Someone Else's Ocean(7)

With the back of my floorboard full of clanking wine bottles, I pulled up to my piece of paradise, which was the second to last of two identical cottage-style houses on Vista Lane. To the right of the Kemp house, large boulders crowded the beach giving it an intimate feel, and to the left of my cottage lay a large stretch of silky beige sand and an endless view of the ocean. The builder had only erected two of the three planned houses before the Kemps intercepted and bought the last available lot for more privacy. Aside from the residences on the neighboring cliffs, I basically lived on a private beach, which was the richest real estate you could find on St. Thomas. And though the houses weren’t as modern as others—built in the eighties—they were equally as inviting. Between the two-story twin dwellings lay a wide sand path which was convenient for me.

I parked my Jeep between the two porches cutting off Bobby McFerrin singing to me “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” hopped out and grabbed the flowers and wine before I dug for the last bottle lodged under my seat. I cursed my timing as I heard tires on the gravel behind me.

Crap, they’re early.

I had no idea what condition the house was in and prayed the cleaning lady had done a decent job. Finally getting a grip on the loose bottle, I pulled it out along with the flowers and caught a glance at the retreating cab before I was motored over.

The bottle I’d retrieved hit my chin and I landed on my ass with a soundless thud. Large hands gripped me by my bare shoulders and I was instantly pulled back on my feet. A man dressed in a power suit stared down at me with shattered features and tortured gray eyes. Recognition of his pain was instantaneous, and I felt despair leaking from every part of him. Through thick black lashes, ready tears threatened to spill as he assessed me to make sure I was in one piece. It was a split second before he righted me on the sand and released me with a quick and barely audible, “I’m sorry,” before he rushed away. I looked down at the crushed flowers on the ground and mourned them briefly along with dashed hopes of happy new neighbors.

If that man was one of my newlyweds, I was in for a shit two weeks.

I looked around for a bride to follow the groom and came up empty.

Shit. She left him at the altar!

My phone rattled in my pocket as I made my way toward the Kemps, my eyes in the direction of the groom, chin burning. He was standing at the edge of the water, shoulders slumped, hands in his suit pockets. Even from yards away I could see his devastation.

Poor guy. What an evil woman. How could she do that to him? Why do people do that? How do they leave someone standing at the altar thinking they are about to start the rest of their life and not show?

Even though I had made it out of New York a laughing stock with my peers, I got away with only a slightly jaded heart. And even that shit hurt. I’d been in the dating neighborhood, browsed but never decided to buy. I still had plenty of years to find Mr. Forever.

When it came to me, renting was a better option, and even with that decision, I hadn’t bothered to act on it. It seemed the ideal thing to do when one goes flying off the handle, only to abandon her life and live in a new one. I was a work in progress and love could wait.

I tried to give my jilted groom privacy as I made my way to the porch of the Kemps’ house and opened the door. It was spotless and up to standard; which was a relief. I doubted the guy would give a damn about the state of the house. I threw the broken flowers in the trash and stuck one of the wine bottles in the fridge as I eyed the window. My phone rattled again just as I pulled it out of my pocket to shoot a text to Jasmine and saw she was calling.

“Hey.”

“We have a problem,” Jasmine said without a trace of humor. That tone meant we had a serious problem.

“Oh, I can assure you we do. I’m staring at a jilted groom.”

“Jilted groom?”

“My new neighbors. It looks like the bride was a no-show.”

I’d managed to land us the Kemp account last summer when they had come to stay for a weekend before heading further south. I adored Rowan and William Kemp, they were worldly wise, extremely kind, and more than happy to hand the business over. I was sure I’d pissed on someone who had managed their rental for years, but I needed the commission. I loved the house, it was warm and inviting much like mine with subtle differences in décor. So far, the house had brought in a steady commission and was rented for every week of the summer.

“No, your bride and groom are about to pull up.”

“No,” I spoke slowly. “He’s here, she’s not.”

“Tall? Late thirties, dark hair?”

I squinted in the afternoon sun. “Yeah.”

“That’s Ian Kemp. Mrs. Kemp has been calling all morning to see if he might have shown up there.”

“Ian?” I walked out onto the porch and studied his back. “I haven’t seen him since I was seven. Well, I saw him for a few seconds when I was seventeen—”

“Babe, that’s all fine and dandy, but we have a bride and groom whose ETA is now and we have no place to put them.”

“We can relocate Ian.” Even as I said the words, I knew there was no way I was walking up to that man and asking him to leave. The look in his eyes alone would haunt me for weeks. He stood statue-still as he stared at the aqua glass water.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Uh, yeah,” Jasmine said, as I took another step forward. I had the overwhelming urge to go to him, but I was sure he wanted his space. His posture confirmed as much.