Fire Works in the Hamptons : A Willow Tate Novel (9781101547649) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  “DIDN’T YOU ADORE THOSE PEACE DOVES, AND THE FLYING FISH?”

  “What doves is she talking about?” Martin asked Ellen.

  Barry grumbled, “I never saw any fish, just those really annoying screaming meemies.”

  “What about the flowers? They were incredible.”

  No one said anything until Ellen laughed. “That’s why we teach science and you write books. You always did have the best imagination of anyone I ever knew. You’d look at a cloud and see a rhinoceros with a butterfly on its ear.”

  No birds, no fish, no flowers? I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the ride home. I dropped my passengers off at Martin’s house. He invited us all in for drinks and dessert, but I said I needed to check on the dogs. And my sanity. I’d print out the camera pictures to prove I wasn’t crazy or delusional. Ten minutes later I drove up Garland Drive. The road had no lights, but it was well lit by the moon tonight, I thought. Until I got to my own front yard.

  Flowers were blooming. That was nothing unusual for late August, but these were incandescent roses seven feet off the ground, on the lawn, where no rosebushes were planted. They waved and bobbed, as if welcoming me home. Then they separated into individual flames that danced close enough for me to see they were the same oversized fireflies that stung Barry. I kept my hands at my sides. My heart was in my throat.

  “Hello. You don’t really belong here, do you?”

  They didn’t answer. They didn’t show up on my digital camera, either.

  “The world-building is the best part . . . The people and places come alive; the fantastical back-story is unusual and fascinating; and the whole of it is definitely something new and extraordinary, and a welcome break from vampires and were-creatures.”

  —Errant Dreams

  DAW Books Presents Celia Jerome’s

  Willow Tate Novels:

  TROLLS IN THE HAMPTONS NIGHT MARES IN THE HAMPTONS FIRE WORKS IN THE HAMPTONS LIFE GUARDS IN THE HAMPTONS

  (Available May 2012)

  Copyright © 2011 by Barbara Metzger.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1566.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, November 2011

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  S.A.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54764-9

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Anne Bohner, agent extraordinaire

  Celia Jerome lives in Paumanok Harbor toward the east end of Long Island. She believes in magic, True Love, small dogs, and yard sales.

  You can visit Celia at www.celiajerome.com

  PROLOGUE

  WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS? That’s the most common question people ask authors at book signings, writers’ conventions, and library talks. The stock answers are: the idea fairy, dreams, newspapers, in the shower, or the idea mall, where an author would shop all the time if she had better directions or a GPIS (Global Idea Positioning System.)

  But what if the writer’s ideas, especially those fantastical, off-the-wall ideas, actually come from another universe where magic abounds? Where trolls and elves and night mares and mental telepathy really exist? What if an author’s brilliant visions were nothing but presentiments of forbidden visitors from that unknown, alien universe trespassing on Earth?

  Then the world as we know it is going to hell in a handcart, and the author is getting walloped by the wagon as it races past.

  CHAPTER 1

  I NEEDED A MAN.

  Last time I had a girl, then a boy and a troll. Now I wanted a man, a strong, heroic type. For my new book, of course. I’d sworn off real men for life, or until I finished my next book, whichever came first. After all, I’d known and loved two of the most wonderful, talented, intelligent, adventurous, gorgeous, and sexy men—who weren’t right for me. What was left? A dull-as-dirt accountant? Been there, done that. And so what if I was thirty-five? If I ever decided to make my mother ecstatic by giving her a grandkid or two, I could always adopt. That’s what she did, with dogs. I petted Mom’s crippled Pomeranian, who now appeared to be mine. He sniffed my hand for a biscuit. Dogs were a lot easier than men.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like having a man in my life. What I didn’t like was them taking over my life, or them leaving. Picking up the pieces was too painful, so now my career comes first.

  I write books, illustrated graphic novels for the young fantasy reader, under the pen name of Willy Tate instead of my too girly-sounding Willow Tate. Kids love them, reviewers love them, my publisher loves them. How cool is that, getting paid to do what I like best?

  I write better in my Manhattan apartment without the distractions of the beach and the relatives and the small-town calamities that seem to occur regularly in Paumanok Harbor at the edge of Long Island’s posh Hamptons. I might—just might—be responsible for some of the recent chaos, so the sooner I get back to the big city, the better for all of us. I’ll leave the week after Labor Day, when my houseguest goes back to teaching middle-level science at a private school in Greenwich, Connecticut. I am happy to have my old college roommate here for the week, but I can’t write with Ellen in the house. I have to show her around, see that she’s entertained and fed, keep her company on beach walks and bar hops. That’s what old friends are for, isn’t it?

