Susan Phillips - The Great Escape

“It’s a nice color,” he said.

She liked it, too, but she wasn’t exchanging polite chitchat with him. “Don’t work next to me,” she said. “Your cologne reeks.”

She’d finally managed to ruffle his phony geniality. “What are you talking about? Do you know how much this stuff costs?”

“You can’t buy good taste, Mike. Just like you can’t buy manners.”

Toby threw down his paintbrush, his face contorting with anger. “Why can’t you be nice to him?”

Mike didn’t miss a beat. “I sure would like something to drink. How about it, Bree? You got some lemonade or something in the house? A cool drink would simmer everybody down.”

Only Toby and Bree were simmering. Mike’s phony affability remained unruffled. And then he stopped painting. Not because she wanted him to stop but because he’d spotted an approaching pickup truck. A truck he apparently recognized, since he hurried to the road to flag it down.

A big salesman’s grin stretched his face as the truck stopped. “Jason, my man,” he said to the long-haired kid behind the wheel. “Have you met Bree Remington?”

She was Bree West. She hadn’t been Bree Remington in ten years.

The kid gave her a nod. Mike rested his hand on the roof of the truck. “Bree’s selling Myra’s honey now. I bet your mom would appreciate it if you brought her a couple of jars. Everybody knows Myra’s honey’s good for migraines.”

“Sure thing, Mike.”

And that was the way the rest of her afternoon went, with Mike alternating between rolling paint and flagging down customers. She stayed as far away from him as she could. Experience had taught her that whatever good deeds Mike Moody performed came with all kinds of strings attached.

By the time the day was over, the farm stand glowed under two coats of buttery yellow paint, and she’d sold eighteen jars of honey, but as Mike headed back to his car, she couldn’t find a “thank you” anywhere inside her.

LUCY FOUND HERSELF WATCHING FOR Toby as she pulled up some weeds along the porch. She hadn’t seen him in three days, not since Big Mike had taken him away. She decided to drop in at the cottage and check on him. Although she’d been out on her bike every day, she hadn’t ridden into town in nearly a week, and she needed some groceries. When she returned, she’d get to work. Really, this time. Instead of just thinking about writing, she’d sit down and actually do it.

Instead of following the back road, she took the highway, and as she rounded the bend, she saw the farm stand, no longer a dingy gray but a soft yellow. Jars of golden honey sat on the counter, and Bree was painting a fanciful carousel horse on one side of a teepee-shaped wooden sign hinged at the top. As Lucy got closer, she read the royal blue script:

Carousel Honey

Best on the island

Our honey makes your world go round

Toby sat on the counter, watching Bree, his legs dangling, a sour expression on his face. As Lucy got off her bike, Bree put down her brush. She had a splash of bright pink paint on one cheek, a dab of lime green on the other. Her sleeveless top revealed an angry red bump on her pale, freckled arm.

Toby hopped off the counter and raced over to her. “Hey, Viper. You got work for me to do?”

“Not today.” She studied the sign. “You’re a real artist, Bree. It looks great.”

“Thanks, but I’m just a dabbler.” She began maneuvering the heavy sign toward the road, being careful not to smudge the fresh paint.

Lucy hurried to help her. “You must have been working hard. Everything looks great.”

“I can be there early tomorrow,” Toby said.

Bree adjusted the sign. “You have to watch the stand in the morning while I check the hives.”

“I don’t want to watch the stand!” Toby cried.

Lucy took the pressure off Bree. “I have some other things to do tomorrow anyway.”

Bree stepped back from the sign. It was painted the same on the other side but had a slightly different message:

Carousel Honey

Memories of summer all year long

“We’ve only had ten customers all day,” Toby protested.

“It’s not even noon.” Bree gazed down the highway. “Ten customers is more than we had this time yesterday. The sign is going to help.”

She didn’t sound convinced, and Toby wasn’t buying it. “You need to get a real job,” he said.

Lucy waited for Bree to tell Toby to knock it off, but Bree acted as if she hadn’t heard, and Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from telling him herself. Instead, she said, “I’m definitely buying some on my way back from town.”

That embarrassed Bree. “You don’t have to.”

“Are you kidding? I love honey.”

“It’d be really good on your bread,” Toby said. And then, accusingly to Bree, “Viper makes bread all by herself. It’s really good, too. The best you ever tasted.”

“You bake your own bread?” Bree said.

“Sometimes. I’ll bring you a loaf.”

“That’d be— Thanks.” She reached in her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit up. Toby regarded her with disgust. She gave Lucy an apologetic grimace. “I didn’t mean to start again. It just happened.”

Lucy wasn’t entitled to pass judgment on what people did when they were stressed. A dark green sedan whizzed by. “See,” Toby said. “Your sign is stupid. Nobody’s going to buy anything.”

Lucy couldn’t stand it. “Stop giving Bree such a hard time.”

Lucy had sided with the enemy. With a scowl, Toby stalked up the drive toward the house.

Bree took a deep drag on her cigarette. It looked odd seeing someone who resembled a Victorian painting puffing away. Bree gazed at Toby’s retreating figure. “I don’t know anything about kids. As I’m sure you can see, we’re sort of a mess right now.”

“He’s scared,” Lucy said.

“I can’t imagine what was in Myra’s head making me his guardian.”

“I’m sure she thought a lot of you.”

“We were close when I was a kid, but after Star ran off—she was Toby’s mother—we only talked on the phone every few months. Star and I … We were best friends.” She flushed, as if she were embarrassed to have revealed this small bit about herself.

