Jet Bosarge has just won the Undines' Challenge at the
Poseidon Games of the merfolk. Always shunned by other
merfolk, Jet isn't the typical blonde, beautiful mermaid
like
the rest, but brown eyed, dark haired and in possession of
a difficult nature. Winning the trident also gives her
one
wish to learn the truth about herself. Jet, like her
remaining
family, are extremely rich which allows her to own The
Pirate's Chest, a shop filled with the wonders of the
shipwrecks at sea. She also lives the majority of her
time
on land at Bayou La Siryna in Alabama near the ocean,
returning to the sea when in need of rest and
recuperation.
Landry Fields, an FBI Agent posing as an IRA auditor,
intends to uncover felonious acts of stealing artifacts
under
the ocean with her boyfriend, Perry Hammonds, as a
partner. Five years have gone by and Jet is done with
Perry
after he deceives her. Landry quickly learns Jet is
innocent
of any wrongdoing and sets his sights on apprehending
Perry, suspecting him of worse illegal acts. Now Perry
has
returned with intent to involve Jet into searching out a
treasure worth millions and a potential danger to mankind
embedded deeply in the sea. This is her expertise being
able to search the bottom of the ocean in her merform and
still keeping humans in the dark as to her heredity. If
she
just hadn't fallen in love with Landry, even after
learning his
true purpose for being there. The devious Perry causes a
disaster that threatens Jet's life and Landry turns the
world
upside down to save her.
This is a mystical world of mermaids, a voodoo queen and
paranormal mysteries, this romance refreshes the
imagination with colorful and exciting enchantment with
each turn of the page. I love Jet's feisty, independent
character and her search for belonging. The she-devil
myths of the sea provide hours of reading and enjoyment.
Debbie Herbert has the uncanny skill and imagination to
make her stories come to life. SIREN'S TREASURE is
definitely a "do not
miss" tale in the Dark Seas Series.
Deep in the bayou, a strange and beautiful world of
merfolk exists… Mermaid Jet Borsage never fit in with
her own kind. Her dark hair and eyes set her apart from the
other merfolk. Which was why she fell for the wrong man, and
why she is still paying the price. One that has made her
unwilling to trust any man. Until she meets Landry
Fields… Agent Landry Fields is investigating Jet's
former boyfriend, but he knows Jet is hiding something, as
well. At first he believed the beauty was involved in her
ex-boyfriend's dangerous undersea excavations. But when he
realizes he is falling for a real-live mermaid, Landry's by-
the-book beliefs are rocked. Now can he save Jet and her
clan from modern-day pirates to claim a future with the
feisty beauty?
Excerpt
Chapter 1 Perry’s back. Two words that shook
Jet’s world, but not in a good way. She’d
returned home from the Poseidon Games two nights ago,
exhausted, when her cousin Shelly had broken the news. Jet
sighed as she scanned the bored, impatient crowd packed
inside the government services waiting room, its ambiance a
curious mixture of sterility and shabbiness. The old
building was painted an institutional green and smelled
faintly of disinfectant, mold and stale coffee. In the
lobby, cheap metal folding chairs were set up in rows.
Outside, the morning rain beat down in gusting sheets. Jet
eyed the few people roaming the Main Street, searching for a
certain build, that certain shock of brown hair and chiseled
profile. Stop it. You’ll see Perry soon enough. And
oh, how she’d make him pay. That rat would get on his
knees, by Neptune, and beg her forgiveness before she sent
him on his way. Oh, no. Huge mistake. She shouldn’t
have pictured him in that position, those brown eyes staring
up at her naked body with hunger. Jet squirmed. Think of
something else. She closed her eyes, imagined swimming the
warm waters of the Florida Keys and scooping up antique
cufflinks and coins sunk by ships hundreds of years ago,
like a child picking up dropped marbles on a school
playground. It wasn’t helping. Jet placed a hand over
her stomach. Sexual need fierce as a knife wound seared and
twisted her guts. Damn, she hated that part of her mermaid
nature that intensified sexual hunger. It could be a
hindrance if she saw Perry after this meeting as she’d
planned. But she had to face him eventually and see what he
wanted. She would have to keep her sexual need under control
and send him away with the tongue-lashing of the century.
