I am a rotten person.
Biting her lip, Cleo Alyssum painstakingly printed this
fact into her journal. She thought the whole idea of a
journal of emotions about as silly as it got, but if the
counselor wanted honesty, that's what he would get.
She would do anything to transform herself into the kind
of mother Matty needed. Anything.
Of course, that's how she'd got into this situation in the
first place. Sitting back in her desk chair, she gazed out
the sagging windowpanes of the old house she was
restoring. She missed Matty so desperately, her teeth
ached, but the court had set December as the deadline for
his return--provided she danced to the steps the counselor
called.
Matty needed security and stability, they said, and her
sister provided it.
She'd tried suburban life with Maya, but she just couldn't
hack it. Trouble found her too easily in crowds. Out here
on the island she could get her head together without too
many people in her face. She was far less apt to
jeopardize Matty's return if she stayed away from people.
These last few years she'd learned to restore old
buildings, turning decrepit dumps into useful, viable
businesses and homes, and she loved the satisfaction of
seeing the visible results of her hard work. Too bad the
difference she was supposed to be making in herself wasn't
as obvious.
The opportunity to buy a small-town hardware store had
opened up just as she'd run out of buildings to restore,
and at the time, it had seemed ideal. She knew the
business inside and out, loved the isolation of the South
Carolina coast, and when she'd found this run-down island
farmhouse for a steal, she'd known she'd found a home. The
beach cottage down by the shoremight be beyond hope, but
she hadn't given up on it yet. Maya and the kids might
visit more often if she could fix it up. In the meantime,
she was diligently turning the main house into the home
she'd never known. She hoped.
If she could only convince her federal supervisor she was
a fine, upstanding citizen, she'd be free and clear soon,
and almost in a normal world for the first time in her
life.
Having a job she could do without hassles from any boss,
and a home where she could lock the doors against the
world, she thought she finally had a chance of living a
civilized life. She wasn't doing this for the feds,
though. Matty deserved a sane mother, and she was doing
her best, if the process didn't kill her first. At least
now when he visited on weekends, she could give him her
entire attention, and he seemed to be blossoming into a
new kid with the change. Even Maya had noted how much
happier he was.
Cleo ran her fingers through her stubby hair and returned
to staring at the almost empty page of the notebook. She
didn't think she was capable of verbalizing all her
conflicting emotions about her sister. Maya could have
written an entire essay on how Cleo felt about her. Cleo
would rather hammer nails.
If she compared her mothering skills to Perfect Maya's,
she was destined for failure.
The muffled noise of a car engine diverted her attention.
A fresh breeze off the ocean blew through the windows in
the back of the house, but the only things coming through
the floor-to-ceiling front windows were flies. Thickets of
spindly pines, palmettos, and wax myrtle prevented her
from seeing the driveway entrance or the rough shell road
beyond.
She didn't encourage visitors and wasn't expecting anyone.
A lost tourist would turn around soon enough.
She returned to the blank page of her journal and printed:
People are pains in the a . . . She struck out the "a" and
substituted "butt."
She crinkled her nose at the result. One word probably
wasn't any more polite than the other.
The smooth hum of the car's powerful engine hesitated, and
Cleo waited for the music of it backing up and turning
around. Someone took good care of their machine. She
couldn't hear a single piston out of sync.
She rolled her eyes as the obtuse visitor gunned the
engine and roared past the four-foot blinking no
trespassing sign. One would think a message that large
would be taken seriously, but tourists determined to reach
a secluded beach were nearly unstoppable.
"Nearly" was the operative word here.
Biting her bottom lip again, Cleo reread her two-line
entry. She had to go into town and open the store shortly.
She didn't have time for detailed expositions, if that's
what the shrink wanted. It looked to her like a few good
strong sentences ought to be sufficient.
Adding Men are the root of all evil struck her as funny,
but she supposed a male counselor wouldn't appreciate it.
She left it there anyway. The counselor had said he wanted
honesty. Of course, she was probably sabotaging all her
efforts. She'd had enough therapy to acknowledge her self-
destructive tendencies. Now, if she'd only apply that
knowledge . . .
She lifted her pen and waited for the car engine to reach
the next turn in the half-mile-long lane. The sound of
waves crashing in the distance almost drowned out the
wicked screech of her mechanical witch. Still, she heard
the car tires squeal as they braked. The battery- operated
strobe light was particularly effective at keeping
teenagers from turning this into a lovers' lane at night.
