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I drive by the Plundering Pelican, a restaurant, and brush my hand over my face, exhausted, but I’ve pulled harder, longer nights than this. I’m just glad Isla is okay.
“They have terrible coffee but great waffles.” I eye Boo. The German Shepard is kind of porky. Maybe he shouldn’t have waffles.
The McGregor boys loved waffles. But my brothers and my relationship changed after we lost our parents. Instead of bringing us closer together, from then on, we permanently guarded ourselves against loss in our own ways. Mostly by adventuring and causing trouble on the islands. Best not to get too close to anyone.
Chip left me a pocket knife and a pillow. I could sure use that now. Royal, the older of the two twins, got the family Bible and a book of matches along with the dilapidated Driftwood resort. I half expected him to burn it down. To Ryan, he bequeathed his journal and a pen with a plume.
As I said, Chip was eccentric.
Ry also got the Sip & Scoop, an ice cream shop where he’d flirt with the summer servers to give us free sodas and then leave a tip twice the cost of a cup. The letters are still missing from the sign and in the week I’ve been away, it doesn’t look like a speck of dust or a smudge has been wiped away from the shuttered windows.
Ryan can throw a ball like no other, evidenced by the Miami Riptide’s recent win, moving them up the rungs in the playoffs, but I cannot fathom him running a business.
Then to the youngest brother, CJ, our grandfather left his sextant and the Salty Skeleton. Still don’t know what that is.
Every time I think about this, I have to ask myself if I care because, in addition to that, he left us each with a riddle. A puzzle to solve that I can’t wrap my head around—the head that still occasionally aches after the accident. The head that doctors didn’t want to put at risk, meaning I could no longer fly. That’s my one restriction.
The head that could really, truly use that pillow right now.
Or coffee. I’d take that too.
“Boo, it looks like Beans & Books is open. We’ll stop there,” I say as we pass. The Treasure Chest, which sells souvenirs and more—from plungers to paperweights to oil pans, as Chip used to say—consolidated when some of the other shops on the island went out of business. Then there is the florist, Island Blooms, run by a long line of women with variations of the name Rose.
“There’s also a church, post office, town hall, and police department—one person does it all—so stay out of trouble, Boo,” I say as I get out of the truck.
Taking a deep breath, the notion of home floats through the dewy morning air, tipped with salt. The glow over the horizon, the beginning of a new day, makes me wonder if I’ll call Coco Key home or if this is just the means to an end. Where that would be, I have no idea.
The dog relieves himself in an overgrown bush around the side of the bookstore slash coffee shop when my phone trills. The flare inside brightens at the thought of it being Lally.
No, I need to get my head right. Maybe a coconut will fall from a tree and reverse the damage I sustained overseas. Or perhaps these unusual feelings are a surprise consequence of traumatic brain injury.
Checking my phone, it’s my sister, and an entirely different flare goes up than the internal one I experience when thinking about Lally. I worry that something happened to Emmie.
“You okay?” I ask when I answer.
“Good morning to you too. Of course, I’m okay. The military is posted outside my door twenty-four hours a day, I have barbed wire, closed circuit security, and a sidearm.”
“Good.”
“I’m joking, Mag. But I’m fine. I just heard that something happened to Royal’s new girlfriend. Never thought I’d use those two words in the same sentence.”
Emmie doesn’t say that because Royal isn’t good-looking. What he has there, he lacks in personality. Or he did. The guy is gruff, grumpy, and grouchy, as Isla and her sister accurately pointed out when we first met.
“I wanted to get the story from you,” my baby sister says.
“Left wedding early. Drove all night. Only just pulled into town.”
“And you also left pronouns and conjunctions behind. Where were you?” Emmie asks.
She’s a writer, so of course, she’d note things like this. I was trained to deliver pertinent information as efficiently as possible.
“Atlanta. Wedding.”
“You’re such a brick. All of you are to varying degrees. Zero emotions. No feelings. I take that back. Ryan has a passion for football and women. And CJ—” Her voice drifts away and only comes back when she says, “I know, I know. You haven’t had time for relationships. I hope your inner feelings machine still operates.”
It does because I had feelings last night when talking with Lally and stirrings when she and I walked down the aisle together. But I left that several hundred miles back too.
“I’m starting to think something is wrong with you. Let me consult Doctor Search Engine to diagnose you.” In the background, I hear the tapping of computer keys.
