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Chapter 1

Sunset Beach, April 2018

Drue turned the key in the ignition and the white Bronco’s engine gave a dispirited cough, and then nothing.

“Come on, OJ,” Drue muttered, trying again. This time the engine turned over. She gave it some gas and the motor roared to life.

“Thanks, babe.” She gave the cracked vinyl dashboard an encouraging pat, then shifted into reverse and eased her foot onto the accelerator. The motor gave a strangled wheeze and cut off again. Now every single indicator on the control panel began blinking red.

She tried again, but the third time was not the charm. The engine caught briefly, the Bronco’s battered chassis shuddered, then fell still.

“Noooooo,” she moaned.

She glanced down at her watch. She now had fifteen minutes to get downtown to work. “No way,” she muttered.

Back when life was good, when she was living in Fort Lauderdale, she would have taken an Uber or called a friend for a lift when the 1995 Bronco she’d bought off Craigslist was having what Drue thought of as PMS. But she hadn’t exactly had time to make friends since moving back to Florida’s west coast, and she no longer had a viable credit card for Uber, or even viable credit, for that matter.

Drue had a vague memory of seeing city buses lumbering past on nearby Gulf Boulevard. She pulled her phone from her backpack, found the transit authority website and schedule, and determined that with any luck, she just might catch a bus that might get her to the downtown St. Petersburg offices of Campbell, Coxe and Kramner in the next thirty minutes. Which would make her late for her first day of work.

She started walking. It was barely eight-thirty, and only April, but the temperature already hovered in the mid-eighties, and within two blocks of leaving her house, her cotton tank top was damp with perspiration and her right knee was throbbing.

Shit. She should have gone back to the house and put on the tight elastic brace the surgeon had given her. In fact, should have been wearing it anyway, even if she hadn’t had to walk five blocks. But the damn thing was so hot. The elastic chafed her skin and gave her a rash, so she left it at home more times than she wore it.

Drue gritted her teeth against the pain and kept walking. She was on Gulf Boulevard now, the busy north–south thoroughfare that threaded through all the tiny beach towns before eventually making a sharp right turn at Treasure Island Causeway, heading east toward downtown St. Pete. A clutch of giggling teenage girls, spring breakers, probably, dressed in bikini tops and microscopic neon-bright shorts with the waistbands rolled down to their navels, approached on the sidewalk, headed in the opposite direction, and made an elaborate show of sidestepping her.

She heard a quavery voice behind her.

“Excuse me, darling.” She turned her head to see an elderly man, his bony bare chest glistening with sweat, power past, pumping small dumbbells in each hand.

She squinted and saw, just half a block ahead, the shaded bus shelter. Thank God. She wasn’t sure if she could walk much farther. Half a block, though. That, she could do. She picked up the pace, trying to ignore the red-hot stabbing pain in her knee.

Briiiing, briiinnng, a bike’s bell and then a booming woman’s voice: “On your left!”

She stumbled over her flip-flop and toppled onto the grassy verge just in time to avoid being mowed down by a white-haired octogenarian wearing wraparound sunglasses and a Tampa Bay Rays sun visor furiously pedaling past on an adult tricycle.

“Hey!” Drue yelled after her. “Get on the bike path.”

“Up yours,” the woman called, turning around briefly to flip her the bird.

As she struggled to her feet, she saw, almost in slow motion, the city bus passing her by. She winced in pain, but also at the ad emblazoned along the side of the bus.

SLIP AND FALL? GIVE BRICE A CALL! The ad was accompanied by a five-foot-tall airbrush-enhanced color portrait of W. Brice Campbell, arms crossed defiantly, his chiseled chin jutting pugnaciously, a stance Drue knew all too well.

The bus slowed momentarily at the bus stop. The air brakes whooshed. “Stay there,” Drue muttered. “Stay right there.” She broke into her current version of a run, a lopsided, sorry, limping affair.

A young Hispanic woman stepped off the bus, turned, and waved goodbye to the driver.

“Hey,” Drue yelled breathlessly, closing the gap, now maybe only three bus-lengths away. She waved her arms over her head. “Hey!”

The woman turned and gave the stranger a hesitant smile. “Hey.”

The bus’s brakes whooshed again and it started to move.

“Tell him to stop,” Drue cried. “Tell him to wait.”

But it was too late. The bus picked up speed. It moved on. The woman stood by the bus shelter. She was dressed in a gray and white uniform smock, her name, Sonia, embroidered above her left breast.

“Sorry,” she said softly, as Drue approached, limping badly. “Are you okay?”

