Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [7]
“I’m content. For now. Things might have turned out differently if they hadn’t caught the punk who killed my family. They gunned him down right outside my house. I would have hunted him down and killed him myself. There’s nothing back there for me now.” His voice was defiant when he said, “I like it here.”
“Yeah, I can see that. Kind of small, though. How about I stay around long enough to help you build another room on to this . . . stilt house? Remember when we helped Pop build a sunroom for Mom? I’m free as the breeze for the next six months. Let me help, Tick. I need to do something for you. If you’re writing another book and need to concentrate on that, I can do it on my own. I was always better at the hammer-and-nails thing than you were. Even Pop said so. A nice big room with wall-to-wall windows so you can see the ocean. Maybe a big fancy bathroom. By the way, do you own this place?”
“Yeah. I bought it a few years ago from the village. It’s kind of complicated. Everyone in the village is related. Indian heritage. This Key is the result of some kind of land grant. One of the elders came out here one day, and he had this big stick. He asked me to follow him, and he kept dragging the stick; and then he said everything within the lines was mine. He held out his hand, we shook, and I paid him two thousand dollars. That’s all he wanted. He signed his name on a piece of paper, and I signed mine. End of story.”
All Pete could think of to say was, “Uh-huh.”
Tick remembered that he was a host. “Want a beer?”
Pete’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You drink?”
“A beer now and then. I learned my lesson, I know my limitations. I don’t crave it, if that’s your next question. It’s nice to see you, Pete. I mean that. I guess I wasn’t very hospitable when you showed up. I didn’t quite know what to do. I’ve been running from the past, then, suddenly, there you were, front and center.”
Pete nodded. “No social life, eh?”
Tick laughed. “I guess what you’re asking me is do I miss sex?” He laughed again. “I go into Miami every so often. I bought a cigarette boat. I see a lady there at times. She’s one of those people who knows everything there is to know about computers. It’s what it is. So, do you want that beer or not?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Tick, I do. Having a beer with my brother . . . it doesn’t get any better than that.”
Tick looked at his twin for a long minute. “You’re right, Pete. And yeah, you can stay, and yeah, we can build the room. It will be like old times.”
Pete let his breath out in a loud swoosh. “I didn’t bring anything with me. I’ll have to go back to the Keys to get my stuff. You got some old shorts or old clothes? I’m sweating like a Trojan.”
“I’ll run you down there tomorrow,” Tick said, tossing him a pair of khaki shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. “Bathroom is in there,” he added, pointing to his left. “I’ll get the beer, and we can sit on the porch. It sits two.”
Pete guffawed. “I noticed.”
And then it was like old times, two brothers who actually liked one another, talking about world affairs, women, work, and the weather as they shared a beer.
Then they were on the little porch, Pete on the swing, Tick on the chair, his feet propped up on the banister. “Tell me about the lady you’re going to marry.”
“She’s great, Tick. You’re going to like her. She’s grounded. I know she works for the State Department, but that’s all I know. She doesn’t talk about what she does. I don’t know if it’s need to know or she just isn’t comfortable talking about her job. She must be well paid because she has enough money to invest in our business. Her name is Sadie. Her real name is Serafina. She’s Italian. Mom would have loved her. We call and e-mail. But there are times where she’s off-line for weeks. She never gives