It was his phone, likely buzzing with messages from her. It was rattling the subfloor. She went over and picked it up.
And there, on the screen, was a picture of J.J.
Aha.She’s called her son.
Out of curiosity, Libby clicked on the photo. And there it was. The current location of J.J. Tucker.
Libby decided it was time to bring J.J. back. If not for Irish Hills, for her son.
And now, she knew right where to go to make it happen.
* * *
Less than twenty-four hours later, Libby was on Haven Beach. It was odd. Slightly beat up, but with a vintage vibe that was so different from most of the Gulf Coast. She’d never heard of it before. It had to be one of the few remaining “old Florida” communities left in the state. It really felt like a beach town. Not so different from Irish Hills—if Irish Hills didn’t have the biting winter and slightly less biting spring.
Leave it to J.J. to find it, of course.
There was a distractingly handsome man running the tiny reception office.
“I’m looking for the woman renting that end unit, J.J. Tucker?”
“Ah, she’s hilarious, tiny but potent, eh?”
Libby got protective.Was this man interested in J.J.?
“Yes, that’s her.”
“Smallest peppers pack the most spice, you know?”’
“Yeah, I hear, so J.J.?”
“She loves The Seashell Shack. I’d check there first.”
“Will do, thanks.”
Libby left the Laird Hamilton-looking surfer receptionist to go find J.J.
The Seashell Shack was a few buildings over, but right on the beach. It was easy to see why J.J. liked it.
Libby needed to push Keith to open the restaurant at Steve’s Marina. Eating on the water is so cool! He was close, but as with everything, Libby wanted it done yesterday to lure and keep the summer visitors.
Libby saw J.J. before J.J. knew she was there. J.J.’s choppy haircut had grown out a bit. She was tan. She sat alone, nursing a cold drink.
Libby’s heart leaped in her chest to see J.J., and now it was time to do whatever she could to get J.J. to come home.
She walked up behind her.
“There you are.”
J.J. turned and, recognizing Libby, answered back with her signature sass. “Whatever it is, no. My answer is no.”
“What if the question is, does this place have good crab cakes?”
“Well, in that case, yes, but anything else you’re going to throw at me, it’s a no.”
“Then I won’t ask to sit down. I’ll just do it.”
Libby threw her leg over the picnic table bench seat, the umbrella offering welcome shade from the sun’s heat.