  A few more days and we’ll both be back at our jobs and the real world. My cousin Susan can look after my mother’s other rescued shelter dogs if Mom doesn’t get back from saving a pack of greyhounds in the South, if she can’t shut down the tracks altogether. Susan is already living at my mother’s house, avoiding her own family’s disapproval of her wild ways. I don’t exactly approve of all the men she drags home either, but I am less than ten years
older than Susan, and definitely not my cousin’s keeper.

  So nothing is going to keep me in this tiny, ingrown, backwater town past the end of the tourist season. I’ll take Ellen to the last big fireworks display in East Hampton on Labor Day weekend, then start packing. I want to see the fireworks, too, for the new story I am working on, or would be working on soon.

  The idea for the new book came from all the idiots setting off firecrackers on the beach near my mother’s house all summer long. Some were pretty, but most were just loud enough to wake the neighbors and scare the dogs. Inevitably, some kid burned his hand or lost a finger or set the dune grasses on fire. Just as inevitably, the slobs left beer bottles and trash and still-burning coals on the bay-side beaches. Paumanok Harbor’s small police force tried to stop them—the bigger, more dangerous ones at least—but the shore was long and dark, and no one wanted to ruin the Hamptons’ summer economy by chasing down and arresting tourists. Or their own neighbors’ kids.

  Illegal firecrackers were easy to come by. I’d seen them sold on street corners in Pennsylvania and Florida. Fools bought them—and recklessly transported them in their own cars!—even though everyone knew only a licensed pyrotechnician, a Grucci-type, could safely set off the really spectacular displays.

  That’s what I wanted. Not some gunpowder geek, or once-a-summer sparkler setter, but a fire wizard, a pyro-mage, a red-hot superhero. He’d shoot flames from his fingertips, encircle bad guys in blazes, fight evil with fire. He’d start backfires for forest rangers, and warm stranded mountain climbers until help arrived. A regular Lassie with a flare. Literally.

  And there he was, right in my living room when Ellen and I got back from breakfast in Amagansett, the next town over. A man I’d never seen before was fast asleep on the sofa. Tall enough that his feet hung over the end. Dark and handsome, he had an unshaved shadow on his strong jaw, a thick lock of sable hair fallen on his forehead, another sticking up in a boyish cowlick. He was nicely built from what I could see under Mom’s patchwork quilt and the black T-shirt he wore. Yup, my hero, except his mouth hung open, an empty beer bottle sat on the coffee table, and one of Mom’s old dogs whined next to the couch. The white-muzzled retriever wanted his quilt back.

  Ellen took a seat near the sofa and sighed at the stranger. “Oh, my. That’s better than the raspberry muffin I just ate. And not half as fattening.”

  The guy might be a good model for me to sketch, but he sure as hell wasn’t an invited guest. I stayed standing up, ready to reach for the fireplace poker or the heavy dog-breed book on the coffee table.

  “Quiet,” I whispered to Ellen, not ready to defend us from a waking trespasser. “I bet he’s one of Susan’s strays,” My mother brought home old, injured, or abandoned dogs. My cousin brought home men. With abandon.

  “Can I keep him?” Ellen asked. “Please.”

  “He belongs to Susan.”

  “He’s too old for Susan.”

  He did look more late thirties than mid-twenties, but age didn’t count, according to Susan. If a man was breathing, he was fair game. Everyone figured that my cousin’s collision with cancer changed her attitude. I never heard of chemo killing a person’s scruples, but I made allowances for her, which was why she lived in my house. Besides, she was a great cook.

  “He has dimples!”

  “Come on, El, we don’t even know if he’s housebroken.”

  “Any man this gorgeous has to be.”

  “Okay. We’ll get him a collar and you can take him back to Connecticut with you. Maybe you should buy a six-pack to win his loyalty away from Susan.”

  As if the name conjured her up, Susan shuffled into the room from the kitchen, a blue pottery mug—mine from one of the craft shows—in her hand. She was wearing an oversize Snoopy T-shirt—mine, too, damn it!—and her hair, pink this week, was in pigtails. She looked about sixteen instead of twenty-six. No one would guess she was head chef at our uncle’s restaurant. She was definitely too young for the Romeo in repose.

  At least she hadn’t put in all the eyebrow hoops. And the nose stud must have been too uncomfortable because I hadn’t seen it this week. Not that I missed it.

  “He’s not too old, and he’s not mine,” she said now, sitting on the edge of the coffee table sipping her tea. “But he does look cute sleeping like that.”

  “Yeah, as cuddly as a teddy bear. Get rid of him. You know I draw the line at finding your lovers in my living room.”

  “I told you, he’s not my lover. He stopped by the Breakaway for a late meal last night on his way back to the city from Montauk, but his car died in the parking lot. No one answered at Kelvin’s garage to come tow the car, and all the motels were booked with the Labor Day crowd. When the restaurant closed, I offered a ride and the couch. That’s all. What was I supposed to do, make him sleep in his car? We stopped off to admire the sunrise.”

