All That Jazz (Butler Cove #1) Read online

  I STEP ON the gas riding north toward the Bluffton campus. It’s a beautiful May day. The kind of day where you breathe a sigh of relief it’s summer again, even while knowing the brutal roasting of a hot South is dogging your heels. The sun sparkles on the rivers as I cross the bridges. On days like this I want to keep driving. Keep going past Bluffton, past Beaufort. Maybe even stop off on Edisto and see those wild and beautiful old oak trees. Maybe even keep driving and leave everything behind. Just be wild and free. Invent a new identity with every town I hit.

  Joey really shocked me last night. If I hadn’t been so exhausted I would’ve been up half the night thinking about it. Did he seriously come on to me?

  I’ve tried not to be the pathetic ex hook-up for the past three years, but after the phone call when I called him about Jack and Keri Ann, I feel like I just regressed. I made so many slip ups on that phone call. The kind of slip ups that would send most guys running in the opposite direction. He not only came running home, but in the same day made a pass at me.

  It makes no sense and frankly it’s doing my head in to try and figure it out. One thing I learned about boys early on is there’s usually not much to figure out. So why would Joey be any different? What was he expecting last night anyway? That we would just pick back up where he left it years ago?

  Didn’t he know what an asshole he’d been to me three years ago? And I was his sister’s best friend for Christ’s sake. Why would he risk messing that up?

  I shake my head. The alternative scenario is one I can’t even bear to think about. If I even open my mind to the possibility that Joey might finally want something with me, I fear my heart may crack in two from the impact.

  Besides, I have plans for next year.

  On that note I find a parking spot right outside the Gateway building. I turn off the ignition, take a deep breath, and go to find out whether I’m even staying in Butler Cove at all.

  THAT SPRING BEFORE I turned eighteen was fast and easy.

  Before I knew it, my best friend and I were melting in the sticky Lowcountry heat. It was easy because back then I didn’t know loss. Fear, yes. Instability, of course. But not loss, yet. For right then, life took on a kaleidoscopic glow of fun. It was vibrant with dreams and plans, hopes and infinite possibilities.

  And boys.

  It was the end of high school, and the beginning of the rest of our lives.

  Then it was summer.

  I lost a lot of things that summer.

  That summer changed me forever.

  I SECURED MY paddle by sliding it down inside the fiberglass hull of my kayak and reached for the green slime-covered trailing rope on the back of the moored Catalina sailboat.

  Coasting in, I pulled myself alongside and tied my vessel to the larger boat. Balancing my weight, I performed the tricky maneuver of climbing out without falling into the dark briny estuary water of Broad Creek. In my hand, held tight, was our mail. The mail had been delivered to the bar at Captain Woody’s, instead of our apartment, for as long as I could remember.

  The morning breeze whipped my ponytail across my face, the strands sticking to the Cotton Candy Clouds lip gloss I wore. It was a better smell than the marshland pluff mud exposed by low tide. The mildewed sails also had their own familiar scent. That of must and abandonment. They were bundled into long logs of dirty canvas that used to be white and were now blackened, perhaps Charleston Green, and holding leftover stagnant rainwater in various divoted pockets. Salty air had left a thick residue over the boat, dulling the once shiny metal and frosting the cabin windows.

  My dad’s boat, his girl, even though her real name was All That Jazz, was considered one of the abandoned boats in Broad Creek. There were a few of them, anchored just far enough from the marina to not be under the jurisdiction of the harbor master and just close enough to give the impression they were allowed to be there. Some were probably lived on, some were not. Who knew the real reason some of the boats were anchored one day and abandoned the next? My daddy would spin me tales of wanted men hiding out, love affairs, drug smugglers, and people dropping anchor to swim with the baby dolphins in the creek and loving it so much they simply never returned to their boats.

  I knew how All That Jazz had gotten here. My dad dropped anchor, then left Butler Cove and me and my mom, for good.

  I grasped the cold metal handle on the hatch door, twisting hard against the ravages of time and the elements. I climbed down into the cockpit. The smell of mildew, wood varnish, and salted metal was like coming home. Only my father being here too would complete that feeling. Sliding the fabric back from the windows along its string to let some dull morning light in, I sat on the orange vinyl cushion and reached beneath me. My finger looped into the brass ring pull, and I slid open the wood veneer panel exposing the storage compartment that extended toward the fiberglass hull. I pulled out my old shoe box. Pink Cowgirl Glitter Boots. Size one. I remembered the day I got them. Of course, the box didn’t contain them still. I’d worn them every day until they fell off my feet. I cried the day Momma threw them away. No, this box held my hopes and memories. This box held, as tangibly as I could, my relationship with my father.

