Landslide (The South Beach Connection Book 1) Read online

  "No. Absolutely not."

  John stopped and looked back and forth between the two women. He was the chair umpire on the sideline of the tennis court.

  "It's bad enough you wouldn't let me pick you up at the airport."

  "I'm surprised she listened to you, kiddo." Ah, the umpire made a call.

  And this was better anyway, seeing them both initially like this, relaxed and at home. Not to mention she had wanted a bit of quiet in the car.

  No conversation. No noise.

  "Fine." Maggie linked her arm through Annie's, and they both began to follow John as he rolled the luggage across the wood floors. "What are you thinking in that head of yours?"

  “That your house is beautiful," she lied, diverting her attention to the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling and then to the staircase. A small bathroom was tucked underneath it, and on the far side, Annie could scarcely make out a formal dining room, looking untouched and pristine.

  “I keep forgetting you haven’t been here before. Do you want to see your room now?” Maggie asked, pointing her eyes up the stairs.

  "My room?"

  "It's yours for the summer."

  My room. My summer.

  “No. I'll wait,” Annie said, smirking and pushing her feathered bangs off her forehead. “I would like something to drink.”

  “That’s my girl,” John said, still walking ahead, never turning back.

  The three of them rounded the corner into the kitchen. John rested the suitcase at the end of staircase number two. These stairs were the opposite of the foyer’s piano white keys. They were rustic, dark brown, and matched the flooring. The landing met the nook and kitchen. And across from it, an enormous open living area connected the two rooms, blending them together without seams or boundaries.

  "You must be tired, getting up so early for your flight?" Maggie said as she glanced at Annie over her shoulder, the refrigerator door wide open.

  “I'm okay." Annie set her backpack on one of the tall metal chairs tucked under the high countertop.

  Jesus, she said those two words a lot. I'm okay. I'm okay. It had become a mantra she was tired of repeating.

  “What do you want to drink?” John asked.

  “I have orange juice, iced tea, and of course water,” Maggie said, standing with her arm over the fridge door.

  Annie didn't answer. Instead, she blinked, flitting her eyelids as though she had just awakened from sleep. Everything looked open and spacious compared to the place she had shared in New York City, but it was the windows that rendered her speechless. They were more like walls, taking up the entire rear length of the home, exposing the ocean of Golden Beach.

  Impelled beyond reason, Annie walked toward the immense sheet of glass like Sleeping Beauty to the spindle, ignoring the Southern hospitality for a moment because the voice of the window roared.

  “I think she wants a drink, Mags,” John said, eyeing the bottle. “Take out the wine.”

  Squinting and longing to explore the beach, Annie stood in front of the tall French doors at the end of the living area, warmth already covering her entire body. Without curtains or blinds to conceal the sunshine, she had to hold her hand above her eyes to peer outside.

  John looked at Maggie, exchanging an unspoken sentiment. They watched Annie take in the glory of the ocean, both remembering her charm lie in her discovery — always exploring, observing, and delighting, allowing each ordinary thing to unfurl and became extraordinary.

  Maggie opened the wine as John made his way to the double doors. He stood by Annie’s side without a word, his silver hair glistening against the sunlight.

  "It's beautiful," she said, gazing into the gray-blue of his fatherly eyes, choked up with emotion.

  No matter how many times she had seen the ocean, the majesty of it never ceased to spoon against a part of her she wanted to believe no one else could espy.

  Rubbing his palm over his clean-shaven face, John smiled then opened both doors. A burst of air swept in, making a swooshing sound as Annie stepped onto the deck and leaned into the sun, hips forward, hands in her jean pockets, thumbs poking out.

  The Florida heat hit her body like a brick, enveloping her from head to toe.

  She closed her eyes for a moment then opened them, looking out across the landscape far and wide.

  She would be spending her entire summer here. On this beach. Her first real summer since her brother—

  No, she wouldn't complete that thought. He would stay alive if she didn't think it or say it. Shoving off the sadness and breathing in exhilaration, smelling the humidity and salt, she cast off worry and inhaled summer’s promise. It traveled through her lungs the way the wind blew her hair — with an untamable violence, a wildness, a feverish independence.

