In fact, shecouldn’t.
Because itwasn’treal.
Therefore, the only thing she’d passed down to her middle son was an overreliance on all things mystical: auras and crystals, horoscopes and motherfuckingportents.
And, real talk? I loved Aunt Mary like my own mother—hell, more than my own mother, who only remembered my name when she prayed for me on Sundays—but if Mary had any kind of psychic ability, it would’ve been hella handy if she’d used her special powers to find us a treasure, or predict the cancer that took her, or give her sons and me a heads-up that her husband was gonna get even batshit-crazier in grief after losing her than he’d been when she was alive.
And if the Universe was sentient enough to be sending outwarningsto certain people, I could only conclude it hatedme, because it hadn’t sent me a warning for any damn thing, ever, as evidenced by the fact that I lived on a forgotten island with my hick cousins and my wacky uncle, and hadn’t had sex since January.
Just sayin’.
“But, Fenn—”
“But, Beale,” I interrupted in a pleading voice. “We have had this conversation approximately seventy thousand times over the past five years, man. You know I prefer to get my storm warnings from the news.”
Beale’s forehead creased, and he darted a glance back at the house. “But—”
I clapped him on the shoulder as I made my way to the driver’s side of the car. “Look, if you’re talking about real storms, your gut’s a liar. Nothing but radioactive sunshine in the forecast today, which is whysome of usare smart enough to get our shit done early, so we can spend the sunset hanging at the only chilly spot on this entire godforsaken island.”
Beale’s puppy-dog frown lightened somewhat. “By the rocks?”
“Naturally. I’ve got two dozen bottles of my favorite craft-brewed stout sitting in my fridge, and you’re welcome to join me! As long as we talk about reality and not your…” I made a circle in the air with my wrench. “Whatever this is.”
“But my mom always said ignoring a portent’s as stupid as—”
“Ignoring a hurricane warning. I know. I know she did. But look around you, buddy. It’s only April. Not a hurricane in sight.” My gaze trailed over Beale’s head, to the little house with its dilapidated white siding and the rusting, blue-and-white awning hanging over the living room window. “And if you’re talking about metaphorical storms, that’s already come and gone, too. Your dad got the money to keep us and Goodmen Outfitters and the entire town afloat. Somehow.”
Personally, I was still having trouble believing anyone had entrusted Rafe Goodman, Senior, with large quantities of money. I wouldn’t trust my uncle to bring me change from a vending machine without finding some insane way to “invest” it on the way back. I justknewhe had to have sold, bartered, or mortgaged something to get the money, and given how few things he had left to mortgage or sell… it was kinda suspicious.
But whatever, right? As I’d been told every time I’d asked, it was none of my business.
I turned the key and the Jeep’s engine whined louder than a dog at dinnertime.Fuck.
I hung my chin to my chest. “Think Big Rafe’s got any money left to spare for his son’s car? Pretty sure she needs a new ignition coil.”
Beale ducked his head around the side of the hood and rolled his eyes. “You kidding? Rafe wouldn’t take money, even if Dad offered.”
I grunted in agreement. “Your brother’s smart. Anything Big Rafe offers comes with more strings than a piano and more questions than answers.”
“Hey!” Beale glanced at the house and lowered his voice. “Keep it down, would ya? Dad’s sitting right in the kitchen, drinking his coffee.”
“And?” I shot back, moving around to tinker with the engine again. “Not saying anything I haven’t said to his face, as you know. Fact: we still don’t know how your dad came into money all of a sudden, and he won’t tell anyone. I heard through the grapevine that he triedthreebanks and none of them would loan him five bucks. Next day, Big Rafe’s talking about getting up some kind ofextravaganzaover at the pavilion for Labor Day with a concert—aconcert! Like anyone besides Lenny Wilkins and hiskazoowould agree to play a concert inWhispering Key!—and he’s making it rain dollar bills over the motel.”
I waved a hand toward the two-story yellow cinder block monstrosity I called home, just visible from the Goodmans’ house through a tree break between the lots.
“In the past three months, he’s hired people to come over and redo the roof, start fixing the pool, and repair the walkway to the beach. And what the hellfor, Beale, when we haven’t had a tourist stay on Whispering Key in decades? Why isn’t he using his super-secret stash of money to do somethinguseful, like buy another boat so we can offer more tours, since that’s the only money we have coming in? Or to fix the bridge to the mainland? Or—”
“More boats would mean us leading more tours, and you barely tolerate the tourists.”
“I like the tourists just fine! It’s thecharmingthem I don’t like. The pretense. The tall tales and the fake smiles.”
“Maybe Dad gets that! And maybe he wants you to be happier living over there,” Beale suggested, nodding at the motel.
“Oh, God!” The laugh I gave in response started way down in my stomach and probably sounded a little deranged. “Shit, Beale. That’ll be the day, when Big Rafe worries about my comfort. He still refers to me as ‘Mary’s nephew,’ you know.” Or worse,Mary’s brother’s boy, even though my dad had been gone longer than Aunt Mary.
“Because youare!”
“Sure, Beale. Sure.” There was no arguing with his relentless need to see the good in things. Put Beale Goodman in the fucking jungle with nothing but a pocketknife and some chewing gum and he’d MacGyver you a tent, a cooking fire, and a satellite radio made out of coconuts or some shit. Put him on a boat stranded in the ocean and he’d make you a sail out of seaweed and steer you home with a compass made out of fishing line and pocket change. But if you put him in a room full of people, he floundered like a fish on a line, because poor Beale actuallybelievedthe things people said and took them at their face value.
