Scarlet Stone Page 2

  Adjusting my neck pillow, I close my eyes. “I’ll take it.”

  “I haven’t told you the price. You haven’t filled out an application. I’ll need references.”

  I smile, keeping my eyes closed. “What’s the price?”

  “A grand a month.”

  After giving it no more than ten seconds of consideration, I reply, “Done.”

  “What about references?”

  “We have eleven hours to get personal, Mr. Moore.” Mr. Chatty. “Let me know if you still need references once we land.”

  I capture a bit of sleep in the few lulls of our conversation. A true miracle. Sleep might be an overstatement. I can’t stop thinking about communal underwear. Really, everything that touches my father’s skin has been shared and probably soiled with every form of bodily fluid.

  After the inmate’s wife complained about his skin infection, I researched protocol for laundry in prisons. I came across a past inmate’s blog. He said a lot of prisons send out their laundry to services that also do laundry for other businesses, like restaurants. Now, I can’t use a cloth napkin at a restaurant without wondering if it was washed in the same machine as soiled communal underwear.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My name is Scarlet Stone, and I’m drawn to anything out of the ordinary, the crazy, the eccentric. I’ve been this way all my life.

  “Come on. We’re going to the same place.” Nolan pins me with a don’t-be-ridiculous look as I pull my bags toward the taxi queue along the curb. After a tiring trip, including two connecting flights, we’re finally at Hilton Head Airport.

  “I didn’t want to be presumptuous.” I grin, following him to his car, relishing the warm Savannah breeze kissing my face. And the sun—it’s bloody amazing!

  “Scarlet, please, be presumptuous.”

  The pictures of Savannah don’t lie. I can’t stop staring at the curvy oak trees with their saggy branches draped in Spanish moss. Oscar said my mum fell in love with Savannah and as the picturesque scenery flashes past my window, I can see why.

  “Are you feeling well?”

  My head jerks back. “Why would you ask me that?”

  “I have this …” He taps his hand on the top of the steering wheel. “I don’t know how to explain it in a way that you’d understand, but I sort of … sense things.”

  I nod slowly. “Well, you’re human, so I hope you sense things. Contrary to what has been taught for years, humans have at least nine senses that most researchers agree on; some scientists believe we have over twenty senses.”

  “Wow! You’re good with human biology.”

  I shake my head. “I’m good with random knowledge. I had an insatiable curiosity as a child—I still do.”

  “Well, my sense is a little more rare than the average five, nine, or twenty that you speak of.”

  “Oh, really?” I try to act curious, yet casual, but if I’m honest, he’s got my nipples erect and not in a sexual way. “Like what? You see dead people?”

  “No … well, potentially.”

  “Potentially, wow, that would be killer on a CV. ‘I speak three different languages, volunteer twelve hours a week … oh, and I can potentially see dead people.”

  “I sense pain.”

  “Pain.” I nod over and over like I’m bobbing to a beat but there is no beat.

  “Yes.”

  I clear my throat. “What kind of pain? Emotional? Because if you must know, I left behind my fiancé—ex-fiancé. It was for the best, but I still love him so—”

  “No.” Nolan shakes his head, a frown and wrinkled forehead marring his pretty face. “Physical pain.”

  “Like … a heart attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Some dogs can sense health conditions too.” I shrug. So he’s part dog. No big deal. It was only a matter of time before scientists crossed that line.

  “Yes. I’ve read a lot about it. That is through smell. They can detect the slightest shift in hormones, even cancer which lets off VOCs. But I don’t have a heightened sense of smell. I can just … feel pain that’s not mine, but it feels like mine. It took a while to discover that I wasn’t dying every day of something new. I was feeling the ailments of the people around me.”

  Another laugh escapes me because this is absurd. It has to be. I prefer the he’s-part-dog scenario. “So, I’m causing you pain?”

  He nods. “Some, yes.”

  “Well, your senses are off today, because I’m feeling fine.”

  “You’re not feeling a little bloated? Nauseous?”