  Ready to begin the summer, and whatever adventures it might bring, Annie looked back at John and grinned.

  The decision she’d made to move over a thousand miles from NYC — to distance herself even farther from her home state of Washington — had to have been serendipity.

  Late Saturday afternoon, Annie examined the contents of the big walk-in closet upstairs in her bedroom. Over a week had passed since she’d first arrived in Miami. Maggie had made her feel at home — a real home, a house, the kind with love and hugs and—

  The clothing was distracting. She didn't know why she stood so long in the closet, looking at the same four dresses over and over when only one would cut it. How long had she had that old thing with the flowers, sexy slit, and red belt? It didn't matter. It still fit.

  Maybe it was the frames sitting on the floor, lined up like statues, distracting her, or was it her own damn head? Argh! She had to buy more. Frames and dresses. Mattes and … what else? Shoes. She only had a week left until the gala.

  Annie slipped the garment off the hanger and went toward the fancy mirror above the dresser. She would have preferred a full-length mirror. Antique, maybe. Carved wood.

  She slinked the old standby over her five-foot-four frame.

  A fingernail placed in her mouth for contemplation, she studied the creation — a girl, perhaps waiting to be pushed on a swing set.

  She would replace the innocence with sexy.

  Sure. Fuck. Yes. Sexy.

  Why not?

  She felt sexy even if it was just the way the silky material rubbed against her thighs.

  She leaned closer, curiosity up to bat.

  Who was she tonight? When was the last time she’d felt this beautiful? It wasn't the dress or the face, the look, or even the thong. It came from another place — a forgotten hiding place. It came from what she always had within her.

  A magic. A calling. A push. An ambition.

  A belief that something greater than every worthwhile pursuit existed. Death could not take that from her. It tried, but it never could. She knew, deep down in her marrow, nothing could rob her of the notion.

  She needed to shut the fuck up and find her fucking shoes.

  Red pumps on, she turned around and stood on her knees to look out onto the untamed sea, her face pressed against the glass above the window seat, her favorite part of the room. Pulling the blinds down until they reached the top of her head, she continued to stare out as far as her eyes could see, her mind wandering to the party beginning downstairs.

  How many people would be there tonight? Maggie had said at least fifty to seventy-five, and God knew she wasn't exaggerating. How many were already there? Would they like her? Would she like them?

  Fuck the stupid anxiety. Enough already.

  A knock sent her thoughts flying in every direction.

  "Yes, come in." Annie stood, smoothed her palms over her thighs, and went toward the dresser.

  Maggie opened the door partway and stuck her head in, catching Annie's eye. "It's almost six." She grinned.

  "Don't rush me,” Annie pleaded, flitting her eyes to Maggie. She brushed her hair in the same way she had spoken — with a hint of tease and seduction. The sexy of the dress h
ad to be working.

  Stepping into the room, Maggie flashed a smile and stood beside her. "You look amazing."

  "You can't get me down any faster with your flattery,” Annie said, loving the way they often bantered. Fifteen years of a mother/daughter/friend rapport, most often Maggie playing up the part of the mother.

  Replying at first with only a smirk, Mother Maggie began to attend to herself in the mirror, plucking her auburn curls and turning her fair-skinned face from side to side for inspection. Then, peeking at Annie out the corner of her eye, she confessed, “People have already started to arrive, and I'm dying to show you off.”

  "Ah, so the truth finally comes out. I am your new Miami thing."

  "You are. People are already talking about the gala."

  "You are talking about it."

  "I am. When will you be down?"

  "Soon."

  "Oh…” Maggie sighed, smiling as she lifted her heel toward her behind, “to be twenty-five again.”

  "Stop it." Annie giggled and shooed her friend away. “Go-go-go.”

  Several minutes later, Annie stepped into the hallway, her ears perking up to the faint sounds of a theater audience beginning to fill.