Drue grasped the back of the bench as she tried to regain her breath. The bench was painted blue and white, with the Campbell, Coxe and Kramner signature logo superimposed across Brice Campbell’s visage. HAVE A WRECK? WE’LL GET YOUR CHECK!

“No,” Drue managed, as she collapsed onto the bench. She jumped up immediately, gingerly extracting a half-inch wood splinter protruding from her right butt cheek. “No. Definitely. Not. Okay.” She looked down at the screenprinted face of Brice W. Campbell. Her new boss. Her long-lost father, and as always, a major pain in the ass.

 

* * *

 

A job in his law firm had been the very last thing Drue had wanted from her long-estranged father. But what choice did she have? That five-second midair kiteboard collision three months earlier, and her mother’s subsequent death, only reinforced the fact that she no longer had any reason to stay in Fort Lauderdale.

Drue had been adrift, self-medicating with tequila and Advil and wallowing in self-pity on the day of her mother’s funeral. As she was leaving the memorial service, with the bronze urn containing Sherri’s remains tucked under her arm, she’d been shocked to spot a well-dressed businessman standing uneasily at the back of the church.

At first, she wasn’t even absolutely sure it was really him. His hair was longer, touching the collar of his open-neck shirt, and flecked with silver. He was tanned and slim, and in his expensive tailored blazer and sockless Gucci loafers looked distinctly out of place in the former fast-food restaurant turned Fortress for All Faiths Chapel of Prayer.

She approached him warily. “Dad?”

“Hi,” he’d said softly, giving her an awkward hug.

She’d endured the embrace with what she thought was admirable forbearance.

“What are you doing here?”

He shifted from one foot to the other. “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

“I mean, how did you know? That Mom died? I didn’t even put an obituary in the paper until today.”

“Sherri called me. To tell me she was sick. And I asked the hospice people to let me know … when it happened.” He glanced around the church, which was nearly empty now. “Look, can we go somewhere else to talk about this?”

“Like where?” Drue wasn’t about to let him off that easy. Twenty years ago, he’d shipped his sullen teenage daughter across Florida, from St. Pete back here to Lauderdale, choosing peace with his second wife and her obnoxious sons over loyalty to his only daughter. He’d dutifully sent the birthday cards and child support checks right up until her eighteenth birthday, but she hadn’t laid eyes on him since that boiling hot summer afternoon so long ago. She wasn’t about to let him waltz in here today and play the grieving dad and ex-spouse.

“I thought maybe we could go to lunch somewhere.” His blue-gray eyes took in her frumpy black dress, the only remotely funeral-ready dress she owned, and the too-large black pumps, which she’d appropriated from Sherri’s closet.

“Why?”

He let out a long, aggravated sigh. “Why? Because your mom is gone and I’m now your only living relative. And because there are some business matters we need to discuss. Okay? Can you just cut me some slack and go to lunch? Or do you really need to keep busting my balls for the rest of my life?”

She shrugged. “I guess I could do lunch. Where do you want to go?”

“I heard there’s a bistro on Las Olas that has great mussels.”

“Taverna.” Why was she not surprised that he’d chosen the most exclusive, expensive restaurant in town?

Outside, in the parking lot, Brice pointed a key fob at a black Mercedes sedan and clicked it. Drue went to the backseat and opened the door.

He stood by the driver’s side, looking puzzled. “You’re getting in the backseat?”

“No,” Drue said, carefully stretching the seat belt across the bronze urn. “Mom is.”

 

***

 

When the waitress brought their drinks Drue knocked back half her margarita in one gulp.

Brice sipped his martini and rearranged the silverware on the tabletop.

“Can I ask you something without your getting pissed at me?”

“Maybe.”

He pointed at her right leg, with the knee ensconced in the hideous brace.

“What happened there?”

“I had a kiteboarding accident. Right after Mom got diagnosed.”

“So you’re still into that? Guess it wasn’t a phase after all, huh?”

Kiteboarding had been a major source of friction between Drue and Brice and her stepmother. Joan had objected to the cost of her board and kite (although it was money Drue earned from working at a surf shop), her kiteboarding friends (an admittedly motley-looking crew) and, especially, her obsession with the sport—to the detriment of her already mediocre grades.

Drue chewed the inside of her cheek. “Definitely not a phase. How is Joan, by the way?”

He picked the olive from his drink, chewed, and smiled bitterly. “Let’s see. She soaked me for a waterfront house, a new car and attorney’s fees to keep both Kyler and Kayson out of prison. Last I heard she’d moved up the marital food chain and married an orthopedic surgeon. So, I’d say she’s doing great.”

“So you two split up? Sorry to hear that.”

He sipped his martini. “No, you’re not.”

“That’s true. She never liked me, and the feeling was mutual.”

