Page 37 of The Romance Adventure

CHAPTER 10

Strawberry Shortcake and I stop on the edge of the resort property. I’m still not sure why I let her tag along, other than legal reasons. But her comment about needing someone to listen repeatedly floats into my head.

I push it away. It comes back. It’s a tidal-type situation with the thought coming toward me and then rolling out. Like a beach ball, I can’t submerge it or toss it very far.

Turning the matchbook Chip left me over in my hand, I wonder what it would take to burn the old place down. Sounds dramatic and kind of villainous, but this place has seen better days and I’m all about investments. Alright, fine. It’s more than that. I’m bitter because the embossed treasure chest on the book of matches is all too familiar.

“The Mermaid’s Chest,” Isla says over my shoulder, reading the words on the matchbook.

“Yeah, an old restaurant-saloon Chip took me to once on one of the other islands. Had a talk with me about my future and the meaning of success. A real heart to heart,” I add with a sarcastic bite and not something I want to talk about.

Standing in front of the resort, a double swinging metal gate connected to tall stone and seashell columns sits closed and unwelcoming. Time to change the subject. Move on.

“This is new. Chip must’ve had it installed in recent years.” I spot a call box and keypad and try a PIN code—Emmie’s birthday, which is all of our secret passwords. The gate creaks and slowly opens.

Strawberry Shortcake proceeds while I remain rooted to the spot, because once I pass through, I’m not sure what I’ll find.

With a glance over her shoulder, she calls, “You coming?”

She has terrible footwear—like a baby giraffe in high heels. Only so she doesn’t twist her ankle on an uneven surface and turn around and sue me, I follow after her.

The once tidy St. Augustine grass is long and the formerly impeccably landscaped grounds are lost to nature. The pathways are overgrown and the outbuildings resemble shacks, rather than sheds.

“It needs some TLC,” Strawberry Shortcake says brightly.

“It needs to be burned to the ground.”

“That’s extreme.”

In the distance, the main building sits lonely on the peninsula, with the scattered villas orphaned and forgotten.

I don’t want to do this. Pausing, I’m about to turn back when a hand lands on my arm. I lock it in my sight like I would a stinging insect. But at Strawberry Shortcake’s touch, time slows. My heart softens. Something wet fills my eyes. Must be this wind.

She gazes at the old, classic resort, fallen into ruin. It was once the place to be before the fancy mega-resorts accumulated all the tourists with their promises of non-stop fun, all-inclusive packages, and cookie-cutter properties created by greedy developers, aka Gerome Glandman.

“This was a place for families, old-school activities, and relaxation,” I say with an air of nostalgia I could do without.

“Old-fashioned fun.”

“Without all the flash and fuss of modern resorts, but with genuine homestyle hospitality.”

We continue down the winding paths, bordered by ships’ mast posts and thick rope instead of fencing. The tiki bars with thatched, palapa roofs are sparse if not completely bald. The mini golf course looks like a crime scene. Vegetation and probably creatures that bite fill the nooks and crannies.

“This sounds like my kind of place. What happened?” Strawberry Shortcake asks.

“A confluence of events. An elderly man whose grandsons neglected him, old wood, a lapsed insurance policy, and a massive storm.” The raw honesty of my reply makes my throat feel thick.

“There’s potential.”

“More like a hassle.”

“Well, Mr. McGrumpkin, my favorite side to look at is the sunny one. You should try it sometime. The view is spectacular.” Her gaze skirts our surroundings, flits to me, and lands on the water.

The hope in her voice makes me feel feral. The light in her eyes, resistant. I can’t let myself go there. “No, this place needs to be leveled.” I make a sweeping motion with my hand toward the docks that are half-sunk and have broken slats.

“But hard work and⁠—”

“Nothing can bring it back.”