  People. Lots of people. She just needed to breathe.

  Her smooth dress clung to her legs and thighs as she descended the staircase toward the kitchen.

  The noise increased.

  She stopped five steps shy of the bottom.

  Maggie was correct, as she often was. People had started to arrive, and the rooms were full of them.

  Enjoying her bird's eye view, Annie peered at the faces in the crowd, wearing an inquisitive smile, as if no one could see her on the fifth step of that staircase.

  Stretching her necklace, pulling on the tiny pearls, her eyes moved over the room, imagining she observed the entire party through a trick mirror at a county fair. She continued to scan the faces until her eyes stopped on a man in the far corner of the living room.

  Something shot up her spine. Fire. Or the fear of acknowledging someone could see her there. Someone could distinguish her from all the other snowflakes and fingerprints. The fire and fear made a knot in her belly, and she began to perspire.

  She glanced left, then right, playing with the necklace, noticing things in the room no one else did — symmetry and angles and imperfection — until she couldn’t help but notice him again.

  His eyes engulfed her. Had they ever left her face?

  Clearly, the man looked at her, or was it through her? Either way, he could see beyond her stupid trick mirror. He wasn't staring. But he saw her. No boy had ever sized her up with an audaciousness she hadn’t thought existed, and this was no boy — he was a man.

  She tore her eyes away from the heated insolence of his gaze, the knot in her belly increasing, but seconds later, she couldn't help but look back.

  The man's face was unmistakable, cut out of the side of a mountain, clean-shaven, and defined. His dirty-blond hair fell neatly into place off his forehead, not combed to any particular side. Standing at least six feet tall, surrounded by a few other people, he engaged in what appeared to be lively conversation.

  Continuing to shift his eyes back and forth between the people he spoke to and Annie, his gaze carried an energy across the room in a wave. She could feel it brushing up against her body even when she wasn’t looking at him.

  It caught her off guard, and she almost tipped off the bird perch. Almost.

  What was wrong with her?

  Look. Away.

  She did, with difficulty, but quite immediately, she looked back — meeting his stare.

  His eyes...

  The color was difficult to ascertain from a distance, but they looked like a welcome oasis in the desert, like distant pools filled with water overflowing at their sides.

  They looked blue.

  They looked green.

  They spoke without speaking. They whispered to her from across the room. They were bold. Striking. They held Annie suspended on that staircase.

  She fell into the oasis of his eyes in desperate need of water.

  He peered at her as if he knew her, or wanted to know her, but he didn't … did he? He probably knew Maggie.

  She looked back. He must have thought he knew her.

  God, what was he thinking, looking at her as though there was no one else here? The house felt empty.

  "There you are." Maggie approached the railing.

  Right. House full of people. Lots of someone elses. They were everywhere.

  Annie let go of the railing and drank in another glance of his gorgeous face.

  The distraction of the stranger's eyes tugged at her willpower.

  "Annie, come here." Maggie touched her wrist. "There is someone I want you to meet.”

  She took one last look at the man. He was smiling a big, toothy grin, looking at the people he spoke to, then he shifted his face and caught Annie's eye. The dimples on his cheeks faded. His expression changed, morphing into something serious, something familiar.

  She needed to look away before Maggie noticed the drooling. Knowing Maggie, she would probably ask about Annie’s flaming cheeks too.

  Annie placed her cool palm on the edge of her fiery face and followed Maggie to the kitchen.

  “This is my friend," Maggie said to Annie as the three women gathered at the edge of the kitchen counter, "Mrs. Sorken. She is on the board.”

  “Please, call me Betsy,” Mrs. Sorken said in a thick Southern drawl. She had naturally big eyes, Margaret Keane style. But she wasn’t a waif. Betsy had meat on her bones and in her character.

  “I love your voice," Annie said with genuine enthusiasm as she extended her hand, trying to give the semblance of being ready to make normal conversation by pushing away the friction ignited by a man's eyeballs. And the heat was not just in her cheeks either.

  Hide it.

