When Will I See You Again (3 page)

Raoul jerked his head up, spitting out grains of sand that clung to his tongue. He blinked, focusing his eyes. Damn, he hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He sat up, listening. Somewhere in the distance, he heard a bird. Other than that, nothing but the faint sound of the waves hitting the beach.

Jamie? He leapt to his feet, heart pounding.
Calm down. He’s been whistling, you’ve been sleeping, that’s
all. Everything’s fine.

Raoul began to walk toward the water, peering into the distance. There was a group of rocks not too far out. They often lay there, sunning themselves, talking, making out. He squinted at it.

Was that Jamie he saw stretched out there? Maybe he fell asleep, too.

“Hey, start whistling!” he cried out, forcing a tone of jocularity into his voice. “Didja forget the words?”

But his attempt at humor was met with silence.

“Jamie?” he cried again. “
Jamie!”

Fully awake now, he dove into the chill water. He didn’t know which way to go, or where to look, so he looked everywhere. He alternated between plunging into the dark depths and calling Jamie’s name, listening for his answering whistle. But none came.

No answer at all.

Over and over and over.

Raoul never stopped looking for him. Not even when the others wandered down from the Halloween party to find them, and joined in the search. Not even when they pulled him forcibly from the water, dripping and determined not to stop. Not until the dawn’s early light did they find him—or rather his body. It floated lifelessly on the water. The coroner ruled it was an accident, said he’d probably hit his head in the dark and died instantly.

Raoul never forgave himself for not being there. He held himself accountable for Jamie’s death. The light in his life died on that day, never to return.

January 26, 2013

A horn blast drew Alexx out of his ill-timed reverie. He’d been so intent on balancing two cardboard drink carriers filled with various coffees, lattes, and frappuccinos, and getting them across the street safely, that he’d forgotten to watch out for traffic.

Tourists were thick in Crescent Bay, especially at this time of the month. They made the normally easy walk from the coffee shop to the
Chronicle
offices more difficult than they needed to be.

A large sedan had screeched to a halt, its winged hood ornament mere inches away from puncturing one of Alexx’s ribs.

The driver poked his head through the open window. “Can’t you
watch where you’re going?”

“Sorry,” Alexx apologized to the irate tourist. “Sorry.” He drew a deep breath, said a quick prayer, and quickened his step. He managed to reach the sidewalk intact—along with his precious cargo.

“Idiot!” he heard behind him, but he never looked back. It wasn’t worth the effort, or taking the chance of dropping everything when he’d just made it safely across.

He had to balance both carriers in order to free a hand so he could reach for the door. He wished the building was more modern. An electric door would be nice, but that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. He pulled on the handle and maneuvered his way inside. Luckily his first stop wasn’t far—just to the reception desk.

“Raspberry mocha latte, extra sprinkles, right?” Alexx balanced one cardboard container precariously on the edge of the desk, the other one riding his hip. He maneuvered the correct lidded cup out of its nestled position, trying to set it down without spilling anything. He glanced up, to be met with an amused smirk from Miller.

“You always ask me that and I always say yes, that’s mine. So why do you keep asking?”

“It’s called paying attention to details. Besides, one of these days, you might order something different. I just want to be prepared.”

“Are you trying to keep me on my toes?” The receptionist smiled.

“Just thinking ahead, you know? Someday I’ll be the one receiving the coffee, instead of being the one getting it for everyone else. I just hope the next guy takes the time to get it right,
too.”

“So you still think the old man’ll make you a reporter one of these days? Even after two years of drudgery? That’s optimism, kid.”

Alexx grinned, both at the receptionist’s words and his attitude.

Miller Fenwick wasn’t more than a dozen years older than he was, but to hear him talk, he might have been ready to collect Social Security. “I think he will, yeah. One of these days. If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t still be here.”