Ugh, tongues lashing. Now she could taste his lips and
tongue in her mouth, his long, slow languid kisses that made
her frantic with desire in nanoseconds. There she went
again. She was the biggest fool on the planet to pine for
Perry’s kisses. He’d been out of prison for
weeks. He’d been languishing in a jail cell for the
past three years, missing her and regretting his betrayal,
he’d have shown up long before now. Forget him,
he’d done the unforgiveable. “Jet
Bosarge,” the receptionist called out. She grabbed her
backpack and the man seated across from her frowned.
“I’ve been here longer than you,” he
grumbled. She shrugged. “Take it up with them.”
Jet marched down the labyrinth hallway until she found a
door marked IRS. No one answered her knock, so she opened it
and stuck her head in. The office was tiny and contained an
old wooden desk. A metal folding chair, identical to those
in the waiting area, was positioned across from it. The IRS
could have sprung for better accommodations; it collected
enough money to do better than this bare cubbyhole. A cheap,
utilitarian clock hung on the wall, its secondhand clicked
inconsistently—slow—fast, fast—slow, as if
it were spitting out Morse code. She paused, wondering if
she were in the right place, until she spotted the nameplate
reading Landry Fields. She dropped her backpack by the chair
and stood at the lone rectangular window. Quite a show
played outside with the swirling rain pounding the parking
lot pavement. Jet pressed her face against the cool, damp
pane. She loved the rain. Loved every pore on her body
drenched in raindrops. The only thing better than land-
walking on days like this, was swimming undersea during a
thunderstorm. She’d swim close to the ocean surface,
watching raindrops bounce on top of the water and meld into
a white, bubbling cauldron of energy, while underneath, the
pull of the tide crested and heaved in response to the wind.
And if a rain shower coincided with the night of a full
moon, the energy was electric with intensity. She closed her
eyes and touched her palms to the glass, imagined swimming
under the rain’s onslaught right now. Her body came
alive, prickling with sensation— “It’s a
mess out there, isn’t it?” came a voice, low,
rumbling and way too close. Jet jumped and spun around. Her
eyes bored into a pin- striped suit covering a broad chest.
Her gaze traveled upward, taking in a strong jaw and ice-
blue eyes that pinned her as if she were a trapped butterfly
the man wanted to dissect. “Mr. Fields?” she
guessed. Her voice came out a touch squeaky and she cleared
her throat. He extended a hand. “Miss Bosarge?”
His grip was firm and brief, but far from impersonal, at
least on her end. Her palm tingled from the contact and she
had a wild urge to curl her fingers over his hand and never
let go. Insane. Jet hastily withdrew her hand and crossed
her arms over her stomach. Fields gestured to the folding
chair, his face reflecting no sign that their contact had
affected him at all. “Have a seat.” She sank
into the chair, feeling underdressed. She usually sported
black yoga pants, T-shirts and sneakers, perfectly fine for
helping Lily at the salon or working out at the gym. In
honor of this visit, she had slightly altered her normal
attire by wearing jeans, a purple long-sleeved top and a
purple and red scarf. Jet wished she’d taken more time
with her appearance and played with Lily’s boxes of
lotions and potions. At the very least, she could have
styled her asymmetrical bob. Oh, well, she had remembered
earrings. Maybe her five-carat diamond studs would deflect
attention from her plain, unadorned face. Humans seemed to
care inordinately about such things. Under his probing gaze,
Jet readjusted the scarf to ensure it completely covered her
three-inch gills which extended from the top of the
collarbone to her windpipe on each side of her neck.
Although the slotted marks in her flesh were faint, she was
careful to keep them covered to avoid questions by any
observant human. And this guy looked way too sharp. Jet
mentally noted to grow her hair out a few more inches so it
would be long enough to cover the gills by the time summer
arrived when scarves and turtlenecks would appear odd. Since
her hair grew an inch a week, it should be plenty long
enough at summer’s advent. Fields pulled out a single
file from the front drawer and placed it on the desk’s
otherwise bare surface. He opened the file and glanced
through it, as if refreshing his memory. “Your letter
stated you only found an irregularity in my tax
records,” Jet volunteered. “Mmm-hmm.” He
kept reading, never looking up, even when the printer kicked
up an odd whirring sound, as if a hive of angry hornets had
swarmed to life. The noise ended as suddenly as it had
started. Jet stifled an exasperated sigh and started
swinging one crossed leg. The small room was stifling. The
man’s mere presence completely engulfed her senses and
she stared at his large hands with the clipped, clean nails.