  “Thank you, honey,” Mrs. Sorken said, looking at Annie from under the rim of her floppy peach hat. Her eyes were beautiful. If Keane could have painted them, Annie could have framed them.

  "Are you warm, Annie? Is it hot in here?" Maggie asked.

  Fuck. They have no idea.

  "You do look flushed," Betsy added. She didn’t seem to buy the act.

  "No. I'm fine." Fine. Fine. Fine. A hundred times. She could pull this off. Normalcy. No anxiety. Ignore the molten pooling in her belly. "Where are you from, Betsy?"

  “I was born in Little Rock."

  "I'm sorry." Annie paused, put her elbows on the counter, and smiled as she covered then uncovered her eyes with her fingers, realizing Betsy would have made a marvelous picture right now. The angle of the hat. The pieces of hair that continued to fall across her big eyes no matter how many times she moved them away. "People must ask you that all the time."

  "Well, I love talkin'. No matter. You don't have to worry about me. I spent most of my life in North Carolina, though. Chuck and I moved here from Asheville."

  “Oh," Annie said and stood straight, "I have always wanted to drive the Blue Ridge Trail." She had wanted to drive many trails. Lots of roads. Explore the unknown. The scenic route. Had wanted? She still wanted. Miami was the beginning of traveling, finding, escaping, snapping pictures until her arms hurt and eyes blurred.

  "Lots of galleries up in those parts, darlin'. People would love you. And lord knows," Betsy pushed on Annie's shoulder as if she knew the real reason she was hot, "it's a hell of a lot cooler up there this summer. That’s for sure.”

  “I’m kind of enjoying the heat." She was kind of enjoying the heat. Was she insane? Where was he? The man. With the eyes. The entire back of her neck was on freaking fire.

  “You might be the only one," Betsy laughed while fanning herself with her palm. "Whew, you wait until you hit menopause.”

  "Maybe I should go adjust the air conditioner."

  "It's fine, Maggie." Annie glanced back at Betsy. “How long have you been in Miami then?” Annie listened for the answer, though she
couldn't help but stretch her neck and glance over at the assortment of liquor on the counter behind them.

  “Oh, I guess it’s been about two years since Chuck brought me down here." Betsy began to chuckle, noticing Annie’s distraction. “Get yourself a drink. I’m already on number two. You've got to catch up.”

  “Yes, Annie. What do you want? I’ll make it,” Maggie offered.

  Annie preferred to make her own drink, knowing how to prepare it just the way she liked it — the way her father liked it. Albert had introduced his daughter to the dirty vodka martini with lots and lots of olives when she was about eighteen. She could see him now, a martini in one hand and calculator in the other, glasses at the tip of his nose and a ledger the size of a desktop filled with numbers — both things always keeping his attention fixed.

  "Mix me a drink, Annie,” her father would say. “Tell me what is new with you."

  “I’ll make it,” Annie replied, politely excusing herself.

  A few thirsty guests splintered all around Annie, surrounding her, shoving an arm, grabbing a bottle, fighting their way toward the counter at the same time. Without a bartender, everyone made their own beverage, and despite the haste, no one seemed to mind. This party, like most of the Allens’ parties, was casual, laid back, and friendly. Everyone could help themselves — to the food, drink, and conversation.

  And plenty of people were doing just that. At least fifty or more guests now crowded the two main rooms, spilling into the den and onto the deck. It looked like the apartment of Holly Golightly — only bigger, much bigger, and without the cat.

  Holding a pretty, green glass by its stem, Annie lifted it to her lips and took a sip of the perfect dirty martini as she peered about the room. The interesting stranger was out of sight and mind.

  Hardly. His face.

  The ocean won out over the man carved from Mount Rushmore — for now. She walked toward the wall of windows, passing guests, keeping her eyes steady on the sea. It went along as it pleased, always going, never stopping. The ocean didn’t have a care in the world, and it called to her. She wanted the wind to whistle through her ears and ruffle her hair. She wanted the sound of the waves to caress her soul.