  I’m sorry to admit I snorted at the unlikely tale. The sound wasn’t ladylike or mature, and showed a big lack of faith in my own cousin. Little Red, the three-legged Pomeranian, started barking at the sudden noise or when he finally realized yet another stranger had invaded his territory. The bark turned to a snarl when I tried to shush him. Red weighed six pounds but had a seven-pound mean streak. He’d been abused before he came to Paumanok Harbor, so we all made allowances for him, too.

  The stranger jerked awake. His eyes, a nice soft brown with yellow flecks, focused on the angry dog, the other dogs, Ellen, me, then finally Susan. You could see his relief at recognizing someone in the room. He gave her a tentative smile.

  “Barry, this is my cousin Willow and her friend Ellen. Ladies, this is Barry Jensen.” Susan sipped her tea again while the man blinked and brushed his hair back from his eyes. He was definitely cute, but now that he was sitting up I could tell he was older than I thought. The lack of sleep didn’t help, but the lines and wrinkles added character to his face, without taking away from the good looks. Clark Kent with a dash of maturity. I could go for that. For my book, of course.

  He looked at me. Not at Susan who every male found adorable, and not at Ellen, who was pretty in a wholesome, unfussy way and whose lush figure still made heads swivel when we walked through the village. I made myself pet Little Red instead of trying to hide the coffee drips on my ancient T-shirt, or finger-combing my windblown blonde hair, trying to cover the darker roots, wishing I’d had it colored last week. Wishing I hadn’t had a million-calorie muffin for breakfast, too.

  “I am so glad to meet you,” Barry said. “I’ve heard great things about you.”

  “Me?” Okay, I wasn’t great at conversation, either.

  “When Susan told me who lived here, I was floored.”

  “You must mean my mother. She’s famous. Too bad she’s still in Florida.”

  “Your mother’s the dog-lady, isn’t she?”

  I nodded, gesturing toward the canine collection. “That’s my mom, all right. She can do anything with a four-legged stray. Three legs if you count Little Red.”

  Barry ignored the animals. “But you, you’re Willy Tate! I’ve admired your work for years. I was at that convention where you won the YA graphic novel award. I’ve followed your career ever since.”

  So maybe he was a hero after all, instead of a marauder or a mooch. Darn few people outside of friends and family knew my name. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve met a bunch of authors in my day. I work freelance for a small-town news syndicate and website. I do the book page. And I’ve sold a couple of reviews and articles here and there. But to write and illustrate, both. Wow. And now here I am, on your couch. How’s that for luck?”

  Luckier than sleeping in a broken-down car, I supposed, or on the beach. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I could put some on. Or tea? I think we have orange juice.”

  “Nothing, thanks. I don’t want to impose.”

  Ellen went to get the coffee anyway and came back with a bowl of cereal, a creamer of milk, and a glass of OJ.

  Barry smiled h
is appreciation, but kept looking at me. “Damn, I wish I’d met you last week when I didn’t have to worry about getting back to Manhattan, or finding a place to stay until the car is repaired. I’d love to write an article about you. You know the kind of thing, how the author lives, a personal glimpse into the real world of a fantasy writer. I can see the picture now, you on the beach, dogs romping in the waves. It could be a winner.”

  Ellen leaned forward from her chair next to the sofa. “It would be great publicity, Willy.”

  “I bet Barry could sell an article like that to a bigger audience,” Susan added. “Or get it all over the web. I know you’re a big fish now, but your pond is kind of small. With the right PR, you could sell a lot more books. Maybe get a bigger advance on your next contract. At least you could get your expenses paid for the next ComicCon.”

  I refused to think of having to speak at another of those huge conventions. Instead, I admired Barry’s dimples and nice white teeth.

  The idea of free publicity won me over, not the dimples or the smile, I swear. “Why don’t I give you a ride to the garage? We could talk along the way. Then, if Kelvin says your car needs a lot of time for parts or whatever, maybe I could ask around town for a place where you can stay.”

  “That would be great! Maybe some of your talent will rub off by proximity. Or maybe I’ll learn enough just listening to you to start the novel I always wanted to write. You”—he politely gestured toward Susan and Ellen, after me—“can be my inspiration. Three beautiful women.”

  Red snapped at his moving hand. “And a ferocious watchdog.” He tossed Cheerios at all three dogs.

  Yeah, cute. And Mom always said you could judge a man by how he treats a dog. Besides, I needed to see more of him to develop a feel for my fire wizard, facial expressions, musculature, the way his body moved. Character development, you know, research. So I invited him to come watch the fireworks with us.