LJ Maas - Rebecca’s Cove

“Baylor...I need your help.” The older woman’s voice, which had always seemed so strong and confident, was suddenly soft and needy. She had never before asked BJ for assistance.

“Whatever you need. Just ask.”

BJ remembered that promise for quite some time. She blamed much of what happened to her next on that vow. If she had any clairvoyant abilities or woman’s intuition at all, she would never have uttered her next words. “I’ll catch a flight first thing in the morning, Tanti. You can count on me.”

“I don’t understand, Tanti. Did you fall down? How were the conditions there? Do I need to call my lawyer?”

“Baylor, please sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

BJ paced the small hospital room from one end to another. Seeing her grandmother in traction, looking small and pale, affected her. Her day hadn’t gone well and she felt light-headed from the combination of caffeine and sleep deprivation. Earlier that morning, she had three cups of Starbucks coffee while waiting at O’Hare. On the flight to Florida, she briefly entertained the notion of a drink but didn’t want to show up at her grandmother’s hospital bed smelling of alcohol. She settled for more coffee instead.

The car rental agency at the Tampa airport had been an experience in itself. BJ wasn’t sure if it had been the incredible ineptitude of the clerk or the caffeine that had shifted her anger into high gear. It only took an additional year or so to explain to the clerk that she had reserved a car like the one she owned—a Jaguar XK8—and that a Toyota Corolla was clearly not the same thing. She pulled out of the airport calling everyone from the baggage handlers to the car rental clerk rat bastards.

BJ’s humiliation for the day reached its zenith when the old man running the ferry remembered her. Of course, it wasn’t due to his amazing powers of recall. It had been at least fifteen years since she’d last crossed to the island. BJ guessed that she was the only person he’d seen sitting in the car as the ferry crossed the water with her eyes tightly shut and a death grip on the steering wheel, all the while repeating to herself, “I will not sink. I will not sink.”

“Baylor, you’re wound up like a clock that’s ready to bust a spring. Take a deep breath and come sit by me.” Evelyn pointed to the chair beside the bed.

BJ took a deep breath and sat beside her grandmother. “Did you fly or drive?”

“I flew, but I rented a car at the airport.” “Ah, what is it you’re driving now?”

“A Jaguar.” BJ chuckled. She could never understand her grandmother’s interest in her cars.

“And I’ll wager it’s red.”

“You know me too well.” BJ laughed outright, then grew serious. “I get the distinct feeling you’re putting off asking me what you really want to ask.”

“Not putting off exactly. It’s more like...well...” “Tanti,” BJ warned in a slow drawl.

“Oh, okay. I need your help with something.”

“Of course. You know all you have to do is ask. Anything you need.”

“I need you to stay at my house and take care of things until I’m able to do it myself.”

“What? Live here?” BJ’s voice rose as her body did. “Oh, no, Tanti. I can’t live here.”

“But you just said anything.”

“Is that what I said? What I meant to say was almost anything.”

“Baylor...” Evelyn looked up with a pathetic expression. “My greenhouse...little Arturo. Someone has to care for them.”

BJ could feel her pushing all the right buttons. “You know how I feel about staying on the island. It creeps me out.”

“That’s your father talking, Baylor Joan Warren,” Evelyn chided.

“No, this is something I figured out all on my own. The people in this town are borderline sane at best. They make me uncomfortable.”

“That’s because you walk around like you’ve got a stick up your butt.”

“Tanti!”

“They just take some getting used to is all. Strike up a conversation sometime. Be nice to people.”

“There’s not enough conversation in the whole world to make these people look normal. And I am nice.”

“Please, Baylor. You’re the only family I have.”

Evelyn had played her trump card and BJ knew it. “All right,” she reluctantly consented. She pointed a finger at her grandmother. “But only until I can hire someone to come in and take care of things.”

“I don’t want strangers in my house.”

“Who’s taking care of the place now?”

“The sheriff said he took Arturo to the vet’s office, and Mrs. Wedington is taking care of the greenhouse. Please, at least think about it, dear heart.” The term of endearment got to BJ every time.

