Moondance Beach Page 13

  Clancy was similar to Duncan in one respect—he’d escaped Bayberry Island after high school and had graduated from college on the mainland. His life had led him to serve four years as a Boston cop, and then, when old Chief Pollard was getting ready to retire, he’d asked Clancy if he would consider coming back and taking over the Bayberry Police Department. Duncan had warned him it was a bad move, that he could get stuck here forever with the falling-down bed-and-breakfast, the elderly parents, and the burden of being a Flynn. Clancy did it anyway.

  Duncan had seen a big change in his brother now that Evelyn and Christina were in the picture. Clancy had that blissed-out look of a man with his life on lock—he had a job he loved and that challenged him, while having a peaceful home life with a wife and a kid who adored him almost as much as he adored them.

  Rarely had Duncan pictured that kind of happiness for himself. He’d seen the sacrifices Navy SEAL wives had to make, and Duncan had decided he couldn’t put someone through that. So his relationships with women tended toward hot, tumultuous, and short-lived, usually because the women soon decided they liked the idea of dating a SEAL more than the actual SEAL. Some women had been determined to “fix” him, smooth him out, make him more loving and patient and carefree. In other words, turn him into Clancy.

  Not ever gonna happen.

  “Any questions?” Chip leaned against the reception desk in the police department lobby.

  “I got it.”

  “You’re our eyes and ears out there.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Just then Duncan heard a skittering sound from around the corner, and he saw that little dog come barreling toward him. “Incoming,” he mumbled, as the thing jumped up into his arms just like the last time he was there.

  Chip seemed happy to see the dog. “Ondine really likes you. She doesn’t run to anyone else like that.”

  “I’m honored.” Suddenly, Duncan got a noseful of fruity sweetness and saw that the dog had been washed, fluffed, trimmed—and accessorized. She had a small pink bow stuck to her head to match the small pink tongue that lolled out the side of her mouth.

  “We got her groomed.”

  “Lookin’ good.” He put her down on the floor, and she began running in circles in front of Duncan’s feet. “Energetic little bugger.”

  “You sure you don’t want her? We can’t find anyone to take her, and she obviously loves you. That’s why we got her groomed—you know, to make her more adoptable.”

  Duncan laughed. “I’m a U.S. Navy SEAL, Chip. The only dogs we have are trained to sniff explosives and find enemy hideouts. Can Ondine do that?”

  While they looked down to see the creature licking herself, Chip said, “No problem. I just thought, you know, if it turned out you weren’t going back to active duty, then maybe you could take her.”

  Duncan’s entire body went deadly still. His mind emptied out. “Who said I wasn’t going back?”

  Chip looked startled. “Nobody! I just thought—”

  “Hey, no problem.” Duncan patted him on the arm. “I’ll report in later today. Have a good one.”

  As Duncan headed for the door, he heard Chip snatch the dog as she tried to follow him.

  What the hell? Why would Chip even think that?

  Duncan made his way through the narrow, cobblestone streets of Bayberry’s oldest section, nicknamed Cod Hill. It was built in the 1880s, back when the island was booming and housing couldn’t be erected fast enough to meet the needs of the fishermen and their families. The very street Duncan now walked along was often featured in tourist brochures along with words like “quaint” and “picturesque.” Right now “suffocating” was more like it. He couldn’t shake off the claustrophobia Chip’s comment had brought on. Had someone implied that Duncan wouldn’t or couldn’t go back to his full duties? Had someone said they wished he wouldn’t?

  He tugged at the neckline of the too-small polo shirt, suddenly feeling like he couldn’t get enough air. He didn’t want anyone—even his mother—talking about what he should or should not do. He wanted his family and anyone else who was interested in the direction of his career to just back the hell off.

  As it was, sooner or later he would have to tell his family what happened at Little Creek. All he’d shared was that the meeting with his commanding officer went well and that he would return in September for physical screening and medical testing. All that was true. What he hadn’t mentioned was that he was to be awarded the Purple Heart for injuries sustained in the field of battle, and the ceremony would take place in the fall.