He started to say something, stopped, shook his head and took another sip of his martini.

“You said you had some business to discuss with me?” Drue prompted.

“That’s right.” He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and brought out a key ring with a tacky pink plastic flamingo fob. Two keys dangled from the ring. He slid the key ring across the table toward his daughter.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the key to Coquina Cottage.”

“Nonni and Papi’s house? The old place on Sunset Beach? I thought Mom sold it after Nonni died.”

“She almost did, but in the end, she decided to keep it. I think maybe she thought one day the two of you would move back and live there. Anyway, it’s yours now.”

Drue picked up the key ring and turned it over and over. “You’re serious? For real? Like, I own Papi’s cottage?”

“You do,” Brice said. “Before you get too excited, though, I should warn you it’s in pretty rough shape. The last tenant lived there for six or seven years, and he was kind of a hoarder. He always paid his rent on time and never had any complaints about the place, so I sort of let things slide. It wasn’t until last year, after the hurricane damaged the roof and the old guy moved out, that we realized how bad things had gotten.”

Drue’s eyes filled with unexpected tears. “Mom never said a word. All those years, she drove crappy secondhand cars and we lived in shithole apartments. She could have sold that place—it’s right on the Gulf, right? I bet it was worth a lot of money. I can’t believe she hung on to Papi’s house.”

“Your mom was never the sentimental type, as you know, but I think she regarded the cottage as her legacy to you. It was the one thing of value in her life. Well, that and her daughter.”

Not trusting herself to speak, Drue could only stare down at the keys.

“What are your plans now?” Brice asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Things are kind of up in the air right now.”

“Sherri said you’ve been waitressing at a bar?”

“That’s right.”

His raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

“And . . . no romantic ties keeping you here in Fort Lauderdale?”

She scowled. Since Trey, her faithless boyfriend, had been a no-show at the funeral, she’d already relegated him to ex-boyfriend status. “Are you deliberately gloating over the fact that I’m thirty-six and have a shitty job and no life?”

He raised his hands in surrender. “I was going to offer you a job, but obviously that’s a deeply offensive move on my part.”

“A job? Doing what?”

“Working at the law firm. We’ve affiliated with half a dozen boutique personal injury firms in the Southeast in the past year. Business is crazy good. Another firm in town just poached my most senior intake associate. I’m really shorthanded.”

“No thanks,” Drue said firmly. “I have no interest in moving back to St. Pete and zero interest in the law.”

“You mean, zero interest in working for me.”

Her eyes met his. “That too. Sorry. I mean, I appreciate the offer. And your coming over for Mom’s funeral. And letting me know about the cottage. Thanks. I really mean it.” She looked down at her watch. “Can you get the check now? I’ve got to work tonight.”

He let out a long sigh. “You’re as goddamn stubborn as she was. More, even.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Drue said.

 

***

 

Chapter 2

It was her first night back at work since the surgery, and it was also two- dollar well drink night at Bozo’s on the Beach. As luck would have it, the first person she saw as she was clocking in was Rick, the assistant night manager.

Prick, as most of the servers called him behind his back, was all of twenty- five years old and the owner’s nephew, and roundly despised by the entire Bozo’s staff, right down to the youngest high school busboy. He was just over five feet two, with a weirdly long over-muscled torso, rounded shoulders and short legs, which gave him the appearance of an orangutan in cargo shorts.

“Hey,” he said, giving her a curt nod. “I see you’re back.”

“I am,” she said, smiling brightly. “Thanks for letting me take a shift. I was going stir crazy sitting at home on the sofa.”

He looked her up and down and frowned, noting the form-fitting orange tank top with the bar’s clown logo and the ripped and faded jeans she wore instead of the hated mandatory Bozo’s booty shorts.

“You’re out of uniform.”

“Yeah,” she said. “The thing is, I have to wear this big ugly knee brace, and it looks super freaky with the shorts. I’m wearing the top and I swear, nobody will even notice.”

“That’s not the point,” he snapped. “It’s a uniform because I want all the girls to look alike—hot. Those jeans don’t look hot. They look ghetto.” He ducked into the closet-size office, came out with a pair of the microscopic white knit shorts and tossed them to her. “Here. You can change before you go on shift.”

Kaitlin, the lead bartender, came bustling into the kitchen. “Welcome back, girlfriend,” she said, giving Drue a high five. “Now get your ass out there. Courtney’s back in rehab and Shanelle called in pissed off, so we’re short two girls tonight and the natives are restless.”

Drue hustled out of the kitchen in her wake, turning to look over her shoulder at Rick. “Sorry. Duty calls.”

