above the rim. “Has nobody ever told you that it’s bad luck to throw out mangos like that?” She sweeps into the kitchen and grabs the bowl from my hands. “You better hope I don’t catch it through association.” She tips her head back. “This had nothing to do with me.”

I watch, dumbfounded, as she picks the dark red-and-green fruits from the bin and throws them back into the bowl. She’s lost the plot. “Erm, Kenzi, that’s kind of gross.”

One brow arched, she fixes me with an exasperated frown. “No—what’s gross is what happened to my aunt’s boyfriend’s dentist’s sister.” She hollows her cheeks.

“What happened?” I ask, against my better judgement.

“She died.” Her lips purse, her eyes widening.

“She died,” I deadpan back. “For tipping out some over-ripe mangos?”

“Yes. She died. Now come on. We’d better wash these bad boys and undo whatever awfulness you just summoned up.”

“I think somebody is having you on, Kenzi,” I say to the back of her head as she carefully washes each mango then places them onto a plate from the drying board.

She glances over her shoulder. “Are you willing to risk it?”

I chew on my lip and hand her a dish towel to dry her hands. Insane or not, I’m definitely not willing to risk it. “Didn’t you get the night off to go out?”

“I did.” She finally seems to take in my black yoga pants and scruffy tank top. “We are.”

“Kenzi, I already told you. I’m not really in the mood.” I glance over to the unopened bag of flour on top of the microwave and lift my thumb to chew on the corner of my thumbnail.

She follows my line of vision. “You’re trying to blow me off for a bag of flour?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I twist my hair up onto the top of my head then secure it using the hair tie from my wrist. “I thought I’d make—something.” I wave my hand around the kitchen and wait for her to tell me I’m stupid. Or weird. Or weird and stupid for preferring to bake on a Saturday night off than party.

“Fine.” Lifting the plate of mangos from the draining board, Kenzi carries them over to the worktop. “What are we making?”

My mouth opens. Then closes. “Pie?” I wait for Damon’s voice to sound again in my mind. It doesn’t come so I move to stand beside Kenzi at the work top and reach to the cupboard above our heads for a mixing bowl.

I open the drawer by my hip and pull out a sieve and a rolling pin.

Still no Damon.

“I love pie.” Kenzi nudges my shoulder with hers and slices one of the mangos in half. “Pie will totally reverse your bad-mango-luck. I’ll chop, you mix.”

It’s not long before the sweet and tangy scent of boiled fruit and cinnamon fills the small kitchen.

Cheeks flushed pink, Kenzi grins while stirring the filling. “You know what you’re doing, huh?” She brushes back a strand of hair that’s come loose from her ponytail then returns her attention back to the stove. “Who taught you?”

“My mom.” I pause, my fingers lifting from where I’ve been pressing the soft pastry into the waved edges of the pie tin I found in the back of the cupboard, to touch the gold pendant hanging around my neck. “She worked in a bakery.” The image of her tucking her hair into her white baker’s cap pops into my mind then fades like it was never there in the first place. “She died of a heart attack a few years ago.”

Kenzi stops her stirring, and for an awful minute I think she might try to hug me. I’m not good at hugs. But she doesn’t. I try to arrange my face into something I hope looks relatively smile-like then get back to preparing the pastry for the oven.

“I’m sorry.” Her perpetually smiling mouth turns down at the corners.

I nod and keep my stinging eyes on my hands. “It’s fine.” It’s not.

There are some people in this world who have the power to smooth over conversation bumps, or awkward babbling, or even silences with ease.

My mom was one. Kenzi, it seems, is another.

We talk about everything and nothing until the oven pings that the pie is ready.

My first pie in years.

Kenzi gets the plates out as I cut into the crisp, golden pastry.

“Careful, it’s still hot.” I pull out one of the mismatched wooden chairs from the kitchen table, the legs scraping across the terracotta-tiled floor.

The sun’s near setting, its pink light filling the kitchen as I place a glass of white wine on the chunky wooden tabletop for Kenzi.

Rocking back on her chair, she wafts her hand in front of her mouth still chewing. “Amazing.” She squeezes her eyes shut and swallows. “Ahh, but yeah, I burned my tongue.” She grabs her glass and takes a massive swig. “Seriously, Laia. Who would have guessed that adding nutmeg and vanilla to the pastry would make this amazing-ness?” She cuts another chunk of pie from her plate. “You’re wasted as a receptionist, woman.”

Elbows on the table, I cover my mouth with my clasped hands and grin against them. I did it—with a little help—but I did it, and it tastes good.

I won’t ever be able to explain to Kenzi what her showing up here has done for me. I wouldn’t even know where to start. So, I settle with giving back a little instead. “Let’s go for that drink.”

She stops mid-chew, then jabs her fork into another piece of pie. “I thought you weren’t in the mood.” She wiggles on her chair and stuffs another forkful into her mouth as soon as she’s swallowed.

“Maybe I am.” I shrug and drain the rest of my glass. I just made pie. I can do anything. “I should probably change first, though.” I lean back and brush at my flour-speckled yoga pants.

Scraping her fork along her plate to get the last of the crumbs, Kenzi examines her own outfit. Her off-the-shoulder khaki T-shirt dress is as clean as when she walked in, if you don’t count the crumbs that just escaped her fork on its journey to her mouth. “Let’s do this.”

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