  He knew why he hadn’t told them. He didn’t feel worthy. He didn’t want a medal. All he wanted was to go back in time to the night of the ambush and save Justin and the rest of his insertion team.

  Duncan shook off his melancholy and focused on the view below him—Bayberry’s historic wharf under a bright blue summer sky. The rear of the museum was straight ahead. Like most of the redbrick buildings and warehouses along the wharf, the museum was once part of his family’s business. Even decades of disuse, wind, and sea spray couldn’t erase the huge white letters soaked up by the porous brick: FLYNN FISHERIES, EST. 1879.

  As he continued down the hill, Duncan had a bird’s-eye view of the parade floats, which were bunched together in a disorganized lump resembling an interstate accident scene. It made him laugh—somehow, some way, the islanders always managed to pull this week off. The Mermaid Festival was held year after year without fail, with only a four-year pause during World War II. For the first time since Duncan was in high school, he would be around to see it unfold from start to finish. Ever since he’d left for college sixteen years before, the only event he made a point of returning for was the Flynn family cookout on the Wednesday of festival week. It was a promise he had managed to keep to his mother. Everything else was hit or miss, depending on his orders and his leave.

  He stepped around a line of porta-potties and entered the mayhem of tuba players, papier-mâché-encrusted floats, Shriners, politicians, clowns, shiny fire trucks, and garden-variety crazy people. If anyone ever wanted a visual for why the Bayberry Island Mermaid Festival was called the Mardi Gras of New England, this would do it.

  Duncan had reentered the world he’d tried to avoid since the day he was born, a world where it was de rigueur for grown men to be dressed as pirates, sea captains, sharks, mermen, and even versions of Neptune himself. Where women of every conceivable shape, size, and height swam in a teeming sea of mermaids. (Always a safe bet: each float would feature at least one mermaid sitting on some sort of throne.)

  Within minutes Duncan had homed in on the person in charge. It was his personal favorite among his mother’s mermaids, the unsinkable Polly Estherhausen. She looked particularly fetching in a multicolored sequined mermaid skirt and a bikini top made of coconuts topped off with a red-and-white-checked flannel shirt. She was also missing her long mermaid wig, so short gray spikes stuck up all around her multiple ear piercings.

  Her eyes flashed his way, and she raised her clipboard in praise. “Oh, thank God! The cavalry’s here!” She hugged Duncan and thanked him for offering to help with the parade. She planted a menthol-scented kiss on his cheek, adding, “Though I suspect you didn’t exactly volunteer.”

  For the next hour or so, he and Polly divided and conquered. They walked through the bedlam and managed to get each float, musical act, random costumed person, baton twirler, and VIP in the proper order. Duncan finished up with the Falmouth High School color guard and went to meet up with Polly.

  That’s when he saw her.

  Adelena Silva was attempting to climb up on the Safe Haven Bed and Breakfast float, but she was having trouble. It seemed her skintight blue-green mermaid skirt didn’t allow for the leg movement needed to hoist oneself onto an elaborately decorated flatbed truck. Instinctively, Duncan rushed to help her but then froze as he came up behind her.

  Taking a breath, he said, “Can I help?”

  Lena froze, too. Slowly, she t
urned her head and looked up over her shoulder into his eyes. Duncan swallowed hard. That maddening painting had come to life, and the well-sexed siren he’d last seen lounging on the sea floor just placed her hand in his. “Thank you,” she said.

  And that left Duncan with a question of simple physics. Since she was unable to bend her knees enough to reach the running board, there were only two choices: Lena would have to remove her skirt or Duncan would have to pick her up and carry her on board. She seemed to understand the dilemma before he could spell it out for her.

  “Uh-oh,” she said.

  “Yeah. Do you have a pair of shorts on under that thing?” As soon as Duncan said those words he knew it was a ridiculous question. That mermaid skirt was so tight it hugged every slight variance in her shape, all the way down to the ankles, where the fantail flared open to reveal a pair of delicate seashell sandals.