No wedding band, but he wore a ruby ring set in a gold band
on his right hand. Some kind of class ring, probably from
some elite college. His clothes looked tailored and his
facial features bore a patrician vibe. The harsh planes of
his face, strong jaw and chilly eyes made him appear stern.
The man certainly didn’t fit in with the shabby
surroundings. Jet admired his clean, crisp aura and sniffed
discreetly, picking up a lingering scent of soap, as if
he’d just showered and dressed. And didn’t that
make her squirm. Hell, what was wrong with her today? She
didn’t even know this man. News of Perry’s
arrival must have unsettled her more than she first
suspected. The silence got on her nerves. “Since when
did our town warrant an IRS office?” she asked.
“I don’t remember ever seeing one here
before.” His gaze stayed fixed on her file as he
answered. “It’s a temporary field office for tax
season. We’ll close by the end of May. It’s all
part of our agency’s public service.” Public
Service? More like a public nuisance. What was so
interesting about her tax records? True, she had bucketloads
of money in trust funds, but her inheritance was legit. Her
ancestors had always been careful to hire the best attorneys
to cover where the real money originated—from
expensive undersea trinkets strategically sold in bits and
pieces over decades. He finally gave a small nod and faced
her. “I remember viewing your file now. The first
thing that caught my attention was the income fluctuation in
two of your businesses. Four years ago, you claimed a net
annual profit of over fifty thousand dollars with The
Pirate’s Chest. The business is still listed as open,
yet no more profits have been claimed. Then three years ago,
another business of yours, The Mermaid’s Hair Lair,
reported steady profits until it shut down last year. For
the past six months, you’ve been earning an income
solely from the interests and profits of various trust funds
and stocks.” She couldn’t help but notice the
slight, contemptuous curve at the corners of his mouth. Jet
bristled; it rankled when people assumed she must be some
sort of privileged society girl. She’d worked hard to
contribute to the Bosarge family fortune with years of
physically exhausting and high-risk ventures, reclaiming sea
treasure with the rat-bastard Perry Hammonds. Not that she
could tell this numbers nerd that particular bit of
information. “Is inheriting money against the law?
It’s not like I intend to live off the trust fund
forever. I’m reopening The Pirate’s Chest.
I’ve already obtained a lease on a downtown building
and I’m stocking inventory. A big shipment of antique
furniture should arrive from Mobile tomorrow.” The
auditor remained unruffled and silent while rain splattered
the window, loud as a knocking at the door. The beating rain
outside created a cozy sense of intimacy in the small room
and Jet fantasized what it would be like to lean over the
desk and kiss Mister-All-Business- Man until he lost that
aloof self control and had his way with her…Jet shook
her head slightly and blinked. This had to stop. Against her
better judgment, she spoke up again, eager to get her mind
back on track. “My sister Lily and I jointly owned the
salon. She’s taken an extended leave of absence to
travel. We might open it again one day, though.” Jet
bit the inside of her lip at the white lie. Not likely the
beauty shop would reopen; Lily seemed happiest living
undersea and using her siren talent to attract mermen.
Fields wasn’t interested. “Okay, moving on. In
reviewing your inventory and sales at the antique store, I
noted you sold maritime artifacts, some quite rare. Are the
manifests for these items on file?” Jet swallowed. As
far as she was concerned, once a ship sank, whatever cargo
sank with it became the property of the merfolk. What good
was all that treasure sitting at the bottom of the ocean?
The sea belonged to the merfolk, not humans, and they could
keep it or sell it to dirt dwellers as they chose. But she
could hardly tell him that either. “Of course, I have
paperwork,” she said coolly. “I also have an
excellent accountant who filed my taxes. Perhaps I should
have brought either him or my attorney with me. However,
your letter phrased this meeting as discussing an
irregularity and not a full- blown audit.”