 

***

 

Old-school rap music blared from the wall-mounted speakers and the Thirsty Thursday crowd was, as Kaitlin had warned, loud and demanding. The sprawling room was packed, the noise level ear-splitting.

“What’s going on?” Drue asked, placing her lips beside Kaitlin’s ear.

“Do you have to ask? Look around.”

Drue estimated the average age in the room at 19.2 years. College kids, sunburned, buzzed and looking for fun in the Florida sun. She knew what that meant. Crappy tips and plenty of customers who thought dine and dash was an intramural sport. “Spring break? Already? It isn’t even Easter yet.”

“It comes earlier and earlier every year,” Kaitlin said. “Hey, how’d you manage to ditch the crotch cutters tonight? Every time I come to work wearing normal pants Prick orders me to go home and change.”

“He was about to make me change when you saved the day,” Drue said. “I think the little perv gets off looking at camel toes.”

“Ya think?” Kaitlin crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “By the way, how’s the knee?”

“Hurts like a mother,” Drue said.

Kaitlin glanced around and lowered her voice. “I’ve got Percocet in my purse, if you want. My boyfriend had dental surgery and he saved ’em for me.”

“I’d love a Percocet, but anything with codeine makes me puke. Advil’s all I can take.”

“Poor you,” Kaitlyn said. “You’re on station three, by the way.”

“Got it.” Drue headed out to her station, six four-tops and four six-tops.

The next two hours were a blur. She took orders, delivered drinks and dodged drunken gropes. At one point she fought her way through the crowd to the bathroom, locked herself in a stall, dropped her jeans and unfastened the brace. Her knee was red and swollen to the size of a cantaloupe. “Not good,” she whispered.

She heard the bathroom door swing open with a bang.

“Drue!” Prick’s voice echoed in the tile-floored room. “Get out here, goddamnit! Your tables are backed up.”

“Can I just pee in privacy?” she called, flushing the toilet.

“I’m not paying you to pee. Now get your ass out here and get to work.”

 

***

 

“Hey!” screamed a petite blonde in an oversize sorority jersey, pelting Drue in the face with a soggy wadded-up paper napkin. “Hey! I mean, could we finally get some service over here?”

The napkin bounced off her forehead and onto the floor. Drue froze in her tracks as the blonde and her college pals around the table giggled and guffawed.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Um, well, a new attitude would be nice,” the blonde shot back, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I mean, don’t y’all work for tips?”

Drue felt the blood rise in her cheeks. “What would you like?” she repeated.

The blonde pointed at the stacked-up empties on the tabletop. “So, I need two of these, and—”

“Could I see some ID, please?” Drue asked.

“What?”

“ID. Like a driver’s license.”

The girl pouted. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” the girl exclaimed. “Look, I didn’t bring a purse tonight, right? So I don’t actually have my ID on me.”

“How were you planning on paying for your drinks?” Drue asked.

The blonde gave an arch smile and turned toward the balding salesman sitting next to her. She flung an arm over his shoulder. “Oh, no worries. My new friend Sammy here is buying tonight. Right, Sammy?”

“Right,” the salesman replied. “But, uh, it’s Stanley. Not Sammy.” He flipped a platinum AmEx card onto the table. “Bring the lady whatever she wants.”

“Sorry,” Drue said. “But I can’t serve her alcohol without a valid ID.” 

The girl half rose from her seat, until her face was inches away from Drue’s.

“Look,” she said, her voice soft. Her breath stank of rum and fruit juice. Her face was flushed, her eyes were glazed. “Don’t be such a bitch. I need two of those strawberry thingies. Okay? Stanley’s gonna take good care of you, you understand?”

Drue moved two inches backward. “I understand perfectly. And you need to understand that I still can’t serve you alcohol. We both know you and your girlfriends here are underage.”

The girl’s face twisted in rage. “What the hell do you care? Are you a fucking cop?” Her high-pitched voice rose to a shriek. Heads turned, their eyes glued to the unfolding drama at table six. “Now go get my drink, bitch!”

Drue started to say something, but before she could respond, she felt a hand tighten on her upper arm.

It was Prick. “In my office. Now.”

He turned to the table. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. I’ll send somebody over with a round for the table. On the house.”

 

***

 

They didn’t make it all the way to the office. He turned to her just inside the doors to the kitchen. “What the hell?” he yelled. “You come in here tonight with a shitty attitude, out of uniform, but I cut you some slack because I feel sorry for you. Then you limp around out there like some kinda lame-ass zombie and spend half the night hiding out in the bathroom. Your job here is to smile and sling drinks, not get in a fight with the paying customers.”

