Sunset Beach by Mary Kay Andrews
Acknowledgments
Writing Sunset Beach literally took me home to my roots and the Gulf beaches of St. Petersburg, Florida. The Sunset Beach of this novel is a highly fictionalized version of the real community of Sunset Beach, but my affection for those same beaches and their residents is real and enduring. I owe a debt of thanks to all who helped with the research for this book, especially Andrew Payne, whose innocent answer to a nosy question several years ago sparked the idea for this book. Huge thanks go out to my friends Phil Secrest and Melissa Post for their invaluable help and advice. Lawyer types who patiently answered questions include Joe Bayliss, David Eicholz, Beth Fleishman, Jean Higham, and Howard Spiva. Retired St. Petersburg Police Detective Ralph Pflieger and retired Atlanta Police Homicide Captain G. M. Lloyd helped with the cop stuff. Thanks to C. J. Case for giving me a glimpse into the world of kiteboarding, and for connecting me to kiteboarding pros India Stephenson and Claire Lutz. Marianne Bushman gave physical therapy advice for rehabbing a blown-out kiteboarding knee, and Diane Kaufman offered insight into hotel back-of-house operations. Jay and Linda Mastry, of Mastry’s Bar and Grill in downtown St. Petersburg assisted in a fun trip down memory lane. I’m also grateful for Judy Trew and Danielle Thompson, who purchased naming honors with their generous donations to the American Heart Association at the Southern Coast Heart Ball.
As always, I’m eternally thankful for the skills and enthusiasm of my entire publishing team: literary agent Stuart Krichevsky at SKLA; marketing guru Meghan Walker of Tandem Literary; and of course, my publishers at St. Martin’s Press: Sally Richardson and Jennifer Enderlin. Sunset Beach marks my tenth book with this dynamic duo, and I’ll forever be grateful for that long-ago meeting at the Flatiron Building. Many thanks and love go out to the whole St. Martin’s team—especially Jessica Zimmerman, Tracey Guest, Erica Martirano, Brant Janeway, and art director Michael Storrings for always giving me the perfect book cover.
It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway that I’m nothing without the love and support of my family: my husband, Tom; daughter, Katie; son-in-law Mark; Andrew, and the grandest grandkids ever, Molly and Griffin.
1
Sunset Beach, April 2018
Drue turned the key in the ignition and the white Bronco’s engine gave a dispirited cough, and then nothing.
“Come on, OJ,” Drue muttered, trying again. This time the engine turned over. She gave it some gas and the motor roared to life.
“Thanks, babe.” She gave the cracked vinyl dashboard an encouraging pat, then shifted into reverse and eased her foot onto the accelerator. The motor gave a strangled wheeze and cut off again. Now every single indicator on the control panel began blinking red.
She tried again, but the third time was not the charm. The engine caught briefly, the Bronco’s battered chassis shuddered, then fell still.
“Noooooo,” she moaned.
She glanced down at her watch. She now had fifteen minutes to get downtown to work. “No way,” she muttered.
Back when life was good, when she was living in Fort Lauderdale, she would have taken an Uber or called a friend for a lift when the 1995 Bronco she’d bought off Craigslist was having what Drue thought of as PMS. But she hadn’t exactly had time to make friends since moving back to Florida’s west coast, and she no longer had a viable credit card for Uber, or even viable credit, for that matter.
Drue had a vague memory of seeing city buses lumbering past on nearby Gulf Boulevard. She pulled her phone from her backpack, found the transit authority website and schedule, and determined that with any luck, she just might catch a bus that might get her to the downtown St. Petersburg offices of Campbell, Coxe and Kramner in the next thirty minutes. Which would make her late for her first day of work.
She started walking. It was barely eight-thirty, and only April, but the temperature already hovered in the mid-eighties, and within two blocks of leaving her house, her cotton tank top was damp with perspiration and her right knee was throbbing.
Shit. She should have gone back to the house and put on the tight elastic brace the surgeon had given her. In fact, should have been wearing it anyway, even if she hadn’t had to walk five blocks. But the damn thing was so hot. The elastic chafed her skin and gave her a rash, so she left it at home more times than she wore it.
Drue gritted her teeth against the pain and kept walking. She was on Gulf Boulevard now, the busy north–south thoroughfare that threaded through all the tiny beach towns before eventually making a sharp right turn at Treasure Island Causeway, heading east toward downtown St. Pete. A clutch of giggling teenage girls, spring breakers, probably, dressed in bikini tops and microscopic neon-bright shorts with the waistbands rolled down to their navels, approached on the sidewalk, headed in the opposite direction, and made an elaborate show of sidestepping her.
She heard a quavery voice behind her.
“Excuse me, darling.” She turned her head to see an elderly man, his bony bare chest glistening with sweat, power past, pumping small dumbbells in each hand.
She squinted and saw, just half a block ahead, the shaded bus shelter. Thank God. She wasn’t sure if she could walk much farther. Half a block, though. That, she could do. She picked up the pace, trying to ignore the red-hot stabbing pain in her knee.
Briiiing, briiinnng, a bike’s bell and then a booming woman’s voice: “On your left!”