Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [30]
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Pete. I learned a long time ago never to sell yourself short. Like Mom always said, everything happens for a reason. Accept that Sadie wasn’t the right one. And, you did see it, you just chose to do nothing about it. You’re doing okay, right? If you don’t need her financing, get over it and move on. Life is too short for the would-haves, the could-haves, and the should-haves. Move on.”
Pete slurped the last of the blueberry juice out of his paper cone, his lips as blue as the coloring in the hot-day treat. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve the way he used to do when he was a kid. Tick did the same thing. “Yeah, like you did?”
“That was a low blow, and you know it. That’s like talking apples and oranges. Sally died,” Tick said flatly. “Sadie married some British diplomat. I rest my case.”
Suddenly contrite, Pete said, “I didn’t mean it like that, Tick.”
“I know you didn’t. Come on, let’s head back to the boat. Jesus, it must be one hundred and ten degrees. The humidity is unbearable. When we get home, I’ll make us a big pitcher of ice-cold lemonade, and we’ll sit on the porch. You can bring me up to date on Atlanta, and I’ll bring you up to date on Mango Key. How’s that sound?”
“Pretty damn good. Can you make the lemonade the way Mom made it, real sweet and tart, with the lemon peels in the pitcher?”
“You know it, bro,” Tick said, slapping his brother on the back. It was the signal from childhood for both to sprint forward and race the other to the marina. Tick won by a hair. Both men were laughing as they climbed aboard the Miss Sally. Tobias waited until Tick checked his purchases to make sure everything was intact before he released the mooring line. He waved happily, the hefty tip Tick had slipped him deep in his pocket.
The short ride to Mango Key was exhilarating, the ocean spray bathing both brothers as they roared through the water at close to ninety miles an hour. “Don’t go getting the idea that I speed like this all the time, I don’t. I don’t need the Coast Guard hauling me in and breathing down my neck. I just wanted to cool us off,” Tick said, easing up on the throttle. Off in the distance, he could see one of the Coast Guard boats on its daily patrol. He eased up even more on the throttle, making it easier to be heard.
“What’s that?” Pete asked, pointing to the structure down the beach from Tick’s house on stilts.
“That, Pete, is my new neighbor. Short-term, I’m told. I think they’re feds, probably DEA. I checked it out earlier this morning with the town elder. It’s a prefab building. I wouldn’t want to swear to it, but I think the men you heard talking this morning might have something to do with what’s going on. What that is, I have no idea.”
“What about that thing?”
“I guess it’s still there. I haven’t been down that way in a few weeks. The last two weeks, I was working around the clock. I woke up this morning and saw that damn prefab, and it pissed me off. If it stays up longer than a month or so, I’ll be looking for other accommodations.”
“Damn, Tick, are you ever going to come out of this self-imposed exile? Eight years is a hell of a long time to be so alone. It’s not healthy, and you damn well know it. You have to get back among the living. I’m not saying you have to go back to being a cop or even come back to Atlanta, but you need to . . . to socialize. Talk to people other than that damn parrot. How about coming back and helping me run the bar? We could expand, do all kinds of things. You could still write. Will you think about it?”
“No. I’m quite happy here. Look, Pete, I can’t go back to Atlanta. Not now, not ever. Don’t try throwing that cemetery business in my face either.