  “What are you implying? I’m fat? Pregnant? Oh, wow, wouldn’t that be something if you could detect pregnancy?”

  “Are you pregnant? If so, then I’d say something might be going wrong with your pregnancy, and I should take you to the doctor.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I reach over and rest my hand on Nolan’s leg. “I’m fine. Not pregnant. Not in pain.”

  “I’m not usually wrong about this.”

  “Hey, if you’re right ninety-percent of the time, that’s still pretty good. Maybe today your pain is actually yours. Did you ever consider that?”

  Biting at the inside of his cheek, he cocks his head to the side, eyes focused on the road. “Maybe.”

  It takes a few minutes for whatever the hell that was to clear from the air.

  “Look familiar?”

  I turn toward him, eyes narrowed.

  He smirks, watching the road ahead. “Do you recognize anything from the last time you were in Savannah?”

  “Funny.”

  “Have you been anywhere else in the U.S. since you were born here?”

  “No. England, Spain, France, Italy, Scotland, Germany … and the Caribbean where my mum has family, but not anywhere else here.”

  “Where are you headed in six months?”

  Such a brilliant question.

  “Hard to say.”

  He takes a quick glance at me, a flirty smile curling his lips. “You’re on a hiatus, huh? A break from life?”

  “I’m on an extended holiday, but not from life, just the distractions.”

  Nolan pulls off the main road.

  “This doesn’t look like Tybee Island.”

  “So you do remember your last time in Savannah.”

  I shake my head. “Internet search.”

  A blanket of tangled trees seems to engulf the vehicle in every direction. The sun sneaks its way through the occasional hole, splashing light along the cobblestone drive that vibrates my seat. I squint against the morning light, my eyes desperate to close for at least a good eight hours.

  “Are you the governor?”

  Nolan chuckles as the red-bricked, white-pillared, two-story plantation-style house greets us in the clearing ahead. “No. He lives in Atlanta. I live here and so do my parents when they’re not traveling.”

  “You live here and you’re charging me a grand a month for one room and a shared kitchen?”

  “How else would I afford to live here?” The lively glimmer in his smile reminds me of Daniel.

  The last time Daniel smiled at me like that we were tasting cake samples for our autumn wedding. Life has a special way of changing everything in a blink. Love has many definitions. I’m certain I’ve experienced most of them to get to here.

  “I see. You buy and sell houses and still live with your mum and dad. Well done, you.”

  “Scarlet Stone, I love your accent, even when it’s wrapped around snarky little barbs.” He unfastens his seatbelt. “I have a contract to pick up here and then deliver after I drop you off. And my parents asked me to come by for a drink as soon as I got home. Two birds. One stone.”

  “With me?”

  “I think they’d frown upon me leaving you in the car.” Nolan grins but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “Savannah isn’t the smallest town, but in certain circles it feels that way.”

  “How so?”

  “Gossip. I’d like to think that during your stay you could avoid th
e gossip, but it’s unlikely. I don’t want you to believe everything you hear, especially about my family.”

  My probing gaze implores him, my curiosity reaching its summit.

  Nolan chews on the inside of his lip for a moment. “My parents have an … unconventional relationship, and my mother is not well. Hasn’t been for quite some time.”

  “Do you know what’s wrong with her?”

  “No. She’s not in physical pain. Hers is emotional … I think. We don’t really know. But I want you to meet them so you can see for yourself that they’re just a married couple living in Savannah. Sure, they have a few issues, but who doesn’t. Right?”

  My name is Scarlet Stone, and I’m drawn to anything out of the ordinary, the crazy, the eccentric. I’ve been this way all my life. Excitement runs through my veins.

  Nolan jogs around the car. “My lady.”

  My brow raises. “Chivalrous.” I rest my hand in his.

  “I’m a southern gentleman.”

  “Hmm, we’ll see about that.”

  “Mr. Moore.” A Hispanic lady with silver-streaked black hair pulled into a tight bun welcomes us before we even make it up the white-painted steps to the spacious wraparound porch.

  “Sofia.” He hugs her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

  “Did you have a nice trip?”

