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“Oh, come on, Grandpa told you guys all about everything having to do with Brazil. He was practically a historian. I just want to confirm this sentence is an accurate way to portray the incident.”
I should ask Lally. After all, she said she studied history. But I have to go. Have to avoid temptation. The red flag inside me waves wildly while the flare threatens to set it on fire.
After helping Emmie rework the phrasing of her sentence so there’s no question about historical accuracy, I’m halfway to my truck when I realize that Boo remained on Lally’s porch.
I call for him, but he doesn’t budge. “I have a biscuit, buddy.” It’s a lie, but these stirrings inside are confusing. I have to put distance between Lally and me. It’s for the best. For now.
Boo bounds my way, legs pumping and kicking up sand.
“I owe you one, buddy,” I say, attaching the dog’s leash. He whimpers as if knowing full well I don’t have treats. “But I do keep my promises. We’ll get you something good later.”
Pivoting toward the truck, I belatedly realize where we are. The Junks, aka the cottages, that Chip left me are just over the next dune.
The plan was to hold off visiting these until after the wedding. Standing there staring at the rough shacks, I think of the Big Bad Wolf blowing them all down. Or a stiff wind could do the job.
Boo whines.
“You’re right. It is after the wedding.” I’m not sure why I’ve been putting off this visit.
After a couple of particularly tough rotations, I came back here to regroup. To get my head together. But before that, the cottages were used for people who preferred a more austere island experience than the Driftwood resort. Chip rented them out to kids’ camps in the summers.
But it’s more than that.
Claiming this property as mine comes with more. Much more. It would mean that I accept the terms of Chip’s will—ambiguity, mystery, and all.
With Boo by my side, I walk over to the cabins. I forgot how much I hate sand in my boots. Lally would probably tell me I’m silly and should be barefoot when on the beach. She was. Her toes were painted bright, neon green. Not that I was paying attention. Okay, maybe a little bit.
She also wore small silver hoops in her ears. One of her teeth is slightly out of place, but otherwise, she has a perfect smile. No, that tooth is what makes her smile perfect. And her lips.
I growl a little. Boo looks at me in alarm. I should not be thinking about her lips.
Sand covers the small deck in front of the first cottage, but I can see it’s splintered in some places. The next one has a broken window. The third is missing porch railings. My brothers and I would sometimes camp out over here, swim and boat all day, leave our towels out to dry on the fence, roast hot dogs and marshmallows, and then tell stories around the campfire.
As soon as CJ started talking about Mom and Dad, we’d turn in. Emmie was never involved in our adventures...and she was the only one to call ChipGrandpa. He had a special affection for her. We all did. She knew our parents for the briefest time. Me, the longest.
I suddenly imagine our mother and father sitting on the beach as they so often did to watch the sunset. I’m more of a sunrise guy, but wouldn’t mind sharing that with my sweetheart—that’s what Dad always called my mother. Or his bride, his beloved, orMy Ella, short for Emmanuella, her name, as well as Emmie’s.
Jiggling the doorknob on the eighth and final cottage, it sticks. I could kick the door down, but then an animal could sneak in or the structure could take on more water damage. I’m surprised it’s locked.
Instead, Boo and I head back to town to see if any of my brothers have the keys. If not, I’m guessing Mr. Edmonston, the lawyer in charge of Chip’s will, can help.
Quirky people occupy Coco Key. We have easy access to the mainland so no one can claim to get island fever, but the place with the annual Manatee Jubilee, featuring our mascot Lola the Sea Cow, the Nosy Rosies, and coconut crunch—a legitimately addicting combination of top-secret ingredients—is unique, to say the least.
Royal approaches from the other direction in his BMW. I flash the truck’s headlights.
Boo barks a greeting.
“You found the dog,” Royal says as if he knows how much this dog means to me.
Isla, Royal’s recently proposed-to fiancée, gets out of the passenger side. “Phew. We were ready to organize a proper search party.”
“Thanks for your help, guys. Now, I’m looking for the key to the cottages.”
Royal slow claps. “Well done not keeping track of anything.”
“Shut it,” I snap.
Isla says, “The neighbor has a copy. Her name is Lally McGuiness. She’s the sweetest—”