“You’re always welcome to bring an attorney or
accountant. That’s perfectly within your rights as a
citizen.” He studied her, no emotion showing in those
frozen eyes. His face was stern, his manner stiff and
formal. “Moving on to your stock portfolio,” he
said, as if she hadn’t voiced a concern. “Over
twenty percent of your stock is invested in one company,
Gulf Coast Treasures and Salvage, LLC.” Damn. She and
Perry had sold, without papers, plenty of shipwrecked,
illegal items to that very company. In return, they were
given cash which they used, in part, to purchase stock in
the salvage company. Jet kept her mouth shut and merely
raised an eyebrow. The silence between them stretched, but
she refused to be the one to break it this time.
“These types of ocean recovery companies are very
risky,” Fields continued. “Even if they do find
treasure, they must have a profitable way to recover items
and bring it up to land using approved archaeological
methods. And if all that is accomplished, there’s the
thorny issue of who gets a share of the profits—the
state, foreign governments, the originating ship’s
company, distant heirs of the original
property—” So maybe all this wasn’t about
her, she decided with an internal whoosh of relief. It was
about the government clamping down on these industries,
making sure they got their own profit cuts. A treasure
salvage company in Tampa had been in the news recently when
it recovered over five hundred million dollars worth of
silver and gold coins from a colonial-era wreck near
Portugal. Naturally, the Spanish government filed an
immediate claim of ownership and refused to pay the company
any salvage fee. Jet hated worrying about pesky ownership
issues. The mermaid philosophy of finders/keepers seemed
fairer. She was relieved to be out of business with Perry
and leave that aspect of her life in the past where it
belonged. “So call me a risk-taker,” she replied
with a shrug. “I think it’s a good investment.
There are over three million known shipwrecks. It’s a
billion-dollar potential industry.” She couldn’t
resist showing off a little, and letting him know why she
suspected the IRS had a sudden interest in the maritime
salvage industry. “Especially since an American
salvage company found three billion dollars worth of
platinum on a World War II merchant vessel.” He
ignored her mention of the platinum discovery. “But of
those millions of shipwrecks, only thirty thousand of them
are believed to have valuable lost cargo.” Jet
shrugged again. “Your point?” “We’re
taking a closer look at these companies. You have a huge
amount of money invested in Gulf Salvage, a disproportional
amount of your assets.” She surmised it must be
difficult for a stodgy man like him to understand people
willing to take risky ventures, and suspected the auditor
was about to go down a path she didn’t want to follow.
Jet stood. “Thanks so much for your concern about my
portfolio. Warning taken.” He rose also and frowned.
“Sit down, Miss Bosarge.” This time his voice
had an edge as sharp as a stingray’s barbed stinger.
“Only a couple more questions.” She reluctantly
planted her butt back in the cheap chair. “Are you
acquainted with any of the officers of this company?”
“No.” Perry had handled all aspects of their
treasure sales to Gulf Coast Salvage. She’d checked
the company out on the internet and they’d seemed
legit. Her accountant had warned her not to put so many eggs
in one basket, but he’d also found the company
aboveboard. But if it was being investigated and about to go
under, she’d better pull out quick. “How did you
hear of them to start with?” Jet again stood.
“They’re large and well-known. I live on the
coast and have always been fascinated by treasure. Why
wouldn’t I pursue my interest? I haven’t done
anything wrong. I may be an incompetent judge in picking
stocks,” damn you, Perry, “but that’s it.
If you have any more questions, I’d prefer to exercise
my right to have an attorney or my accountant
present.” He nodded and rose. “No need to be on
the defensive. If I need more information, I’ll get in
touch.” Easy for him not to be upset, he wasn’t
the one being drilled. Why did they always have to go after
the little guy, anyway? Plenty of hedge fund investors and
private equity firms, with tons more money than she’d
ever see, had been flocking to invest in increasingly
specialized treasure ventures. Fields walked with her toward
the door. “Much success on reopening your antique
store. You already have employees hired?” he asked.
His previously intense manner, combined with his sharp,
wintry eyes, mellowed to a casualness that she suspected was
false. “No. Not yet,” she admitted. “I
see. Well, I wish you much success.” His body was
close to hers. Too close. The soapy, clean smell was strong.
