LJ Maas - Rebecca’s Cove

“I don’t believe this shit,” she said aloud. I can’t even remember the girl’s name that I’ve been screwing for the last two weeks. “You’re a case, Warren. This is why I don’t do things like this,” she said to the uncomprehending maid. “This could only happen to me.”

“Look, why don’t you just punch a couple of keys and look up the name of the woman who stayed in 8312 last night? I’m sure even someone as mentally challenged as you should be able to do that.”

BJ was in rare form as she sparred with the concierge. She had a hangover as big as Wyoming and half of Montana. She wanted to get a name and number, but the hotel staff had been less than cooperative.

“Like I have said, Ms. Warren, we have—”

“And like I have said, Sydney, I don’t give a rat’s ass for your fucking rules. How much trouble could it possibly be to give me this information?”

“Perhaps if you were family—”

“If she was a goddamn family member, would I need you to give me her phone number?” BJ shouted. The deskman’s unflappable demeanor infuriated her all the more. “Okay, here’s the deal, Sydney.” She started counting out bills from the slim wallet she removed from her inside jacket pocket. She put her billfold away, then leaned across the desk and tucked the wad of bills into the man’s front pocket. “Here is five hundred dollars. It’s all yours. All you have to do,” she enunciated each word slowly, “is push one little teensy button on your computer and give me the name of the fucking woman that stayed in that room!” By the time she finished the sentence, she was shouting again.

The man sighed and looked upward. The clerks and the bellhops were sure he was petitioning heaven for some intercessory assistance. Taking the money from his pocket, he placed it on the counter and moved toward his computer.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” BJ said smugly.

Sydney turned the computer off.

“Okay, that wasn’t really the right button now, was it, Sydney?” BJ watched as the man waved goodbye and vacated the desk area through a back door. “You rat bastard,” she mumbled at his retreating figure.

BJ had the doorman hail her a cab. Once inside, she swallowed the aspirin that she’d purchased at the hotel gift shop. It took everything she had to get the pills down her dry throat. “Lake Shore Towers,” she told the cabbie and pulled out her cellular phone.

She flipped through the stored numbers and selected the one marked Jules. She listened to the series of tones that represented her agent’s work number and waited impatiently, absently staring out the window at Lake Michigan.

BJ had known Juliana Ross nearly all her life since they were in second grade together at parochial school. Juliana’s family moved to the U.S. from London, England—Essex, to be exact. Juliana had paid mightily for her place of birth once a thirteen-year-old BJ, vacationing in England, discovered what being an Essex girl meant. Essex girls had a reputation for being airheaded and free with their affections, much like stereotypical American blondes. BJ’s long-standing dig at her friend was to call her an “Essex girl,” even though Juliana was not only highly intelligent, but as ethically and morally upstanding as anyone BJ knew.

If Juliana wasn’t BJ’s best friend, she would probably have been the last person BJ would call. However, BJ found herself obsessed with the stranger from the previous evening, and she was determined to find her, although she still wasn’t absolutely certain why.

“Jules, I need you to find me a girl,” she said as soon as her friend picked up.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not that kind of agent. Go down to Rush Street, it’s like a smorgasbord down there,” Juliana said. Her accent made her words come out in a quick jumble of dropped syllables, but BJ was used to it.

“That’s very cute. I don’t mean that kind of a girl. I need to find the girl I was with last night.” In BJ’s mind, she could see her friend’s head shaking.

“I know it sounds strange. In fact, it sounds a little pathetic now that I’m actually saying the words out loud.” BJ quickly told her the rest of the story. “Look, I know this sounds insane, but all I know is that I have got to find this girl again. I don’t understand why, but it’s as if my whole future depends on seeing her again.”

Juliana thought about what BJ had just told her. This was a departure from BJ’s customary cavalier attitude regarding women. Over the years, BJ had grown into a regular beauty and the beast all rolled into one. She was drop-dead gorgeous and could be charming when she wanted something, but she also had the most unpleasant disposition of anyone Juliana had ever known.