“Well, I’m glad you
are
here, frankly. For what it’s worth, I think you’re the best go-fer we’ve ever had at the Chronicle. I’d hate to see you move on, but I’m rooting for you, Alexx. I think you deserve a break. I’m just not sure how far you’ll get as a crime reporter in Crescent Bay. It’s such a quiet town. If it wasn’t for tourists, there’d never be any excitement. Not that they provide that much.”

“And the supes. Don’t forget the supes,” Alexx reminded him.

“Yeah, like I could. They’re the big reason tourists even bother to come here.”

“You mean other than the ocean?” Alexx gently teased.

“Oh sure, that, too. Sailing, fishing, surfing. The usual. Face it—the ocean you can get somewhere else. Not many places can boast of having one of the biggest werewolf families in residence, like we can. You have no idea what this town was like before they came. Ask my dad, he’ll tell you. Strictly Nowhere, USA.”

“Let’s not forget about Charisma. It draws them in pretty good, too.”

“Well, sure. It belongs to the Marchands, so I guess it does.

Yeah, I admit, it’s a pretty cool place, even if the prices are a bit high.” The phone on the desk buzzed. Miller glanced at it. “Oops, I
almost forgot. Mr. Randolph said to tell you he wants to see you right away, as soon as you come back.”

“What? He does? Crap,” Alexx exclaimed. “I wonder what he wants.”

“You won’t know ’til you get there. Here, leave that stuff and go on. I’ll take care of it for you. Got the list of whose is whose?”

“Yeah, right here.” Alexx set the carrier onto the desk, shoved one hand into his khaki trousers. He pulled out a handwritten list on a pink phone message slip. “Here you go. Don’t forget to make sure Price gets a stirrer with his. He gets grumpy if he doesn’t get one.”

Miller took the list and rolled his eyes. “God save us from divas. Especially ones who think they’re next in line for the Pulitzer. You go on now. It might be something good.”

“Or it might be a chewing out.” Alexx set the second carrier beside the first. “Okay, gotta go. And thanks, Miller.”

His stomach began to knot as he walked away.

“Hey, Alexx!”

He turned, wondering what next. Miller held a large cup in the air.

“As long as you’re going up to see him, might as well take his coffee, huh?”

Damn, I should’ve thought of that.
Cheeks flaming, Alexx walked back and mumbled his thanks, grabbed the beverage, and beat a hasty retreat to the elevator. He pressed the up button, cradling the cup between his palms. The heat felt soothing, counteracting the nervous excitement that filled him. This could be it. This could be the break he was waiting for. Or this could be something as mundane as a discussion of health insurance—though his logical mind told him that was a subject best covered by
personnel, not the editor. He slipped one hand inside his pocket and crossed his fingers.

The doors dinged open on the third floor, and Alexx stepped out. The cubicle of the assorted members of the news bureau met his gaze. Just past the news was personnel, which consisted of one older lady by the name of Fay and her young male assistant, Drew.

Alexx didn’t mind running errands for her. Every time he stopped by her desk, she had homemade cookies or brownies for him. She fussed over him like a mother hen. It felt nice.

Right now, all he wanted was to slip by news unnoticed, but that wasn’t meant to be. A dyed blond head, stiff from far too much hair spray, poked up, laser eyes trained on Alexx. He stiffened for a second, unable to move.

“Is that mine?” Price Chancellor demanded.

Alexx shook his head, wishing he’d thought to bring the reporter’s frappuccino. He was sure to be chewed out for not doing that, and he didn’t really have time.

“Well, why the hell not?” he began.

“Sorry,” Alexx mouthed, sidling away from the blond’s anger.

“Um, Miller’s got it, sorry.” Price disappeared from view. Alexx could hear him screaming at Miller as he turned left and started down the hall.

At the end of this hall lay the side-by-side offices of editor-in-chief “Randy” Randolph and his managing editor/son-in-law, Glenn Petrillo. They shared a common secretary, Shirley, who controlled access to both of them, and her word was law. She’d been with Randy since he’d started in the business, and knew as much about it as he did.