  Lena glanced down at herself and laughed. “There’s barely room for me under this getup. I’m afraid someone’s going to have to carry me.” Just then a frown crinkled between her eyebrows. “I can find someone else if you’d rather not do this.”

  That stung. Clearly, Lena would prefer he not put his hands on her, and he didn’t blame her. “I promise I can do it without losing my sense of propriety.”

  She smiled at him. Oh, damn, but she was pretty—otherworldly pretty. Her face, chest, and arms had been dusted with some kind of iridescent powder, which highlighted her already spectacular seashell-covered breasts. Her lips were a deep rose, sparkly and soft. Her hair was shiny and straight and tossed over her shoulder. Her eyes had been made-up with a thick swoosh of eyeliner, mascara, and an even more sparkly eye shadow. Yet somehow, despite all this, she managed not to look like a caricature. Lena looked like a beautiful, perfect . . . mermaid.

  “I won’t aggravate your injury?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s do it.” She turned around to face him and reached up to rest her hands on his shoulders. Duncan reached underneath her thighs and behind her back and tossed her up into his arms. She weighed next to nothing. Lena wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’m ready if you are,” she said.

  Duncan wished he had two hundred steps to take instead of two, so he took his time getting onto the truck. He could feel the firmness of her thighs and the swell of her ass. His hand was wrapped around the bare skin of her back and side—hot and soft. So that he could prolong the inevitable, Duncan carried her over to the sequin-covered half shell that was positioned in the center of the float. It was obviously the mermaid’s throne.

  He carefully placed her in position and let her body slip from his arms. While he was already bent, he gave her a bow. “Madam,” he said.

  She laughed, reaching for the rhinestone crown propped against the base of the shell. She placed it on top of her head. “Am I straight?”

  “Hooya,” he said, which made her laugh again.

  Just then two young women working as seasonal help at the B and B clambered onto the float in their mermaid costumes, laughing and talking and clearly having no trouble hopping on board. Duncan and Lena both stared at the construction of their mermaid skirts.

  Both costumes were unzipped all the way from the fantail to the upper thigh, leaving room to kickbox if they wanted to. The girls quickly zipped the skirts closed before they took their positions on the two smaller shells, then waved at Lena. She waved back.

  Lena said, “Well, that answers that.”

  “I guess real mermaids don’t need zippers,” Duncan said, smiling. “Enjoy the parade.”

  Duncan continued smiling the rest of the day, even when every member of the New Bedford show choir complained about the sound check for their wireless mikes and threatened to pull their act from the parade.

  “We’re sure gonna miss that Lady Gaga medley,” he said as he left to meet up with Polly.

  “Is it any wonder I drink?” she asked Duncan.

  “Hell, no.”

  “So did Lena get situated all right?”

  Duncan’s head snapped around. Sure, he liked Polly, but the truth was, she was first and foremost a member of the Mermaid Society. And Duncan knew that group of women was always up to no good. “Her mermaid skirt didn’t have a zipper.”

  Polly shrugged. “That’s a custom skirt for ya.”

  “Why is she wearing a custom skirt?”

  “Mona gave it to her.”

  The situation didn’t smell right. If Duncan allowed himself to go there, he could see a connection between Rowan being there in the kitchen that night, Ma giving Lena a zipperless skirt, Clancy asking him to help out at the parade and sending him out in public in a too-tight shirt, and Lena needing someone to help her onto the parade float just as he walked by.

  To most people, that kind of conspiracy theory would seem beyond all possibility since it required a ridiculous amount of collaboration and a bit of omniscience on his mother’s part.

  But most people didn’t know his mother. Or her fellow mermaids.

  “Polly, you know I’m leaving, right? You know I’m going back to full duty.”

  She draped a red and white flannel arm over his shoulder. “Of course you are, and you make all of us proud.”

  “I’m off-limits for your mermaid bullshit. You know that, right?”

  Polly sighed. “You’re being outrageously paranoid, Lieutenant Flynn. By the way, nice shirt.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The most family-friendly day of festival week was Island Day, the Sunday when Main Street shut down and the street and public dock became an open-air market, a tent city of commerce, refreshment, and entertainment.

