3 A Brewski for the Old Man Read Free

gently with both hands. Rena was barely clear of the door when the brutish dark vehicle slammed backwards. The sign on the door said The Preserves, Security, R.J. Leenders . The SUV shot forward, hesitating but not stopping at the exit to the parking lot, before it took off down Beach Road.
    Rena, stepping delicately across the sidewalk in stiletto heels designed for sitting not walking, tip-toed to the shop. She was really quite young to have a sixteen-year-old daughter, only in her late thirties, and she worked hard to keep her figure and looks. A strawberry blonde, perhaps more blonde than she’d been born, she still had the unlined porcelain skin of red-heads.
    She stepped through the tinkling door. “Oh god, these shoes are killing me.” She gave us a glorious smile and minced towards the counter. “Ray loves high, high heels on me but then he doesn’t have to walk in them.” Behind the counter she bent to change into sandals, her breasts falling forward from the low-necked skin-tight tee. Her outfit was years too young for her, but I’d always assumed she dressed like that because most of the people coming into the store were young. Now I remembered that Ray John had always insisted that my mother dress provocatively. You don’t cover up a prize. The whole point is to show off a trophy and have it admired by other men.
    “We went to Brandy’s for lunch. I put on pounds.” Her hands stopped digging through her purse. She looked up at us. “What’s the matter?” she said looking from one of us to the other. Panic flooded her face. “What’s happened?”
    “Nothing, nothing,” I blurted out in denial. “Gotta go,” I said and fled the store.
    Outside the sun was still shining. Seagulls circled and called out over the sand and the heat still pounded down, but I was cold. I stood with my arms wrapped around me, huddled against the building where no one could see me, trying to get it straight. Ray John left when I was barely thirteen but hardly a day went by when I didn’t remember my two years of hell. My pain was fresh and raw again.
    “Get it together. Nothing has changed,” I told myself. “Just stay away from him. Go on with your life and forget about the past. Lacey and Rena’s problems have nothing to do with you. There isn’t room in your life for anyone else’s problems.” All good advice and I tried to pay attention, I really did.

C H A P T E R 4
    I slipped in past the customer leaving Peter Rowell’s bookstore. “Sherri,” he called in greeting. Peter and I had hit it off from the beginning. Not only did we share a love of books, we were both crazy about golf. But I couldn’t share Peter’s other big passion, cricket, a game he’d tried to explain to me but one I’d never been able to grasp. His love of the game was reflected all over the store with the names of book sections written on cricket bats. Pictures of great British cricketers hung above the racks devoted to newspapers and the world’s biggest display of magazines.
    “Good morning,” he sang out cheerfully. His sparkling blue eyes and English accent always brightened my spirits, but not that day. “Hi,” I replied.
    Peter’s smile melted and his brow furrowed. “Not your normal sunny self today.” He tilted his head to the side. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
    A harsh bark of laughter exploded from me. I put my fingertips over my lips to stop the sound. “A ghost, yes, I’ve seen a ghost.” I reached out and spun a carousel display of bookmarks without seeing them. “Do ghosts from your past ever haunt you?”
    “All the time.” His voice was soft. “Ghosts can stop the sun.” His gentle smile was full of sympathy. “You can’t run away from ghosts. They always know where to find you.” He reached below the counter and brought out an envelope containing the rent check and slid it across the counter towards me. “You’re working too hard — every hour god sends. You