Evelyn pulled a folder from underneath her pillow and held it out to BJ. “I wrote out a few instructions so you wouldn’t be lost. You can find the answer to any question you might have right in here.”

“Good Lord.” BJ hefted the envelope in one hand. “I’ve turned in manuscripts that weighed less.”

“Tell me you’ll look after things and that you won’t just run back to the mainland in the middle of the night, at least not before warning me.”

“Okay. No promises about staying, though. I’ll go there tonight, but if the house turns out to be haunted or anything at all weird happens—”

“You’ve got to give that imagination of yours a rest. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Okay,” her assistant began as she closed the door to Hobie’s private office, “tell me everything and don’t skip over the juicy bits.”

Hobie laughed. Laura had made it her personal mission in life to see Hobie involved with someone...anyone. When Hobie had confided that she had a romantic experience in Chicago, Laura was ecstatic.

She and Hobie had been friends for years. The wisecracking young woman hadn’t been born on the island, but when her parents retired, they had moved to Ana Lia. As soon as Laura finished college, she made the island her permanent home, too. When Hobie had started her practice, Laura showed up at the door waiting to be hired. They had been best friends since.

“Trust me. It’s not that juicy,” Hobie said before relating the story.

“I can’t believe you were just gonna throw her out. Tall, dark, and gorgeous just doesn’t come along every day. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” Hobie removed the wire-rimmed glasses that were always slipping down her nose. “All those years of Catholic school, I guess. The words ‘Whore of Babylon’ kept running through my mind.”

Laura laughed so hard she almost lost her seat. Eventually, she wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at her friend. “Hobie Lynn, you have got to loosen up, girl.”

“I know. I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

“Nah. Hopeless would have been never kissing her in the first place,” Laura said with a wink. “Did you sleep in the same bed with her?”

“Well, at $250 a night, I wasn’t about to sleep in the bathtub. When I checked out, she was still snoring away. Besides, I think she was lying about who she was.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I looked her name up in every online book database I know. There isn’t one listing for a BJ Warren.”

“Figures. The cuties are usually jerks.”

Hobie smiled and looked at the ball of fur snuggled into a wicker basket on the corner of her desk. The only contrast to the snow-white fur was a coal black nose and two equally dark eyes. Hobie scratched under the dog’s chin. “Not all the cuties are bad, are they?”

A knock on the main door to the office caused both women to look at their watches. “Is Cheryl coming in to work today?” Hobie asked.

“Yeah, but not till eleven. Must be a patient. They’re starting early today.”

They both rose and walked into the large waiting room. Laura lifted the shade covering the glass door to reveal an elderly woman, her arms loaded with fliers.

“Good morning, dears.” The woman dabbed at her watery eyes with a dainty handkerchief.

“Are you feeling ill, Mrs. Emberly?” Hobie asked. “Only sick of heart, my dear. I lost my dear Petey.”

Laura and Hobie exchanged a look. Petey was the old woman’s toy poodle and her only companion since her husband had passed away. Petey, however, had lived long past his prime. He was nineteen years old, blind and deaf, had lost one leg to cancer, and was missing most of his tail due to a neighborhood Doberman that thought the poodle would make a good snack.

Petey wasn’t much in the frisky department, but he was a first-rate companion to the elderly woman. His sole job in life was to lie on a pillow next to her and wag his nearly nonexistent tail when petted. Since he had never appeared in any obvious pain or distress, no one had ever mentioned that perhaps Mrs. Emberly might want to consider sending Petey to that big doghouse in the sky. It was no surprise to either of the younger women that Petey had finally died.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Emberly. You should have called me,” Hobie said.

“Well, dear, I did have some of the neighbors helping already. Besides, I’m confident he’ll return.”

Mrs. Emberly fancied herself something of an amateur medium. She swore that she could communicate with the dead. On occasion, she came up with the oddest statements, which she said she received directly from those who existed on “the other side.” Once, she told Hobie that Winston Churchill was madder than a wet hen because FDR died owing him ten pounds. Those were the days when Hobie nodded and prayed that her own death would take her before senility did. There were times, however, when Mrs. Emberly knew things that would have been nearly impossible to know unless she had communicated with someone who had passed.