During the day, well . . .
She shrugged and capped the pen. That was enough
introspection for one day. The counselor ought to know she
was a mucked-up mess. She shouldn't have to lay it out in
terms a first-grader could understand. Another thought
occurred to her, and she grabbed the pen again.
Baring my soul is not my style.
There. That ought to be letting it out enough for one day.
Her head shot up as the car engine drew closer, evidently
bypassing the scowling witch. Stupid bastard. What was she
supposed to do, dump a load of pig turds on him to get the
message across? That might work if they were driving a
convertible.
They usually were.
She despised the arrogant, self-confident yuppie asses who
thought the whole world was their oyster. Didn't "Private
Property" mean anything to them?
Apparently not. The car engine zoomed right past the pop-
up sign she'd rigged in the middle of the lane. Forgetting
to turn off the system before she'd left for work, she'd
driven around the sign one too many times herself, and the
dirt bypass was clearly visible. She'd plant a palmetto
there tomorrow.
Slamming the notebook into her desk drawer, she picked up
her purse and donned her sunglasses. She hadn't quite
perfected the mechanism to shut the swinging post barrier
on the access road. She hated the idea of erecting a fence
across there. The moron would simply have to drown if he
insisted on using her beach. A bad undertow past the jetty
made this a dangerous strip for swimming, but she supposed
the No Swimming signs wouldn't stop the nematode either.
Maybe she could rig a siren to a motion detector. There
wasn't any law out here for it to summon, but tourists
wouldn't know that.
Pulling out her truck keys, she almost didn't hear the
purr of the engine turning into her drive, but the shriek
of a hidden peacock warned of the intrusion.
Damn. Did the jerk think the house deserted? Admittedly,
she hadn't bothered painting the weathered gray boards and
the sagging shutters, but she kind of thought them
picturesque. And it wasn't as if she'd not littered the
place with warning signs. If the town council insisted on
encouraging film crews to work here, she'd be prepared to
keep them out. She hadn't traveled an entire continent to
have that California lifestyle follow her.
She waited as the barking guard dog yapped through its
entire routine. A real dog would scare the peacocks, but
the tape recording was usually effective. Amazing how many
people were frightened of barking dogs. The mailman had
quit delivering to the door after he'd heard it.
Cleo sighed as the driver shut off the car engine instead
of turning around. Determined suckers. Only Maya and Axell
ever got this far past her guardians. She could slip out
the back way, but curiosity riveted her to the window.
Standing far enough back not to be seen, she couldn't wait
to see how her intrepid guest reacted to her burglar alert
system.
A pair of long-legged, crisply ironed khakis appeared
beneath the porch overhang. A man. She should have known.
Men had to prove themselves by showing no fear. It didn't
seem to matter if they showed no intelligence while they
were at it.
The lean torso decked in a tight black polo appeared next.
She was sick of looking at fat slugs with pooching white
bellies and hairy, sunken chests cluttering the view from
the beach. At least this ape strode tall and straight
and . . .
My, my. She stopped chewing a hangnail to relish the loose-
limbed swing of wide shoulders and a corded throat topped
by an angular face with more character than prettiness. He
was all length--arms, legs, nose, neck--but they all fit
together in a casual sort of package. His hands were in
his pockets as he gazed up at her mildly eccentric porch,
so she couldn't see his fingers, but she'd bet they were a
piano teacher's dream.
Tousled sable hair fell across a tanned brow, and she was
almost sorry she'd left the security system on. If he was
selling insurance, she wouldn't mind listening to his
pitch just to hear what came out of a package like that.
The aviator sunglasses were a downright sexy trim for this
parcel.
"You are under alert!" the loudspeaker blared as soon as
the intruder hit the first porch step. She'd used an army
drill sergeant for that recording. It would scare the
pants off any normal person. This one halted, and removed
his sunglasses now that he was in shade, but his gaze
traced the bellowing voice with curiosity, not fear.
"Turn back now. This is your only warning!"
Cleo bit back a sigh of exasperation as the jerk bent over
to examine the step for wires. Did he think her an idiot
to put wires where someone could cut them?
"Your location has been verified, and you are now under
surveillance. Put up your hands, or we'll shoot."