  By ten a.m., Bayberry was busting at the seams, and Clancy looked as if he were about to do the same. Though the event had just opened, Duncan had already watched his brother deal with an entire day’s worth of crises. There was a boat collision with injuries near the public dock, and both operators faced DUI charges. About six thousand dollars’ worth of hammered silver bracelets and necklaces had been stolen from a vendor’s car trunk. One of the chili cook-off judges had gone into labor and was on a helicopter bound for Martha’s Vineyard Hospital. And Ondine, the dog, had bolted from the police station and was last seen eating out of a garbage Dumpster behind Frankie’s Fish-n-Chips.

  Duncan had been taking orders since before the sun came up. Clancy sent him to direct last-minute vendor traffic arriving by the car ferry. Next up was helping a freaked-out teenager who’d locked his boss’s keys in a van full of iced cupcakes. Next Duncan was dispatched to repair the diesel generator used to keep the street fair’s favorite ice cream stand up and running.

  “At least the weather’s clear for the time being.” Clancy yanked off his ball cap and rubbed his hand through his hair. “There’s a possible cyclone making its way north. It has the potential to wash out the closing ceremony. Good God, it’s always something.” He shoved his cap back on his head.

  “You look pretty washed-out right now, yourself,” Duncan said.

  His little brother shook his head and then checked his vibrating pager. “Nope. I can’t be. I got six more days of this shit, so if you see me in a corner somewhere, curled up in the fetal position, just kick me till I snap out of it.”

  Duncan chuckled, but Clancy’s comment made him think. When they were kids, Duncan wasn’t the nicest big brother in the world and had, on occasion, kicked his little brother when he was down.

  “I think I’ve given you enough beat-downs for one lifetime,” Duncan said.

  A slow smile spread across Clancy’s face. “Yeah. But after this week, we’ll be even.”

  The two brothers grinned at each other, and something passed between them that didn’t require words. Though he didn’t have much experience with this sort of thing, Duncan was pretty sure he’d just apologized to Clancy for all the crap he’d put him through, and Clancy had accepted his apology. It felt pretty awesome.

  “So anything in particular you want me to do next, Chief?”


  Clancy patted him on the back. “Just walk the rows if you don’t mind. Keep your eyes peeled. If any of the vendors need anything, do what you can to keep them happy. Radio in if something goes down.”

  “You got it.”

  “Oh, and if you see that damn Ondine, grab her, will you? I think we’ve found a nice tourist family to take her.”

  “Roger that.”

  So about an hour later Duncan found himself finishing his first lap through the jam-packed pedestrian thoroughfares between tents. The air was heavy with the scent of fried seafood, sausage, funnel cakes, popcorn, and barbecue, all doing battle with the chili cook-off downwind. Two music acts duked it out from opposite ends of the event, creating a mishmash of country and calypso. Tourists were attempting to dodge foot traffic while carrying their loot of wood carvings, shell crafts, blown glass, sand paintings, and mermaid paraphernalia ranging from clothing, jewelry, coffee mugs, and press-on tattoos to dream catchers, wind chimes, posters, flags, beer cozies, and garden sculptures. Along the way he reunited a crying toddler with his crying mother and unsuccessfully tried to catch two stray dogs, neither of which were the lovely and fragrant Ondine.

  As Duncan approached the end of the arts-and-crafts row, he heard a ruckus nearby. It seemed to be coming from a tent set off by itself, nearly twice the size of the standard vendor stall. By the time he got to the scene, two women in their thirties were well on their way to tearing each other’s hair out.

  “All right, ladies. Come on, now. There’s no need for this.” Duncan pressed his body between them and got slapped on the ass for his trouble. For an instant he was speechless.

  “I’m sorry!” The woman in a mermaid T-shirt covered her mouth in horror. “I didn’t mean to touch your butt! I was trying to hit her!” She pointed around Duncan toward her sparring partner.

  “She started it!” the woman in full-metal-jacket mermaid attire screamed in Duncan’s ear. “She cut in line! I was here first, and I’ve been waiting more than an hour!”