Page 81 of The Romance Adventure

“I should think about my career and not these silly feelings.”

“For once, I disagree.” Bean and Nutmeg give me a long, appraising look as if they don’t buy the silly string I’m spraying.

“Oh, come on, you’re the older, level-headed, logical sister. Don’t try to sway me.”

“But the look on your face, the smile, the love in your eyes... What if he’s the one?”

“Do you really want Royal as a brother-in-law? I thought you despised the McGregors.”

Her shoulder lifts. “They’re growing on me.”

“Let’s put Casablanca on before it gets too late.” Now I understand why Aunt Olga watched it so many times. It’s Bean’s and my favorite film because it reminds us of her.

“You said it, not me,” Bean says.

I did. I do. I mean, I think I love Royal. But as I told him, I always thought if I painted enough, I’d be able to remember my mother. I’ve had a lot taken away and have gathered enough crumbs to get by. My budding relationship with Royal is like an entire cookie, but he’s not going to share if he finds out about Dax. The mural at Platinum Shores could give me a big payday. Getting my name out there is another kind of cookie—one that’ll keep me fed for a long time.

While we watch the movie, my thoughts loop and return, leaving me as unsure as I was when we turned it on. Bean is fast asleep with Nutmeg snuggled close.

This has all happened so fast. I like it here, but am not sure what future I want. My breath comes short and I tiptoe outside for some fresh air, hoping for more clarity than Casablanca brought. Spoiler alert, the happy ending I want is different than the one Rick and Ilsa got.

I walk down the path to the edge of the property and the shoreline. The waves softly lap the sand. The moon hangs like a saucer of milk overhead.

The funny thought that I could have both cookies and milk—Royal and a flourishing career—sails into my mind, but it just as quickly breezes away.

I’ve been running for a while now and the last month catches up with me, leaving me feeling like I’m nearing empty. My eyes mist because I have to make a hard choice, and someone is going to be left with not so much as a cookie crumb.

The next morning, still without clarity or so much as a direction, I wander over to the Driftwood to scout a spot for the mural I want to paint there as a surprise for the guys.

In only a couple of weeks, the landscapers have made massive progress cutting back the vegetation that threatened to turn the resort into a jungle. The debris from several storms is gone and the paths are clear. Scaffolding and construction equipment seemed to have appeared overnight and I’m guessing the workers will be here within the hour.

I pass the various buildings I learned are named after ships—the Frigate, Galleon, and the Brigantine. I pause in front of the Schooner.

The image of the brothers, interwoven with a nautical theme, takes shape in my vision. I can picture the mural on the wall. An idea pops into my mind. I’ll paint it before I do the one at Platinum Shores, so Royal knows that I’m loyal to him and that the other one is nothing more than me seizing an opportunity.

Resolved, I continue walking and then pause in front of a stone mermaid perched atop a dry fountain. Three stone clam shells dot the area where the water would’ve been deepest, so they’d have looked like they were floating. Stone treasure chests sit atop two of them. One fell to the bottom of the fountain along with dead leaves and debris scattered along the chipped cement base.

I imagine this place in its heyday, alive with excitement, laughter, and flowing water. I hope we can restore it and invite guests to make new memories.

If I had a coin, I’d toss it into the fountain and make a wish that it be so. Instead, I say a prayer and when I open my eyes, they land on the mermaid’s hand. She points to the edge of the fountain. I glance over my shoulder and my pulse jolts.

The Mermaid’s Chest.

The name of the saloon that Chip took Royal to that was on the matchbook. Squinting my eyes, I pick up the pieces of the fallen stone treasure chest that, at one point, must’ve squirted water on the mermaid. This one, smashed open, reveals something wooden inside. I carefully remove the cracked ceramic to find a box. The hinge is rusty as I open it.

A work van approaches rapidly. The guys are probably late, which means I should put on some boots and a hard hat if I’m going to hang around here much longer.

I carefully remove a large pearl from the box hidden inside the cracked stone treasure chest.

“What do we have here?”

Trembling with excitement, I call Royal. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Gag. What’s next for us? Matching tracksuits?” he asks.

“Ooh. I hadn’t thought of that. I love crushed velvet, though that might not be the best fabric this far south.” I think back to Bean’s dress suit and how much I sweated in it before belatedly realizing his tone wasn’t playful.

“Isla, we have to talk.” Royal’s voice is flat, but he’s just a Valentine’s Day hater, eager to complain about the commercialization of love. Can’t people have any fun anymore?