He approached her desk nervously, cup in hand.

“Good morning, Mr. Jameson.” Looking up from her computer
monitor, the elderly woman greeted him with a wink and a smile.

“Morning, Miss Gantz,” he mimicked her formality. “Is Mr.

Randolph in?”

“He’s in and he’s expecting you. Is that for him?”

Alexx held up the cup of coffee and nodded.

“Good. He’s looking for you both. Go on in.”

He watched her push a button on her phone, announce, “Alexx Jameson to see you.”

By the time he heard, “Send him in,” Alexx had already rounded the desk.

“Thanks, Shirley.” She patted his arm as he went by. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and entered the editor’s office.

The first thing Alexx never failed to notice when he entered this room was the preponderance of books. Bookcases lined the walls, spilling over with hardbacks and paperbacks. Books occupied every available space, and covered almost every flat surface. A small stack sat next to his computer monitor.

The second thing that caught Alexx’s attention—once he got past gaping at all the fabulous reading and research material—was the large brass telescope by the window. Mounted on a teak tripod, it commandeered a most fabulous view of the ocean.

There were two men in the room when Alexx entered— Randolph and his son-in-law. Alexx set the container of hot coffee on the editor’s desk, then he stood there, waiting.

“Alexx, thank you. Have a seat.” The silver-haired man gestured across the desk to the brass-studded leather chair next to Glenn. Alexx perched on the edge. He nodded to the managing editor. His palms felt sweaty already. He forced himself not to wipe them on his thighs.

Both men seemed relaxed. Too calm for a chewing out, was
Alexx’s first thought. The editor had a stack of papers in front of him and he was riffling through it. Alexx swallowed. Even upside down, he recognized them as articles he’d written and submitted for Mr. Randolph’s approval. Maybe this was about more than a cup of coffee after all. Mentally, he crossed his fingers again.

“How long have you lived in Crescent Bay now, Alexx?”

Glenn asked.

Alexx turned toward him, grateful for the chance to make small talk until they were ready to get down to business. Glenn was heavyset, but in a muscular way. Alexx suspected his suits were custom made, to allow for the breadth of his large chest. Well, that and his expensive taste. But that wasn’t all that unusual in this seaside resort, he’d learned, where the median income was well above the national average. Glenn had dirty blond hair, cut fairly short. Hazel eyes behind wire rimmed spectacles. A boxer’s nose and full lips. Alexx didn’t know him very well, but he’d always been nice to him.

“Over two years. I moved here right after I graduated from high school.”

“You’re not from this state, are you? I mean, originally.”

“No, not originally.” He’d grown up in another part of the country entirely, in an orphanage. A flip of a coin and a one-way ticket had brought him to Crescent Bay to start a new life. A chance encounter with the editor had brought him to the job at the newspaper.

“Nice place, don’t you think?”

Alexx nodded. “I really like it here.” By here, he meant both Crescent Bay and the Chronicle, naturally.

Glenn shifted in his chair. It creaked as he redistributed his weight. “How are things at the boarding house? Mrs. Somerset
giving you a hard time?” He winked at Alexx, negating the apparent sting in his words.

Alexx’s landlady was a local oddity. She still wore black, even after some thirty-odd years of widowhood. Her nickname was the Black Widow. From what Alexx had heard, her husband Bernard had disappeared at sea one day, and his body had never been found. Some of the locals claimed he simply ran off to get away from her, and was living the life of Riley on a tropic island somewhere. She only rented her rooms to residents, refusing to have any truck with the tourists who were the life-blood of Crescent Bay. She also couldn’t abide dogs, much to Alexx’s chagrin, and wouldn’t allow them in the house. She possessed a very lazy, very fat, fluffy white cat named Miss Daisy, who thought she owned the place, and had the run of the rooms.

“No, she’s been great. I help her out around the house, and she lets me use the kitchen.” A privilege not accorded to just any resident.