No Offense: A Novel (Little Bridge Island Book 2)

Sunday was Spaghetti and Meatball Night at the Mermaid Café, and no matter what else was going on, John always tried to make a point of taking Katie there, not only because many other local families showed up and it had a nice community feel, but because he loved spaghetti and meatballs.

Katie was not the biggest fan of either spaghetti or meatballs, however. As a child, when presented with the dish, she had usually screamed until given buttered noodles and no meatballs instead. Now, as a sophisticated young woman, she merely ordered a Caesar salad with a few strips of grilled chicken on top for added protein.

But John would not break with tradition, not even after the bombshell Molly Montgomery had dropped on him . . . the latest in a series of bombshells she’d dropped that were blowing his previously orderly life to smithereens.

How and why did she keep doing this? He had never met a woman who was at once so attractive and so determined to destroy him. Had she come to this island for this purpose only, under the disguise of a friendly children’s librarian?

It seemed so.

Now he sat in one of the Mermaid’s orange-and-teal booths, watching as his daughter happily waved to her friends on the other side of the restaurant. At home, she would have been texting if he’d allowed it, but at the Mermaid, texting was really not allowed, as Ed, the owner, would throw out customers for cell phone use.

John waited until Katie had had a few bites of her chicken and he knew she had something in her stomach and wasn’t still light-headed from all the calories she’d expended at the dance practice she’d been at all day. Then he pulled out the camera Molly had given him and said, “We need to talk about this.”

Katie glanced down at the camera and said, “Isn’t that Elijah’s? He said his dad left it when he moved out.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my God. Don’t tell me he stole it. No way. I know Elijah’s a little weird, but he would never—”

“I’m not talking about the camera.” John switched on the display screen. “I’m talking about these photos.”

Katie blinked down at the screen. “Yeah. What about them?”

He felt a surge of exasperation. “Katie, these photos . . . you look . . . they . . . you . . . the way you’re posing . . .”

She rolled her eyes and turned her concentration back to her salad. “Dad, we were just goofing around.”

“Yes, I can see that. But—”

“We’re not posting them anywhere. Well, the headshots we’re going to send with our apps to cheer camp. But the rest of them were just for fun.”

“Just for fun,” he repeated, looking down at a photo of all three of the girls lifting their skirts and mooning the photographer—presumably this Elijah person. They still had on their cheer shorts or whatever they were called beneath their skirts, but that wasn’t the point.

“Come on, Dad,” Katie said, still laughing as she speared a crouton with her fork. “Don’t tell me you never did silly things in high school.”

“I did,” he said, thinking of an incident involving a spear gun, some eggs, and an old friend’s car. “But we never filmed it.”

“Well, times are different now.” Katie popped the crouton into her mouth. “Everybody films everything. It’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” John said, flipping through the photos until he found the one he wanted. “At least this time. This is why.” He showed her the picture of herself with Larry Beckwith in the background.

At first Katie’s expression didn’t change. She said, “So what? I’m blowing a kiss. You know we all do that in the ‘Mack the Knife’ number—”

Then her expression did change. She reached for the camera in order to bring the screen closer so she could get a better look.

“Oh my God, Dad! Who is that guy? Is he spying on us? That is so gross! What a creeper.”

“That,” John said, “is Larry Beckwith III, also known as Dylan Dakota.”

“The guy you’ve been trying to catch for so long? The one who messed up the MTV house and the library? Oh my God, is he stalking me?”

Katie looked more thrilled than frightened by the idea that she had a stalker. John sighed and reached across the table to take the camera from her.

“No, he isn’t stalking you. He robbed a house near Sharmaine’s last night. We think he must have tried a number of homes before finding one that was unoccupied.”

“So he’s creeping on Sharmaine?” Katie reached instinctively for her bag, in which she kept her phone. “I have to tell her right away. She’s always wanted a stalker. She’s going to die.”

“You are not going to tell Sharmaine,” John said. “At least not yet. First of all, no cell phones in here, remember?”

She glanced toward the sign by the Mermaid’s register:

NO SHOES, NO SHIRT, NO PROBLEM.

USE YOUR CELL PHONE? GET OUT.

Then she sighed. “Oh, right. Darn.”

“Second of all,” John went on, “this photo of you and Beckwith is now evidence. And there are certain people who think it should be submitted to the press so that the public can see it and help with the search for Beckwith—”

Katie gasped. Unfortunately, she appeared to be gasping with delight, not horror.

“Oh my God, Daddy, are you serious? What site? Is it BuzzFeed? When? Tomorrow?”

He frowned. This was not going at all the way he’d assumed it would go. Although he should have known: his outgoing dancer daughter would love the attention—any attention.

“The Gazette,” he said, and was bemused to see her shoulders slump in disappointment.

