Just in case, though, as I park I murmur, “Stay in the car. Don’t unfasten your seat belt. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come in. If you see them coming back, get under the back seat and text me. Don’t come out no matter what you hear, if that happens.”
“Okay, Dad,” Eli whispers.
His face is still pale, but he’s steady and listening attentively.
He’s a good kid.
If anything goes wrong, I know he’ll do what’s right.
Clapping his shoulder one more time, I step out of the SUV, slam the door shut, and lock it before approaching The Nest slowly.
One glance makes my stomach twist like a stripped screw.
I can already see the mess inside, a tangle of chaos in the smoky golden light spilling through the tall windows out front.
Looks like the place was tossed, a whirlwind of papers and disposable cups and coffee grounds flung everywhere. The confections in the display case are ruined, right down to the grubby fingerprints gouged through a cake, leaving furrows through the icing.
My eyes search frantically and I double my steps, reaching for the door.
That’s when I see something worse.
Right there in the middle of the bedlam.
Kneeling on the floor.
Felicity Randall.
She’s got her face buried in her hands, her hair tumbled over her face in mahogany ribbons, her slim shoulders heaving as she sobs and sobs and sobs.
Fuck.
3
Black Gold (Felicity)
A Few Hours Ago
Seriously.
I’d like to know just once who and what I pissed off in a past life.
A witch? A djinn? A particularly cantankerous old herbalist, maybe?
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure somebody cursed my soul for the next thousand years, and even now they’re punishing me for a past crime from beyond the grave.
That’s the only reason I could possibly be walking out of Mitch’s garage with a little black book in my hand filled with Dad’s handwriting.
Before everything went digital, most men kept little black books of women’s phone numbers. One-night stands, regular hookups, whatever.
I wish that was as far as Dad’s dirty little secrets went.
What’s actually there in the crabbed handwriting that goes on for pages and pages?
Trouble, guaranteed, and not the sexy scorned lover kind.
I only flicked through it for less than a minute and I already know it. Even if I’m not quite sure just what sort of trouble’s lurking there yet.
It sits on the seat of my old station wagon like a menacing hitchhiker, watching me expectantly as I make the drive back to The Nest, trying not to shudder.
I left my part-timers to close up the shop, but I still need to roast a fresh batch of beans and do some accounting catchup. I always prefer the after-hours quiet when no one’s around. Then I can relax with the beans, the numbers, and a little music.
But I won’t be able to settle in until I look at this thing head-on and see what it is.
With a deep breath, I park and settle the book in my lap, steeling myself.
I catch the corner of the book and flip it open, forcing my eyes down to the pages.
I’m really not expecting to see...flight logs?
That’s what it looks like.
I wasn’t all that deep into Dad’s business. I just knew he flew a charter plane, and sometimes he told me to hide in the back of the house when he flew for certain people who pulled up outside our house with trunks full of wrapped cargo.
No buzzing until they’re gone, Little Bee, he’d say.
But I was already too old to be oblivious, to think it was just a fun little game.
I remember seeing things in passing here and there, enough to make these harsh black lines familiar. It’s definitely Dad’s handwriting, a bunch of notations that look like dates and travel data.
Flight paths, passengers, cargos in code words I can’t decipher, departure and arrival times.
It’s so bizarre that he hid this under the seat of the truck.
Especially since his plane disappeared the same day he was found dead in the same truck of an apparent drug overdose.
I really don’t know if things were worse before or after he died.
The heroin, the shady deals for cash, the creepy people around the house...all of that was pretty bad. But after he died, suddenly there were even scarier people sniffing around, and all the rumors about him, about Mom, about me started spreading like wildfire.
Not that I haven’t made it worse with a few desperate mistakes of my own.
Everett Peters, my one-time investor, seemed so charming on the surface.
And the fact that he was oh-so-willing to invest in The Nest and Heart’s Edge for basically a song and a smile? Ugh.
I should’ve realized something was up.
Long before my cousin and I were tied up in the burning basement of a theater while her then-husband-to-be came rushing to the rescue with all the big boys of Heart’s Edge for backup. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about that scary business ever since.
What else is new?
I’ve been keeping people’s secrets my entire life.
Right now, though, I’m entirely done with my father’s.
I close the book with a sharp snap and chuck it into the glove compartment.
I don’t even want to look at it again, even if it might give me answers about the way he died.
Do I really need to know? Do I need to pour salt in wounds that took ages to scab over?
I can still hear him in my head, his jagged voice, dripping with desperation like the sweat on his brow.
I swear, Little Bee, I’m clean.
You’ll see, just give me some time and I’ll take care of you and your mom and—
God.
“It’s not worth knowing shit,” I whisper to myself.
It’s not worth carrying more damning secrets, more curses.
I have beans to roast. Books to balance. Thirsts to quench to tomorrow.
And then I think I’d love to actually curl up with my dog and get some sleep.
So I let myself into my sanctuary, breathing in a scent that’s always felt like my true home. My place is full of too many old memories of my family, but The Nest...
It’s mine.
Maybe it used to be my parents’, but I’ve renovated it and made it my own with little touches of curling arboreal ironwork. Unvarnished wood tones for a welcoming homey feel, the long bar where people can gather for a sense of community.
Plus the hanging exposed bulbs creating dim, intimate enclosures of light in carefully spaced seats that let people feel like they’re in their own worlds—while still always being well-positioned to hear the live music. I’ve started attracting more artists, after a few others heard about Peace’s frequent evening serenades.
Stepping inside the well-placed pools of light and shadow in the café brings me instant peace. It’s like my lungs were collapsed, but now they reinflate, reborn in the mingled scents of strong roasts soothed by bold citrus and creamy sweetness.
I made that fragrance.
It’s me.
There’s a certain pride to it, no question.
Especially after too many people have accused me of sleeping with anyone who’ll throw a few bucks my way to stay afloat. I know what it actually took to keep this place going, to make it beautiful, to make it my world to share.