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ChapterOne
This has to work. Please let this work.
Bee Delaney didn’t want to think about how many times in her life she’d appealed for her wishes to come true…only to have them crash and burn like dozens of metaphorical Hindenburgs.
She pulled up the parking brake and peered out the front windshield at the massive Victorian mansion housing the Bliss Cove Library. A number of trucks and beat-up white vans lined the circular driveway, and at least twenty young men were hauling out electronic equipment and cameras, then depositing them on the library’s wraparound front porch.
But what if it doesn’t work?
Bee pushed aside the insidious thought. She reminded herself she was in control—or at least, she had a chance of turning the situation around. She hadn’t had any control when she was a child—all she’d been able to do was cross her fingers and hope on every lucky charm she possessed. But now, she could take action. She could plan a strategy, assemble her weapons, and fight.
And this time, she had an indisputable ally on her side. A partner. A comrade in arms. Yes, she had to prove he existed, but that wouldn’t be too difficult.
She hoped.
Picking up her purse and tote bag, she started up the narrow slope leading from the lower parking lot. Nestled among the trees and silhouetted against the gray October sky and rising sun, the mansion looked like a scene from a fairy tale…albeit an old one with scuffed edges and dog-eared pages.
The asymmetrical, four-story Gardenia House had been built in the 1890s. With a riotous mishmash of Victorian architectural styles, it had steeply pitched roofs and cross gables, pointed arches, lacy gingerbread ornamentation, and several dramatic towers and turrets. An octagonal cupola with windows on all sides sat in the middle of a rectangular platform at the very top of the house.
Every morning when she arrived at work, Bee experienced a little thrill of joy at the sight of the mansion. Though getting on in years and showing signs of wear—some townspeople disparagingly referred to it as “falling apart”—the house still stood proudly overlooking the ocean at the foothills of the California redwood forest.
And Bee intended to ensure it stayed that way.
“Hey, you work here?” A young man holding a black bag jumped from the back of a van. “We can’t get in, and we don’t know where to put our equipment.”
“I’ll open the doors, and you can store everything in the conference room before you set up.” Bee hurried toward the steps, glancing at the other men milling around. “Is Mr. Constantine here?”
“Rumor has it.” The kid rolled his eyes and hauled himself back into the van.
Navigating around the coiled extension cords and tripods, Bee pulled out her key and unlocked the front doors, which creaked in protest as she propped them open.
“Be careful with putting that equipment on the porch,” she called as the men hefted their speakers and monitors. “The boards are getting a little worn.”
Rottenwas more like it, but she didn’t want to use that word.
The men surged inside, dumping speakers and electronics on the scuffed hardwood floor of the lobby.
Bee left her purse and bag behind the front desk and went back outside. She flagged down another scruffy young man wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. “Excuse me, do you know where Mr. Constantine is?”
The guy snorted. “Probably getting his teeth bleached.”
“The dentist doesn’t open until nine.”
He stared at her, then barked out a laugh. “Try his trailer.”
He jerked his thumb toward the lower parking lot, where several large trailers were parked. Bee hurried back to her car and retrieved a coffee tray and a box of baked goods from the back seat before heading over to the trailers.
A sign on the largest trailer—a gleaming white pop-out with light shining around the edges of the shuttered windows—readClyde Constantinebeside a large gold star. She balanced the Sugar Joy treats and the coffee tray in one arm and knocked on the door.
No answer. She knocked louder. “Mr. Constantine?”
The door opened, revealing a handsome, blond man wearing a blue robe so fluffy it looked like it belonged on an alpaca. His smoothly sculpted face reminded her of a Greek statue, even with the prominent cleft in his chin. Every strand of his hair was artfully highlighted a different shade of gold or yellow to create a perfect sun-streaked effect.
Bee almost took a step back.He’s as dazzling in person as he is on TV.
“You’re early.” He looked her up and down in a clear assessment.
“I’m right on time, actually.” Forcing herself out of her starstruck awe, she smiled and tapped her watch. “Eight sharp. Good morning, Mr. Constantine.”