Jet swallowed and licked her dry lips. “Thanks.”
She swept around him and into the hallway, inhaling the
stale air deeply, ridding her lungs of the auditor’s
masculine, clean scent. “Miss Bosarge?” Jet
whipped around. “I’ll need to take a look at the
manifests for all the items you and your business partner
sold to Gulf Savage.” “All of them?” His
mouth curved upward, but those arctic eyes gleamed with
sardonic amusement. “Every last one.” She
frowned. The gleaming teeth made her think of a shark.
Perhaps Landry Fields was as lethal on land as a shark was
at sea. Only the faintest curling at the ends of his light
brown hair ruined the predatory image. “I’ll
have my accountant call you and make arrangements to send
the paperwork.” “No need for all that.
I’ll drop by your store to collect them, or your home
if you prefer.” His smile widened, but she
wasn’t fooled by the offhand manner with which he
requested the paperwork, or by the way he casually leaned
against the doorframe, arms crossed. Jet scowled back. She
most certainly didn’t prefer Landry Fields inside her
house. The whole thing reeked of unprofessionalism and an
interest that went beyond the norm of an IRS audit. What was
his real game? “Give me a couple of days and come by
the store. I’ll have theme.” “Thank you so
much for your coop—” Jet turned and scrambled
away before he could finish the insincere thank-you. As if
she had a damned choice, as if he wasn’t issuing an
order. The rain outside felt wonderfully fresh and she
didn’t bother with an umbrella, unlike the few humans
venturing outdoor in the storm. The contact of water on skin
somewhat calmed her agitation and Jet smiled ruefully. How
desperate was she that a number cruncher like Landry Fields
could affect her body so deeply during an IRS audit? The man
was probably as passionate as cold pudding and would laugh
his ass off if he guessed her errant thoughts. She lifted
her face to the rain one last time before getting in the
truck, absorbing moisture as if it were sustenance. The
water fortified her. At least Mister Conservative-
Government-Man provided a convenient excuse to confront
Perry today. Her pride no longer demanded she sit and wait
for him to show up again. Perry was the one with the
contacts at Gulf Salvage and had insisted the company
provided a perfect cover for selling their stuff without
bothering with legal hoopla. Did he personally know the
company owners or major stockholders? Did it have a
reputation for playing fast and loose with maritime
reclamation laws? She had never asked him. That’s what
you got for trusting someone. It always came back to bite
you in the ass. What an unusual woman. Landry Fields stood
at the window, watching Jet Bosarge in the parking lot as
she lifted her face skyward, closed her eyes, and smiled.
Rain ran down dark eyelashes onto an elegantly sculpted
nose, lush lips, and then down her long, pale neck before
disappearing in cleavage. The wet purple cotton shirt molded
to the curve of her breasts. Abandoning his usual
professional detachment and gentlemanly manners, Landry
leaned forward against the windowpane, curious if there
might be an outline of nipples. Damn, she was too far away
to tell. He ran a hand through his hair, which annoyingly
curled at the ends, despite his best efforts to comb it down
straight. Bosarge wasn’t easy to peg, and he liked to
classify people he interviewed into categories within
minutes of meeting them; Con Man, Bad Guy with Attitude,
Psychopath, Injured Wife, Slutty Girlfriend, or—more
rarely—the Innocent or Unknowing. All part of his job
as an FBI agent. Too soon to know what type of woman he was
dealing with. And the sexual tension crackling between them
played havoc with his normal analytical observations. It
made no sense. He’d never before had chemistry with
someone he interviewed and Bosarge was unlike any other
woman he found physically attractive. She was dark-haired,
tall and athletic, deep-voiced and a bit edgy. His usual
type was a petite, curvy blonde with a soft voice and an
easy, uncomplicated smile. The woman jumped in a battered
red pickup truck and pulled out much too fast, tires
squealing on the wet pavement. The corners of his lips
involuntarily tugged upward. What kind of woman wore diamond
earrings and drove a beater jalopy? She could easily afford
a Rolls- Royce. Everything about Jet Bosarge was a
contradiction. Dark hair and eyes contrasted with pale skin
and deep red lips. She dressed casually, as if she’d
thrown together an outfit with no thought, but the choppy
haircut and diamonds gave an air of natural, feminine
elegance. At first, she gave one the impression of an
overgrown tomboy with her lean, muscular body, short hair
and direct mannerisms. Yet, her long legs and low, throaty
voice had distracted him so much, only his considerable
willpower allowed him to remain professional during the
interview. He’d studied photographs of the woman, but
those cold prints didn’t do her justice. Something
about Bosarge in the flesh was vibrant and pulsing with
energy. It was as if the rainy day had been nothing but
gloomy shades of gray until she’d walked in the
office. The effect was akin to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz
as she tumbled out of the ruined Kansas farmhouse and
stepped into an explosively techno-colored alternate
universe. Landry shook his head at the direction of his
thoughts. The woman most likely was a thief and a liar.