“I had to pee. One time. I was off the floor for five minutes. And that blond chick threw a napkin at me!” Drue protested. “Called me a bitch. And she was totally underage.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Prick said, hands on his hips. “Go ahead and clock out. You’re gone.”

“You’re firing me?”

“Damn straight.”

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice steely. “But don’t even think about trying to stiff me for my share of the tip-out tonight. With this crowd it should be at least two hundred bucks. And I’m not leaving here until I get my money.”

“Fat chance,” he said, sneering.

She ripped off her apron and tossed it in his face. “Two hundred dollars,” she repeated. “In cash. Tonight.” On a whim she pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and held it up for him to see. “Or I call the state beverage control board and text them photos of all the shit-faced underage Barbies in here tonight. And tomorrow night your spring break bonanza comes to a screeching halt.”

 

***

 

Out in the parking lot, Drue smoothed the crumpled-up wads of bills on the front seat of the Bronco. The total came to exactly two hundred. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel. The sobs came from deep down in her chest, wracking, choking, gasping, uncontrollable sobs. After what seemed like a long time, she sat back up, pulled the Bozo’s tank top over her head, wiped her eyes and blew her nose on it. Then she tossed it out the window onto the parking lot pavement and drove home in her sports bra, which was more than a lot of women wore in Fort Lauderdale that time of year.

When she got home she sat alone in the dark for a long time in Sherri’s nearly bare condo. Her mother had sold the furnished condo at the onset of her diagnosis to help pay her medical expenses, but the new owners, snowbirds from Michigan, had allowed the two women to stay on until the end of the month, which was fast approaching.

She’d donated all Sherri’s personal effects to charity, and her own belongings were packed up too, awaiting the now-aborted move to Trey’s place. Drue stretched out on the sofa, swallowed three Advil, and eventually drifted off to a troubled sleep.

 

***

 

She was skimming along the surface of the water, the sun at her back, her red-and- white-striped kite high in the air, her boots firmly planted on the board beneath her feet. When the moment came, she bent her knees, leaned back on her heels and suddenly, gloriously, she was aloft. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline, heard her own heart pounding, the blood humming in her veins. In midair she looked around and then down, saw the bright blue curve of the ocean meeting sugary sand, tiny specks she knew to be people, toy-size cars in the parking lot.

Time and life stood still and she was flying—soaring past seagulls and pelicans and jet airplanes and billowing clouds. The wind was perfect and the kite kept her aloft, the longest hang-time ever. She closed her eyes, and then, in a split second, it happened. An arrow, a lightning bolt, a bullet, a knife blade, slashed at her right knee.

And then she was falling, endlessly spiraling down and down. She worked her feet out of the boots, feeling the board fall away. Frantically she thumbed the quick- release button on her harness again and again as the surface of the water grew nearer. She heard the splash of her body hitting the water, felt the impact on her chest and back and knees, the still-inflated kite dragging her face-first through the water, filling her eyes and nose and mouth and lungs with the burning salt water. Her body was broken and she was drowning . . .

Drue woke up, gasping for air, her body slick with sweat. She clawed at a clammy sheet that seemed to be dragging her back down beneath the surface of the water. “No, no, no,” she heard herself whimper.

Freed of the sheet, she pushed herself up to a sitting position on the sofa, her chest heaving, pulse pounding. She fumbled around on the coffee table, found her phone, thumbed the home button. It was 2:15 a.m. There would be no more sleep tonight. She could never resume sleeping after the dream descended upon her in the night, which it did regularly.

She walked stiff-legged to the kitchen, found the bag of frozen peas in the freezer, and limped back to the sofa, where she extended her right knee and applied the makeshift ice pack.

She reached for the phone, scrolling through the list of contacts until she found his number, which he’d insisted on typing into it.

“No.” Drue shook her head. She shoved the phone under the sofa cushion.

Ten minutes later, she sighed and dug the phone out from its hiding place.

She tapped the text message into the phone.

Hey Dad. About that job?

 

***

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

sunset beach. Copyright © 2019 by Whodunnit, Inc. All rights reserved.

Printed in the United States of America.

For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of   congress   cataloging-in-publication   data Names: Andrews, Mary Kay, 1954– author.

Title: Sunset beach : a novel / Mary Kay Andrews.

Description: First Edition. | New York : St. Martin’s Press, 2019.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019003126| ISBN 9781250126108 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250240453

(international, sold outside the u.s., subject to rights availability) | ISBN 9781250244529 (signed edition) | ISBN 9781250126139 (ebook)

Subjects: | GSAFD: Love stories. | Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3570.R587 S86 2019 | DDC 813/.54—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019003126

Our books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact your local bookseller or the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

First Edition: May 2019

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