Fortification Days

The island gossip had the entire population aware of Lindsay Stillworth’s return within an hour of her landing. Everyone knew that she had arrived with Louis Vuitton luggage and a huge rock on her finger. Everyone was convinced both were real.

            Sam had not heard of Lindsay Stillworth’s return because he was busy. First he’d had to rescue Adeline Dunbar’s beloved cat out of a tree, and that had been before Adeline Dunbar had heard the news of Lindsay’s return, so she had been unable to give him the news. Then he had had to investigate a domestic disturbance at one of the rental houses along Breakneck Bluff. Two Bostonians with cross-accusations of adultery that it had taken the better part of his afternoon to resolve. And now he was stuck at the top of Peterson’s Hill, underneath Camilla Baxter’s car, trying to fix what he knew couldn’t be fixed, because Camilla Baxter’s car broke down once or twice a week, at which point Camilla, a widower, promptly called him. That was him, Sam Broderick, Delphi Island’s sheriff, cat-saver, marriage counselor, mechanic.

            So it was that Sam was underneath Camilla’s car, frowning at it, trying to figure out what he could possibly do this time to get the ancient heap of metal working again. He was afraid there was nothing to be done. Sighing, he turned toward the steps he heard approaching the car. He had sent Camilla back home in his car. He was hoping she’d returned so he could give her the harsh news about her car and then maybe get back to town to see if anything else had come up. And maybe she would remember to bring him back some water as he’d requested.

            He turned in the direction of the steps, but then he did nothing and just stared. Because he did not recognize the pair of legs that stopped next to the car. And he would have thought that he knew every attractive pair of legs on the island. It would have been impossible to overlook this particular pair of legs. Long, tan, encased in strappy heels that were too sexy by half. Sam had had a long, frustrating day. Strappy heels could set his mouth to watering under the best of circumstances. He thought he might be in danger of actually drooling at that moment.

            Which begged the question of who the woman was. Certainly not the 83-year-old Camilla with his car, unless she’d managed to find a very good, very fast plastic surgeon. And Sam wasn’t at all certain plastic surgeons could work such miracles. And she certainly wasn’t an islander, this mysterious woman. But it would be a singular occurrence to encounter a tourist on Peterson’s Hill. There was no reason to go to Peterson’s Hill unless you were a native. Maybe, he thought, the tourist was lost. And she had toenails painted fire-engine red, he noted, with approval. He decided he liked this particular tourist.

            “Well,” said a voice he assumed belonged to the legs. The voice sounded familiar. Cocking his head, Sam stared at the legs and tried to place the voice. “If it isn’t Samsonite,” the voice drawled.

            Sam blinked in startled surprise. Only one person in the world had ever called him Samsonite. Little Lindsay Stillworth. Surely these legs did not belong to little Lindsay Stillworth. Dammit, he thought, those legs belonged to little Lindsay Stillworth.

            Dreading what further exploration was going to reveal, Sam slid gingerly out from underneath the car. The legs were covered by a jean miniskirt, topped by a sleeveless, loose-fitting white shirt with a slight V-neck more modest than the miniskirt would have suggested. The hair was a cool, icy blonde, dipping just past chin-length. The eyes were obscured by sunglasses, but the mouth was wide and smiling. It had been years since he had seen Lindsay Stillworth. She had certainly not looked like this.

            “It can’t be Lindsay Stillworth,” he said, squinting up at her, shading his eyes.

            The smile widened into an infectious grin, and there was that dimple he remembered, in her left cheek. “Get up and give me a hug. Is this any way to greet a returning native after a ten-year absence?”

            Sam clambered his way to his feet, biting back a groan when his back ached in protest. He surveyed Lindsay Stillworth, not so little anymore but still littler than him, and looking so clean and collected in her white shirt and strappy heels and miniskirt. Meanwhile, he was filthy with dust and grease and everything else he had picked up during the interminable day. “You don’t want a hug from me.”

            “Oh, stop it,” she said. “Of course I do.” At which point she launched herself onto him.

            He laughed and hugged her back, calling her by his nickname for her. “How are you doing, Still?” Lindsay Never-Sits-Still-Worth, he had used to call her, shortening it over the years of teasing her to just plain Still.

            “Oh, Sam, it’s so good to see you.” She stopped hugging him, took a step back. “Look at you. You look all grown-up.”

            “I look all grown-up,” he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. “What is this?” He leaned forward, fluffed her hair.

            “I dyed it,” she said.

            “I see that.”

            “You don’t like it?”

            “I wouldn’t recognize you. If you hadn’t called me ‘Samsonite,’ I probably still wouldn’t know who you were.”

            “Oh, don’t be silly,” she told him.

            “I’m not being silly. It’s been ten years, Lindsay.”

            “Actually, I sat down the other day and counted back, and it’s only been eight years.”

            “Oh,” he said, drily. “My mistake. What the hell brings you back here after all this time?”

            “Business, unfortunately. I need the services of the island’s sheriff.”