Getting personally involved with her would be inappropriate
and potentially damaging to his career. He was here to do a
job and at last things were moving. He’d spent a whole
week in the bayou doing nothing but watching Perry Hammonds
and reviewing, yet again, the case files with which
he’d grown sickeningly familiar. Evidently, the
suspect had been in a holding pattern like him. Hammonds did
nothing but bum around his rental cottage drinking beer and
watching television. If there was one thing he despised more
than deceit, it was sloth. Laziness should be one of the top
sins; there was no excuse for sloppy living. You might fail,
but at least you got up every morning and made your own way
in the world. That belief had helped him rise above a
childhood of poverty and emotional chaos. He’d been
about to approach Hammonds directly when Bosarge had
returned from out of town. Past experience taught him it was
always easier to get to the girlfriend, or ex-
girlfriend—whatever the status of their relationship
happened to be—and dig around for preliminary
information. Bosarge’s records were most unusual. She
possessed a staggering family trust fund. The interest alone
provided a comfortable living without ever having to dip
into the fund’s capital. And every dime she’d
earned from selling maritime artifacts with Hammonds had
been donated to various ocean-related charities: Save the
Dolphins, Save the Whales, Save the Oceans, Save the
Manatees. Could be she was a spoiled princess who got
involved with Bad Boy Hammonds for excitement. The
philanthropy could be a smokescreen, or a means of assuaging
her guilt over stealing. Because it was theft if the
collection site was close to shore. That salvage,
technically, belonged to the government and the taxpayers.
And Hammonds and Bosarge hadn’t owned an expensive
vessel with all the bells and whistles needed for deep sea
extractions. Landry picked up the fake tax file and shoved
it in a drawer. She’d bought his accountant act hook,
line and sinker. The important files were locked in his desk
at home. He turned off the printer before opening and
checking it for jammed papers. Nothing, appeared wrong, as
usual. With a sigh, Landry turned his attention to the clock
and reset it to the correct time. He held it to his ear and
picked up the slight hum of the battery he’d installed
yesterday. Finished with his afternoon ritual, Landry
retrieved a jacket and umbrella. No need to hurry, he knew
exactly where she was heading. Sure enough, ten minutes
later he drove past Hammonds’s cottage and spotted her
red truck pulling into the driveway, splashing mud like an
angry beast. Landry gripped the steering wheel tightly until
the cottage was out of sight. He flipped on public radio,
trying to lose himself in a news story, but it was no good.
He couldn’t help wondering how the post-prison reunion
was unfolding between them. No doubt they had once been
lovers and not merely business partners. He’d been
privy to many pictures of them embracing or kissing onboard
the boat they sailed in search of maritime artifacts. Forget
her. He had an investigation and he would concentrate on
doing his job. His real focus was on Hammonds. Their past
crimes, if they were guilty, were fairly small in the grand
scheme of things—he had coworkers covering billion-
dollar drug smuggling rings, after all—but the FBI
took notice when Hammonds was released early from a South
American prison. That early payoff had been financed by one
Sylvester Vargas, a known crime figure with a reputation for
dabbling in foreign intrigue. Hammonds had wandered
aimlessly for weeks until Vargas’s men collected him
and put him on a one-way flight back to Alabama. Now
Hammonds was back in the states, and the coupling of
maritime salvage with foreign investors and criminal
activity was a red flag. The woods grew denser as Landry
passed into a less populous area of Bayou La Siryna until he
reached home. He climbed the wooden staircase to the humble
cottage set up on stilts like many others in the remote
bayou. The plain door gave way with its customary squeak of
rusty hinges. Most things eventually corroded in the salt
air. If he took up permanent residence, his sleek BMW would
have to be traded in for the ubiquitous pickup truck. Seemed
Bosarge was onto something after all with her rusted truck.