An ancient Crown Victoria slowed and pulled over next to Bree’s new sign. Lucy left her to tend to her customer and biked on into town.

By the time she’d bought her groceries and two small pots of herbs for the baker’s rack on the porch, her pack was too heavy to add more, so she stopped on her way back and told Bree she’d come over the next day to pick up her honey.

“Really. You don’t have to.” Bree smiled, the first Lucy had seen. “The sign’s working. Three more cars have stopped. I’ve sold six jars. And your honey is on the house.”

Lucy wanted to argue, but she understood this was Bree’s way of thanking her for helping with Toby. Another customer slowed. Lucy waved at Bree and took off.

By the time she’d reached Goose Cove Lane, she’d made a mental note to bake bread first thing tomorrow so she could take some with her. She turned into the drive and laid on the brakes. A car was parked by the house.

A dark gray SUV with Illinois plates.

LUCY WAS FURIOUS. SHE SLAMMED the door behind her, dropped her backpack, and stomped down the front hallway, passing the empty wall space where the baker’s rack should never have been in the first place.

Panda was in the sunroom, his back to the windows, his eyes on her. She hardly recognized him. His wild mane had been cut and tamed into something respectable, although she suspected that wouldn’t last for long. He was clean-shaven, or as clean-shaven as he’d ever get, and he wore a neatly pressed gray dress shirt with equally neat dark gray pants, both a far cry from the cheap suit he’d worn to her wedding. It was disconcerting seeing him dressed like a reputable businessman, but she wasn’t fooled. Beneath all that good grooming was a renegade biker who’d taken advantage of her, then called her a bad lover.

His gaze went to the fire-breathing dragon crawling up her neck, then to her fake pierced eyebrow, and two things were immediately clear. He was no happier to see her than she was to see him. And he wasn’t alone.

A woman stood next to him, her back to Lucy, her attention fixed on the view of the cove through the sparkling windows. Lucy gave Panda her iciest glare. “Patrick.”

He knew exactly how much she loathed seeing him, and his aloofness equaled her own, which made her even angrier. He had no right to act as though he’d been the injured party.

You weren’t that good anyway.

“I told you not to make any changes.” His displeasure couldn’t have been more obvious, but she didn’t care.

“Sorry, but I had orders from the health department.” She pulled off her ball cap, revealing her freshly colored purple dreads. The clutter in the bookcases was gone, the shelves neatly arranged, and the grimy sisal rug that should have been thrown out years ago was nowhere to be seen. She’d edited the mishmash of shabby furniture down to a chest, a few tables, and the sofa and chairs she and Toby had dragged in from the living room. Even without new paint, the space was homey and inviting.

The woman, her spine ramrod stiff, still hadn’t turned from the window. She wore an oversize black tunic top, black slacks, and stilettos. Her straight dark hair hung to her shoulders, and her ring-less hands looked too large for her wrists.

“Panda has assured me that I can count on you for discretion.” She spoke in a low-pitched, slightly husky voice, but something about her authoritarian tone suggested she preferred full volume.

“No problem,” Lucy said. “I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave.” The woman’s large hands fisted at her sides, but she still didn’t turn.

Lucy gave Panda a poisonous look. “If Panda tries something, you can always call the police.”

“There has to be another female here,” the woman said in her eerily quiet drill sergeant’s voice. “I understand you’ve been through a lot lately, but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

So Panda had told her who Lucy was. Another indication that he had no moral compass.

“Normally, I’d offer to pay you,” she said, “but … that seems a little insulting.”

A little? The woman didn’t appear overawed at being with a member of the former first family, which suggested she was accustomed to celebrities. Lucy’s curiosity got the best of her. “Why is it so important?”

The woman’s head came up another inch. “Before I explain, I don’t suppose you’d consider signing a confidentiality agreement?”

She had to be kidding.

“Lucy has a lot of faults”—Panda leaned on that last word—“but she has too much at stake herself to go around blowing anyone else’s cover.”

“So you said.” The woman straightened her shoulders. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, not something I’m good at.” A gull swooped by the window. And then she turned. Slowly … Dramatically … A tragic queen facing the guillotine.

Enormous black sunglasses concealed much of her face. She was tall and statuesque, a little overweight underneath that voluminous tunic top. She wore no jewelry, nothing to call attention to herself except the inappropriateness of all that black on a warm June day. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she took off her sunglasses. She folded in the stems, then raised her chin and gazed at Lucy.

She was attractive—dark, almond-shaped eyes; good cheekbones; a strong nose—but her full mouth could have used a slick of lip gloss, and a little makeup would have done wonders for her sallow complexion. Not that Lucy was one to criticize anyone else’s makeup application, since she was wearing brown lipstick and had thick kohl smudges both above and below her lashes.

The dramatic way the woman stood before her indicated she expected Lucy to say something, but since Lucy had no idea—

And then she understood. Whoa.

“Lucy, I’m sure you’ve heard of Temple Renshaw,” Panda said, all business.

Temple Renshaw, the Evil Queen of the celebrity fitness gurus and star of Fat Island, a horrible reality show that shamed its participants by exiling them to a place “where no one has to look at you.” She’d built her career on humiliation and degradation, and photographs of her panther-sleek body were everywhere—on the labels of her fitness drinks, her power bars, her extensive line of exercise wear. But those photographs only remotely resembled this woman draped in black—a woman with full cheeks and a plump little cushion of fat under her chin.

“As you can see,” Temple said, “I’m obese.”

Lucy swallowed. “I’d hardly say you were obese.” Temple still looked better than most of the tourists who got off the ferry. But that didn’t mean she was the lithe willow the public knew so well.