  I survey her black dress that falls just below her knees, black leather flats, and a crisp white apron.

  Nolan nods. “I did. Thank you. I’d like you to meet Scarlet Stone. She’s renting the other room on Tybee.”

  “With Mr. Reed?” Sofia’s russet eyes grow with surprise and her jaw goes slack.

  I’m missing something here.

  “Yes. She’ll be staying with Theodore.”

  Sofia purses her lips to the side, eyes inspecting me. “Have you met Mr. Reed?”

  I shake my head, shifting my attention to Nolan. He motions with his head for me to step inside.

  “My parents?” he asks.

  Sofia clears her throat and shakes her head a bit. “Yes, sorry. Your parents are out back. Bourbon?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Sofia.”

  “And for you, Miss Stone?”

  “Room-temperature bottled water.”

  Sofia blinks several times. Nolan raises a brow.

  “Tap is fine,” I whisper.

  “Ice?” Sofia smiles like all is well again.

  “No, thank you.”

  Mr. I’m Not The Governor—but bloody hell this house is a mansion—guides me down an expansive hallway of exquisite white and gray marble flooring ending at a set of glass doors that open to a red-brick patio overlooking acres of rolling pastures and several horses grazing in the distance. The smell of fresh-cut grass hangs in the thick summer air.

  It doesn’t look like a single wrinkle imprinted on Nolan’s mint green polo or black jeans hugging his lean legs down to his black loafers. I, on the other hand, look like I’ve slept in this T-shirt for months. My wiry black hair is pulled back into a ponytail but half of it has escaped, dancing in every direction.

  “Hey, Son.”

  Nolan nods at his dad, the epitome of the anti-fashion icon with his salt and pepper hair parted down the middle and feathered back. His brown trousers cinch his indulgent waistline about two inches too high, the crotch tight and outlining his wee willy. Poor Mrs. Moore.

  I shift my gaze to her after I’ve had an internal snicker over Wee Willy. I stand corrected. She’s worse and better at the same time. Her fiery fringe hangs in her eyes like a sheep dog, the rest of her wavy mane is pulled into a high ponytail—really high—like a sprout on the top of her head.

  Her crooked lipstick is too orange.

  Her pink shirt is too short, revealing the pale skin of her belly.

  Her black trousers look capri-length, but I don’t actually think they are capris.

  The socks? I call them the masterpiece of her outfit. Brill. Just brill. She has fabulously paired white socks with rolled-over red lace edging and Birkenstocks.

  What universe is this? Nolan’s warning was a gigantic understatement.

  However, beneath the layers of her hideous fashion, she’s beautiful—petite facial features and a slender frame with a few curves in the right places. A few freckles speckle her nose and along her high cheekbones. But the eyes … she has the softest, kindest blue eyes I have ever seen.

  “Nolie, who’s your friend?”

  Nolie. Of course she calls him Nolie. Anything less—anything more normal—would wake me up from this hilarious dream.

  “This is Scarlet Stone. She’s my new renter. Scarlet, meet my parents, Harold and Nellie.”

  I smile. “Nice to meet you both.”

  “You’re Mexican like Sofia, yes?” Nellie asks.

  “Filipino.” Harold attempts to correct her, but he’s wrong too.

  I’ve never had my accent mistaken for Mexican or Filipino. Clearly, they’re only focused on the color of my skin and my dark hair that’s actually a lot lighter than it used to be since I’ve played with different highlights over the years.

  “I’m from England. My dad was born there, and my mum was from the Caribbean.” And they wore normal clothes. I stop short of sharing my mum’s death and my father’s communal underwear.

  “Miss Stone.” Sofia hands me a glass of water.

  “Thank you.”

  Then she hands Nolan his bourbon. He nods and smiles.

  “Do you know Princess Diana?”

  I narrow my eyes at Nellie. Nolan and Harold tip back their drinks.

  “She’s—”

  “The Princess, Nel. I’m sure Scarlet doesn’t get invited to Buckingham Palace any more than you get invited to the White House.” Harold clears his throat and stares out at the pasture.