“The Gazette? That only has like five thousand subscribers. And there’s a paywall. Hardly anyone is going to see it. And I’m really trying to build my brand—so is Elijah, by the way. Do you think you could get it onto the front page of the Miami Herald? Or on CNN? A lot more people will see it there. And make sure you use Elijah’s name as the photographer, Elijah Trujos. We all promised we would give him full credit if we used the photos for anything promotional.”

John stared at his daughter. Was it possible that Molly Montgomery knew his daughter better than he did? She’d said that Katie wouldn’t mind the attention, and she’d been right.

“Katie, your face is not going to be on the front page of any paper tomorrow because if I decide to turn the photo over to the media, I’m going to make sure your face is blurred out—”

“Daddy, no!”

“—for your own protection.”

“But, Daddy—”

“—and I certainly won’t allow them to use either your or Elijah’s names, because you are both minors, and I don’t want you to be forever associated with this case or that man.”

“But, Daddy, I look really good in that photo. I’m in my Snappettes uniform and everything. Think of all the donations it could bring to the team!”

John shook his head. “That is exactly what I’m worried about. Do you have any idea how many sexual predators there are who would love to see a photo like that and track down the girl in it?”

“Ugh, Daddy.” Katie pouted. “I don’t understand how you can be such a boomer when you were actually born in the eighties.”

He pointed at her. “For that, you get no dessert, young lady.”

She stuck her tongue out at him but playfully. He could tell she wasn’t really mad, just like she could tell he wasn’t really mad, either. They’d been a team too long to allow petty disagreements to get in the way of their affection for each other.

Unlike his relationship with Molly Montgomery, which was too new for him to let the sun set on a squabble. He had to make things right with her. But how?

“What can I get you two for dessert?” Angela, who always worked the Sunday night spaghetti and meatball shift, came up to their booth to ask.

Katie was still mock pouting. “My dad says I’m not allowed to have dessert.”

“Come on now, Sheriff.” Angela jerked her pen toward the counter. “Ed made a couple of his world-famous key lime pies this afternoon. You know there’s nothing better than a slice of pie to fix what ails you.”

John glanced at the counter and saw the pies sitting pristine and covered in peaks of lightly toasted meringue behind the glass display case. Was it really true that a piece of pie could repair all of one’s troubles? Not in his experience.

But it could certainly make one feel better in the moment.

“I’ll have one,” John said, and began to dig around in his pocket for his wallet. The Mermaid Café was a cash-only enterprise.

“Da-aa-aad.” Katie’s expression was stern with disapproval. “You can’t have a slice of pie. Your cholesterol. Remember?”

“I don’t want a slice,” John said. “I’ll take the whole thing.”

When Katie’s eyebrows rose in shock, he explained, “It’s for a friend, not me. I owe her an apology, and what better way to say I’m sorry than with one of Ed’s pies?”

Now Katie began to look slyly knowing. “Her? Her, Dad? Is it a certain librarian you dragged me to meet the other day? Is it? Is it?”

“That is none of your business,” John said, throwing bills onto the table as Angela went to box up his pie. “Can you find a ride home with someone here? I have to get over to the Gazette offices before they put tomorrow’s paper to bed.”

“Yes,” Katie said, and nodded at a table a few booths away. “Nevaeh’s over there with Marquis and those guys. They’ll drop me off. Why are you so worried about me walking home alone, Dad? Because of my stalker?”

“Cut it out. You know I don’t like you walking by yourself after dark. Be sure to put the alarm on when you get home. I might be late.”

“Because after you visit the Gazette you’ll be delivering your pie to the librarian?”

John shot his daughter a warning look even as he gratefully accepted the pie, wrapped in an insulated pack to keep it cool, from Angela. “Thanks,” he said to the waitress. To his daughter, he said, “I love you.” He leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Be good. And safe.”

“Ugh, jeez, Dad.” She pushed him away, but she was grinning as she did it. “I love you, too. And you know I will.”

Later, John found himself driving to the Lazy Parrot, asking himself if he was crazy. Who brought the woman they were interested in a pie? Let alone a pie and flowers in the same day. If Pete ever found out about this, he’d think he was nuts.

But John had to do something to show Molly how sorry he was for acting like such a—

Grumpy dad.

He didn’t feel very reassured about his decision when he walked into the lobby of the Lazy Parrot and saw no one (as usual) at the front desk. He hadn’t realized it was so late. Probably Molly was in bed already. After all, tomorrow was Monday, a workday, even for children’s librarians. He should have called first.

But if he called, he might wake her. He could take a gamble, he thought, and hope she was still up and at the tiki bar—though what would she be doing there this late on a Sunday night?

He went through the lobby and out into the courtyard and instantly regretted it.

“Hello again, sexy policeman!” The tourist from before was in the hot tub—even though it was close to seventy-five degrees outside—and she was still drinking. How was that even possible? By rights she should have passed out by now from dehydration.

