The Lottery Winner. Emilie Rose
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“Want me to give you a ride to your car?”
Jessie shook her head. “It’s okay. I’m just down the boardwalk.”
“I’d feel better if I watched you till you’re out of sight.” After locking the front door she led Jessie out the rear to the patio. She pulled out her phone and punched buttons. Seconds later Jessie’s phone vibrated against her hip. “Now you have my number. Save it and call if you need me. For anything, hon, and at any time. Day or night. Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then Miri sank into a chair. She reminded Jessie so much of her mother sitting on the patio and watching as Jessie walked to the end of their long driveway to wait for the school bus that it made her eyes sting.
“Good night, Miri. And thanks for...understanding.”
“There’s nothing wrong with needing a second chance.”
Jessie didn’t correct her. She backed away and waved then turned and strode off before she gave in to the overwhelming urge to hug the restaurant owner, confess all and ask her advice. But it was better if Miri didn’t know. Knowing could add her to the list of people adversely affected by being connected to Jessamine.
For the first time since being forced from her job, she felt a sense of purpose. She couldn’t protect her mother from the chaos at home, but she could protect Miri from her mess here and from her overbearing nephew.
It wasn’t until Jessie slowed to turn off Highway 1 that she realized she’d said no to Logan Nash. Funny how easy it had been to say the word to him. But he’d definitely gotten on her bad side, and like a student who seemed destined to cause trouble, he needed watching.
* * *
FOR THE FIRST time since arriving in Florida, Jessie awoke refreshed and eager to start her day. Attributing her good night’s sleep to the hustle at work, she started a pot of the exotic coffee provided with her rental, showered and dressed while it brewed, then grabbed her mug, her caddy of art supplies and her easel and headed out onto the deck.
Her brother had called twice while she was in the shower, and she debated calling him back. But for once she didn’t want to talk to him. Calling meant she might have to lie about where she’d been last night or what she’d done. Instead, she texted him to let him know she was okay and slipped her phone back into her pocket.
A flash of movement caught her eye. A trio of Key deer, none any bigger than her at-home neighbor’s rescued greyhounds, strolled through the backyard a dozen feet below. The four-legged family had become part of her morning routine.
Except for the waterfront space, the rental property was completely fenced in, but the deer somehow found their way in and back out again on a regular basis. Back home in South Carolina, the deer invading her daddy’s orchard were considered a nuisance and were dealt with accordingly, but here Key deer were a protected species. And they were welcome company. She would miss them once she returned home.
On her first day on the island she’d learned that the animals liked people food when she’d left her lunch on the table beneath the palms and gone inside for two minutes. She’d returned to find them eating her sandwich. Captivated, she’d fed them her apple, then later when she’d slipped into the library to research them, she’d discovered she’d broken the law. Feeding the deer was illegal, for their own safety. She hadn’t fed them since, but they always showed up looking hopeful. It made her wish she’d replaced her camera. It, along with her laptop, had been stolen in the first break-in, and searching for new electronics hadn’t seemed important with everything else going on. But she’d sketched her visitors multiple times.
“Sorry, guys. No food again today.”
Their big brown begging eyes filled her with a load of guilt that she tried to ignore, then the buck led his little group off into the dense green foliage bordering the fence. Juggling her load, Jessie carefully descended the stairs and dug her toes into the still cool crushed shells, then glanced toward the private pier and stopped in her tracks. The cormorants were back doing their creepy statue imitations. She couldn’t bring herself to join them. Instead she set up her chair and easel in the shade beneath the coconut tree and picked up her binoculars.
One of the birds turned his head and stared at her very much like Miri’s nephew had last night. A shiver skittered down her spine. “I’m naming you Nash,” she told the vile creature.
She filled her palette then quickly painted in the background. From this distance, the island was a blur of greens and the water blues and grays. Then she picked up a finer brush to begin the focal point. Her fingers flew across the canvas, adding detail to the birds and the long and narrow dock. As the sun climbed overhead and forced her to squint, she wished she’d brought her sunglasses outside, but she rarely bothered early in the morning. The lenses muted too many of the colors.
The rumble of a boat motor penetrated her concentration. She watched it until she was able to identify it as a regular fishing boat rather than one of long, low speedboats or diving boats that often cruised by. There was nothing remarkable enough about it to make her interrupt her work. She’d love to hire someone to teach her to dive, but her brother’s warnings and her cash situation kept her from putting thought into action.
The craft passed less than fifty yards from the end of the dock, startling the cormorants into flying away. The driver and passengers waved—most boaters did, she’d discovered—and she waved back. Eager to claim her turf before the birds returned, she grabbed her gear and hustled down the sun-bleached planks to the wider rectangle at the end.
Waves from the boat’s wake gently rocked the floating platform. She set her gear on the fish-cleaning table. The water lapping at the pylons was clear. She could see the bottom and the crab trap someone had left behind. One lone crab beat against the metal cage. Grabbing the rope, she hauled it up, opened the door and tipped over the trap. The crustacean scuttled over the edge of the boards to freedom. She pitched the wire cube back into the water with a splash. No way was she boiling a live crab and listening to it beat against the pot until it died. She shuddered.
Two cormorants swooped overhead. She waved her arms, and thankfully they landed on the dock next door—a safe two hundred yards away. She settled her canvas against the easel. The picture was coming together so quickly that it reminded her of the old weekly public television show she used to watch as a child. The instructor had whipped out a painting in an hour. She wasn’t that fast, but there was definitely something freeing about painting here with no interruptions and no audience.
The sun’s glare was intense, and once again she wished for her sunglasses. Tomorrow she’d remember to bring them, but she didn’t dare leave today or the birds might return. She checked her watch. Another hour before she had to shower and report for work.
If she was lucky, Logan Nash wouldn’t show up tonight.
* * *
SUE SLID A disposable takeout container onto the bar in front of Logan. “Miri said to tell you to take your dessert and go home. What did you do to tick her off?”
He shifted on his bar stool and drummed his fingers on the envelope containing the rejected forms. “I tried to get the new waitress to fill out her employment forms.”
He’d left his office early, bringing with him the necessary paperwork, and he’d waited out front, planning to corner Jessie before the restaurant opened and insist she complete the sheets. But Miri had spotted him and run interference, insisting that if he couldn’t stop hounding Jessie then he needed to go home.
He couldn’t figure out why his aunt was so determined to protect the waitress. So here he was again—stuck on a bar stool for an entire night watching the brunette’s suspicious behavior and learning nothing.
“What do you think of your new coworker?” he asked the sixty-something waitress who’d been with Miri since the day she’d opened Fisherman’s Widow.
“Jessie? What’s not to like? She hustles. I don’t have to