Page 22 of Under Pressure
“This isn’t healthy,” Polly said, signaling around.
“I’m not going to eat it all, woman,” Don snapped.
“That’s not what—”
Nancy gave an almost imperceptive shake of her head, and Polly quietened up, then Nancy pointed to the pictures. “So what’s all this?”
Rosa and Winnie were each gingerly picking through the photos.
“I didn’t know there were this many eligible women of this age group in Diamond Cove,” Winnie said with some awe in her voice.
“Me either,” Rosa chuckled.
Samantha pointed at another photo with a dainty, white-tipped nail. “Is that Rita?”
Don glanced down at the table, and sure enough, there was Rita, one of the high school interns who worked at The Palms. Don admitted a soft spot for the gal after he’d taught her to drive last year. What the heck was her photo doing there? He snatched that one up too.
“And Misty?” Samantha asked. Misty was The Palms’ Receptionist.
Don grabbed that one next. Nothing wrong with Misty, except that she was all wrong for Sean.
“I know it’s not officially my turn in the lineup, but Sean needs a woman. ASAP.” Don rested his hands on his hips, the rogue pictures still in his grasp. “He was close with his grandma, and he’s a caretaker to boot. He’s not handling this well. You saw how he was cramming those pastries in his face.”
“He’s not the only one not handling this well,” Polly said under her breath.
Harry shrugged. “Don’s just being productive.”
Don ignored his friends. “Sean’s coming to pieces. He needs us.” He glanced around the group. “This is what Amelia would want. So, what do you say?”
Nancy took a deep breath, and checked in with each of the members of the group. The men shrugged. Polly rolled her eyes and gave a resounding nod, then Rosa and Winnie did too. Then Nancy straightened her shoulders and turned to him. “Where would you like us to start?”
Warmth filled him for these wonderful people who always had his back; who would have his back now when he most needed it. “Let’s narrow down our candidates.”
2
Chapter 2
Blue
Bluebell St. James stood on the edge of the fifty-foot cliff, the Diamond Cove lighthouse at her back, staring out over the ocean. The yellow building with white trim behind her was ideally placed to draw the eye, and tourists, because it was so beautiful—a literal beacon of light. And it was large. Not only was there a house attached, that used to belong to the lighthouse keeper until everything went digital, but it also had a large hall that was now used for functions of all sorts. Bluebell loved this building. She’d only been living in Diamond Cove for a few months, but it was in this spot, next to this old lighthouse, where she found refuge.
The cool morning breeze brushed over her bare legs, raisinggoosebumps, but her arms were spared by her Rashguard swim top with its long sleeves. In the distance, a large, white speed boat glittered in the morning sun. The image of it reminded her of a painting, a boat headed for shore after a morning spent searching for treasures? Probably redfish or trout. She took a deep breath, and then another, then closed her eyes for just a moment, breathing in the crisp, salty morning air.
She loved mornings like these, mornings where there were no expectations of her, no decisions to be made. Just her and the ocean . . . and that boat. Soon, she’d have to snap out of it—head back to real life, if her life could be called real.
Melancholy brushed past like a soft touch from the ghosts of her past, slowly caressing from her head to her toes, as it so often did. But she straightened her shoulders and shook her head to fend off the feelings that had been so prevalent in her life. She had a rule. Those feelings could come. She’d allow herself to feel them, really breathe them in, and then she let them go like a feather on the wind. Dwelling never helped anyone.
“Oh, Carl, look how beautiful!” A feminine gasp came from behind her, and Blue glanced over her shoulder. A group of about half a dozen senior tourists were coming up the hill from the lighthouse parking lot. They were a good hundred yards away, but their voices carried in the perfectly silent space.
“Look at that girl!” Another feminine voice called out.
The group was all smiles, big hats, noses covered in sunblock, and . . .cameras.
Shoot. She glanced down at the waterproof watch her fiancé, Jonah, had given her a few months ago. Six-thirty a.m.? Who went on tours at six-thirty a.m.? The sun was barely up, just peeking over the horizon now.
She faced out to the ocean once more, then leaned over and tightened her water shoes. She’d meant to spend more time uphere. There were things she needed to think over, but where there were cameras, there could never be a St. James.
She and her dad may have been on the run from the Chicago Outfit for the last fourteen years, and The Outfit may still think they were dead, but that didn’t mean that one post to a social media site that caught the wrong eye, wouldn’t ruin all of their years in hiding. And then they’d have to run. Again.