But no—she had a plastic cup shaped like a coconut in her hand, accompanied by a pink paper umbrella. She was staying well hydrated on something.

“Hello,” John replied, just to be polite.

“Are you looking for Molly again?” the woman asked. There were several other people in the hot tub with her, none of whom, unfortunately, was Molly.

“Well,” John said, trying to figure out the best reply. If he said yes, it might not look good. But if he said no, it would be a lie. “I, er—”

“He’s looking for Molly,” the woman assured her friends, and they all cackled in a friendly but decidedly knowing way.

Feeling foolish standing there with his pie, John began to back away. “Maybe I’ll just come back another—”

“Oh, no, don’t do that,” the woman said. “Is that for her?” She was eyeing the insulated bag in his hands.

“Um,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s, um.” John could not remember ever feeling so stupid. “It’s a pie.”

“A pie?”

“A key lime pie.”

The women in the hot tub exchanged glances. John couldn’t read them, exactly, since it was dark in the courtyard except for the light from the pool and the party lights strung across the tiki hut. But he thought they were smiling.

“Don’t worry, hon,” one of the women said, finally. “We’ll get her for you.” Then, to John’s utter mortification, the women began to scream, “Molly! Molly!”

“Wait,” he said. “You don’t have to—”

But it was too late. He heard a door being opened somewhere above his head, and turned to see Molly on the second-floor balcony, wearing only an overlarge Denver Broncos T-shirt and what appeared to be men’s boxer briefs. Even more startlingly, she had on a large pair of glasses in tortoiseshell frames.

It had never occurred to him before that Molly wore glasses, but evidently, she did. Possibly she wore contacts during the day. This would at least partly account for why her eyes always seemed so large and dark.

“What is it, Mrs. Filmore?” she called down to the women in a slightly irritated voice, then noticed John.

“Oh,” she said, in an entirely different tone. “It’s you.”

Their gazes met, and it was as if the rest of the world melted away. The only thing that existed was her, and the smell of the night-blooming jasmine.

At least until the woman in the hot tub behind him shouted, “He brought you pie!”

John wished the earth would open and swallow him whole.

He heard Molly laugh in confusion. “What?”

He raised the insulated bag. “Key lime pie,” he said. “By way of apology. Can I—may I—come up?”

It was a bold move, asking to be let into her room, especially with that bubbling vat of tourists behind him, remarking on every little thing he did. Regardless of her answer, there were going to be comments, possibly even catcalls.

“Sure,” Molly said. “Come on up.”

The ladies in the hot tub were quick with their “Ooooohs” and “Yeah, babys,” but John did his best to ignore them, mounting the stairs two at a time and feeling glad that the darkness would—hopefully—hide the burning he felt in his cheeks.

When he reached Molly, he saw that she was grinning.

“Sorry about the Greek chorus down there,” she whispered, gesturing toward the hot tub below. “They’ve been in there since happy hour. I switched them over to plain tonic water a while ago for their own good, but I don’t think they’ve noticed—or that they care.”

John nodded. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look as beautiful in glasses as Molly did. Behind the lenses of her glasses, her eyes seemed larger and darker than ever.

“I’m sorry about earlier.” He thrust the pie at her. “I acted like an idiot.”

Molly looked down at the object in her hands. It was difficult for him to read her exact expression because with her head lowered, her dark hair cast her face in shadow, and the only light source on the porch was coming from the open doorway behind her, the one leading into her room.

“A pie?” she asked, in what sounded to him like a skeptical tone.

“A pie.” He had known this was going to be hard, but he hadn’t thought it would be this hard. “Key lime, from the Mermaid Café. Freshly made this morning by Ed. If you haven’t tried one yet, you really should, they’re delicious. I just saw it and thought of you because . . . well, I thought you might like it, and also because . . . well, you were right.”

Her head popped up at that. He wasn’t certain because her face was still slightly shadowed in darkness, but he thought he saw her eyebrows raise. “I was what?”

“You were right. About the photos. I talked to Katie about them, and then I took them over to Meschelle at the Gazette. She’s going to make sure that they run one on the front page tomorrow morning—”

Molly took a step backward, and at first he thought it was because she was going to ask him to leave.

But the movement brought her face into the light, and he could see that she was smiling.

“Why don’t you come in,” she said, gesturing toward the open door to her room, “and have a piece of this pie with me?”

John glanced at the warm, inviting glow coming from inside the room, and swallowed. He could hear Pete’s voice in his head, urging him to accept her invitation.

But a stronger voice was telling him that if he did, he wouldn’t come out until morning. There were things he wanted to do with Molly Montgomery that would take all night, maybe days, and he had responsibilities, to his daughter, to his community. He couldn’t throw all of those away just because he wanted to—

“Okay,” John said, and, smiling, stepped through Molly’s door. “Thanks.”