  “I hope Charles stops messing around with that Camilla; Diana is such a beautiful girl, and those boys … I bet you dream of marrying William, don’t you?”

  Diana’s dead and William’s married. This is pure madness. “Well, who wouldn’t want to be a princess?” I smile.

  “They live such extravagant lives. I couldn’t do it. Harry and I only buy secondhand clothes, and we never purchase anything at the grocery store unless it’s on sale or we have a coupon. Right, Harry?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Nolan’s dad defines impassiveness, like he automatically hums to the sound of her voice but never really registers a word she says.

  Sofia replaces the empty glass in his hand with a full one. He brings it to his lips like each swallow is oxygen to his lungs.

  “We can’t stay. I just needed to pick up the contract that was delivered here. Scarlet is still on London time so I’d better get her to the house. I’ll be back later.”

  “Drive carefully, Nolie. Last week Grace Kelly’s car somersaulted over a cliff.”

  I look at Nolan.

  Nothing.

  I look at Harold.

  Nothing.

  What the hell is going on?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  My name is Scarlet Stone. I am the smallest kid in the playground. I kick bullies in the balls because they never see me coming. My self-defense skills—zero. My hundred-meter sprint time—thirteen seconds.

  Not explaining the bizarre conversation that took place with his parents is not allowed. Yet, it happens. He can’t honestly expect me to be satisfied with unconventional marriage and they have a few issues, as an adequate explanation for what I witnessed.

  Nolan doesn’t say one word about them during the drive to Tybee. He points out the best places to eat, the oldest buildings, the ghostly history, and the significance of each square—and there are a lot of them—but not once does he offer a single word of elaboration for Harold and Nellie Moore.

  He doesn’t know me. I love mystery and trivia. Horror films are my love stories. Risk is my drug of choice. The purpose of being here, in my place of birth, is to let go of everything I thought I knew about myself—about life—and discover something deeper, a greater meaning. Howe
ver, this new development, aka the Moores, tempts the hell out of me. My head screams, I have to know!

  Nolan helps me with my suitcases up to my room, then we return to the kitchen. “The stove is gas therefore the exhaust fan has to run when it’s in use. The floors are ripped up because tiling is Theo’s next project with the house. The bed has clean sheets and a quilt, but I recommend getting your own sheets if you’re a germaphobe.”

  I’m not a germaphobe—communal underwear being the exception. I’m desperate for him to give me more of an explanation about his parents. He doesn’t, and I can’t bring myself to ask any more.

  “Here’s the key. Theo is not here unless he’s working or sleeping. He doesn’t say much, but he notices everything, and he’s an anal-retentive perfectionist when it comes to his job. So you best stay out of his way when he’s wearing a tool belt.”

  I take the key and place it on the worktop.

  Nolan nods to the key then jerks his head in the direction of the hooks by the door. “Weird stuff like that will drive Theo crazy.”

  “Sorry? Like a key … one single key on an otherwise empty worktop?”

  Nolan nods. “Your bedroom and bathroom are yours. You can live as messy as you want in those spaces, but the shared spaces such as the kitchen, living room, and garage will need to be kept tidy if you don’t want Theo losing his cool.”

  I laugh. “How do you work with him?” Oh that’s right … you were born into crazy. A crazy I’m dying to solve.

  “I handle the business part. Theo does all the manual labor. He does his thing. I do mine. That’s why we work well together. We’ve been friends for years, but he’s become really withdrawn in his life, so I respect his space.”

  “He sounds like a lovely bloke.”

  Nolan shrugs. “He’s just quiet and looks a little rough around the edges, but he’s a hard worker, pays his rent on time, and makes me a shitload of money because every house he renovates ends up in a bidding war.”

  Slipping the key onto the hook, I get my first good look around the place, no longer letting Harold and Nellie consume my mind. The dark-stained cupboards and shiny marble worktops look brand new. Beveled-edge, wide, dark trim accent the doorways and floors. It smells like wood in here. I like it.