The smell of lemon and ammonia mixed with brine meant the
maid had come by today. He’d used the same one for
years. The first time Landry returned to the cottage after
Mimi’s death, the scent of musty decay had been
depressing, so he had his real estate agent hire someone to
clean and air out the rooms before his visits. Now that
he’d moved in for the next few weeks, he’d been
able to keep the same cleaner. His grandmother had taken
great pride in maintaining the tiny place. The scarred pine
floors were always waxed, the air-dried bed sheets were
crisp and smelled of the ocean, and the cheap linoleum-tiled
kitchen had smelled of cornbread, pecan pies, roasts, or
shrimp boils. Mimi had spoiled him every summer, as if
compensating for his shitty life with a careless mom and her
string of increasingly sorry boyfriends. His mother’s
house was filled with half siblings from stepfathers that
came and went, and constant drama from financial pressures.
Every new romantic relationship of his mother had created
new sets of problems and complications. Landry placed the
car keys on a table in the den and surveyed the interior
with satisfaction. Most of the furniture he’d replaced
over the years. Mimi’s sofa had been upgraded to a
modern leather sectional. He kept what he could. The leather
couch was draped with one of her crocheted afghan throws, a
patchwork of rainbow colors against a sleek sea of black.
Her old wicker rocking chair remained in the same spot. The
bathroom, however, had no sentimental value and he’d
gutted and expanded it the first year after Mimi’s
death. He hung his suit jacket in the bedroom closet and
stepped out of the black leather loafers. Back in the den,
he adjusted a glass cat figurine on the battered sideboard.
The cleaning company knew his peculiarity for detail and
sameness, but they weren’t perfect. His fingers
accidentally brushed against a red-sequined coin purse and
he recoiled, as if the haunting memories associated with it
could transfer into his heart. It had been one of
Mimi’s treasured possessions but he had never liked
the purse openly displayed. After Mimi’s death,
he’d taken it off the sideboard but then wandered
about the cottage, unsure of an appropriate resting place
for the ghostly memento mori. In the end, Landry had
returned it just where Mimi had left it. After a few more
minor tweaks to the figurines display, he slipped open the
glass doors and stepped onto the wooden deck. The scent of
salty brine swirled in the early April wind. He inhaled
deeply and leaned over the wooden railing. Mimi’s
house could best be described as quaint—or ramshackle
to be more precise. But here lay its secret charm—the
million-dollar view. Located at the bend of one of the
bayou’s fingers, Landry could look over the pine and
cypress trees hugging the shoreline and see the vast expanse
of the Gulf of Mexico. A tiny flash of orange darted at the
base of a tree. “I’ll be damned,” Landry
muttered. He hurried inside and found the binoculars in the
sideboard drawer, rushed back out, then focused in on the
orange patch. A ginger tabby nestled in a bed of pine
needles. Closer examination revealed a swollen belly. Landry
set the binoculars on the rail with a sigh. The feral cat
population was alive and thriving. It was a losing battle,
but he’d try to entice the mama cat into a trap and do
what he could to find the kittens a home. His eyes scanned
the ocean. The waters were calm, a blue- gray sheen with a
few scatterings of tame whitecaps. But despite its calm
facade, Landry secretly suspected that beneath its placid
surface laid a foreign world teeming with mystery and
creatures beyond most humans’ imaginations. He knew.
He’d witnessed it with his own eyes. No, don’t
go there. Landry ran a hand through his hair and dismissed
the foolish memories. He’d been a kid. A scared,
ridiculous kid with a huge imagination. Nothing more to it.
He reentered the cottage and made his way to the kitchen,
determined to change the direction of his thoughts. He
opened the fridge for a drink. His hand drew back abruptly
at the sight of the porcelain cat figurine sitting on the
shelf by the soda cans. The same figurine he’d
straightened on the sideboard less than ten minutes ago.
Damn. It was getting worse.
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