Their friendship endured because BJ seemed able to let down the walls and be herself with Juliana, who, being a literary agent, was used to dealing with temperamental writers. Their egos needed stroked twenty-four hours a day, and BJ was no different. In fact, her ego was more fragile than most. The irony was that although BJ probably needed and wanted love more than anyone else, her attitude, anger, and selfish behavior never allowed anyone the opportunity to get that close.

“Okay, okay, Miss Melodramatic. I’ve got someone I can put on it. So where did all this magic take place?”

BJ gave Juliana as much information as she could about the previous evening.

“Hey, speaking of where you were last night, mate, your grandmother called me,” Juliana interjected.

“Tanti? Why did she call you?”

“Because you had your phone turned off. Don’t you ever check your messages? She said it wasn’t life or death, but she did say that she had to talk to you today. Did you need me to ring her back for you?”

“No, no. I’m just getting home now. I plan on soaking in a hot bath, then committing suicide if this hangover doesn’t go away. I’ll call her before that.”

Juliana chuckled. “All right. Just remember not to bleed too heavily on the carpet.You’ll never get your deposit back if you do.”

BJ groaned in pleasure at the feel of the hot bath water on her skin. She stretched her neck and winced. Passing out and sleeping in a strange bed had twisted her neck and shoulder muscles. They were screaming in retaliation. She sipped the ice-cold Chopin vodka and held the heavy tumbler to the side of her head. The cold glass stopped the pain at her temple for a brief moment, but then the throbbing resumed.

BJ had phoned her grandmother’s house six times over the last few hours with no answer, and she was beginning to worry. Her grandmother lived off the coast of Florida, on an island called Ana Lia. BJ had only been there a few times in her life. She couldn’t even remember her last visit. She thought it must have been after her college graduation when her parents were still alive.

Evelyn Warren was her father’s mother. The old woman had adored BJ but had some sort of falling out with her son. Neither talked of it, but BJ’s father had never encouraged her to visit her grandmother. BJ had always found love and acceptance from the old woman, even though she thought her odd most of the time.

Her Tanti, as BJ called her, had been a renowned photojournalist. Evelyn Warren’s name had been on numerous Life magazine covers from 1940 to 1970. A Jeep accident during an assignment in Guatemala during the early seventies had left her injured, and she and her best friend Aimee had retired to Evelyn’s island home after that. Aimee was a nurse, which worked out well. Evelyn had been a stubborn woman back then, and Aimee’s prodding and pushing had been the reason that Evelyn made it through her physical therapy, which ultimately allowed her to walk again.

BJ smiled as she remembered how the two old women used to shout across the house at each other. After Aimee passed away, BJ’s grandmother grew more reclusive, content to stay inside her house on the island no matter how many times BJ encouraged her to move to Chicago. BJ talked to her twice a week and saw to her financial needs, although she still didn’t go to the island any more than she had when her father was alive. Her absence was due in part to the strangeness of the island. The people there seemed off center, as if they were untouched by modern-day thoughts. The second reason was BJ’s fear of water. She had to drive over an excruciatingly long bridge across the Gulf or take a ferry to the island. Neither of those options had held much appeal for her.

BJ’s cell phone rang, even though it sounded a lot more like a shriek to her aching head. She reached out with one hand and pushed the talk button.

“Yes?” “Baylor?”

“Tanti!” BJ was relieved, yet she unconsciously shuddered. Her grandmother was the only living family she had left and the only person to still call her by her given name. “Tanti, where on earth have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

“Well, now, things aren’t that bad.”

“What do you mean, that bad? Why should they be bad at all? Are you sick?”

“No, dear, I had a little accident is all.”

“An accident!” BJ sat upright in the tub, ignoring the pain in her back. “Tanti, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I had a little fall, seems I broke my hip and wrist.”

“I’m coming to get you. You need to be in a hospital, not some—”

“Baylor, dear heart, calm down. I am in a hospital.” “Are you on the mainland?”

“No, I’m here on Ana Lia.”

“They have a hospital on the island?”

“Why, yes, dear heart. It only has five beds, but it’s like being in a hotel.”

“Tanti, how on earth did you—”