  It was stupid really. A roll of tokens we always said we’d use again at the county fair the next time they came. They did. And we didn’t. An Indian head penny on a leather lariat to go with my cowgirl boots that Daddy got me when he was photographing some tribes out in Utah, but Momma never let me have anything around my neck. An assortment of dumb receipts that were as faded as the memories they were supposed to remind me of, and postcards. Lots and lots of postcards. Of those I had too many to fit in the box. Cairo, Phuket, Kuala Lumpur, Sydney, Bombay, Baghdad, London … the stack was immense. And I kept every last one.

  This was my ritual. I knew if I delayed looking at the mail delivery as long as possible, the more time I had before the disappointment of not hearing from him hit. But I was a junkie. Most people would shut it down, stop looking, stop waiting, stop hoping. Not me. The hope was fresh each time, and each time there was no news the hurt cut deep. If my mom knew I still did this she’d have nipped it a long time ago. Stopped anyone at Woody’s giving me the mail. Done something.

  I carefully laid aside each envelope. An offer for a new phone line. A coupon card for the Laundromat. A credit card bill for a big box store over in Bluffton that my mom could never get paid down. More junk. Nothing for me. I swallowed my disappointment, set the stack of mail aside, and pulled out a blank postcard I’d picked up from the marina store. It was of an alligator in mid thrash, it’s mouth open and head bent around to face the camera. “See ya later!” the caption read in cartoon yellow. I turned it over and clicked my pen.

  David Fraser

  C/o The Colony Apartments

  42 1/2 West Congress Avenue

  New York, NY 10021

  Pops/Dad/Daddy/Papa/David

  What do you expect your almost 18-year-old daughter to call you these days? I haven’t heard from you since last year (yes, I’m counting), and you’re starting to freak me out. Let’s not even talk about how long it’s been since you’ve seen me. I think maybe I’m old enough to call you David, what do you say? Can you even be a dad when you never show up? Wait, I didn’t mean that really. But I’m not crossing it out because maybe you should think about it a bit. I’ve decided on college without you. Remember we talked about doing that together? Well, time slows for no man, right? I’ll tell you where I chose when you write me. So I may as well tell you then that I’m also planning on losing my virginity this …

  I ran out of room on the postcard. Fumbling in the box for the writing paper set that Keri Ann’s Nana had given me, I rewrote my father’s address on an envelope, then opened up a pre folded piece of paper.

  ...ctd from postcard: As I was saying, I may as well tell you that I’m planning on losing my virginity this summer. Shocked that I’d tell you that? Good. So if you have something to say about that too, then I suggest you write to me soon. I still hol
d hope that you’ll show up on my birthday like you promised you would. I haven’t told Momma I’m hoping, she’ll shit all over that parade. She hates when I expect too much from you. Quick updates: Keri Ann is still my best friend. Dirty Harry is still propping up the bar at Woody’s. Woody is still Woody. I still sneak out the sliding door of my bedroom rather than the front door. Momma is still working two jobs. She’s starting a new one at the hospital soon. I finish high school forever (forever, forever!) in a few weeks. I’m writing to you from your boat and it is still here, although I’ve heard people at Woody’s saying the county is talking about having the boats towed away. If that happens, I’ll stage a sit-in. Don’t worry. I won’t let them take it. Yours isn’t the only one anyway. What’s up with that?

  All right — I guess I used up my bonus space. I love you, Dad. I miss you. But, you know that. It’s probably not enough, but can you just come back anyway?

  With love, Jazzy Bear.

  I paused, then added,

  Jessica.

  I was too old for nicknames.

  Dammit. Depressing. I quickly folded the letter and stuffed it with the postcard into the envelope. I licked it closed and rummaged for a Forever stamp. Sticking it on, I thought about all the letters I hadn’t sent. Ones that had been a bit too … unlike me. I was a positive, happy, person. I hated being down. I refused to be depressed. Most of the time when I tried to wallow, I got bored fairly quickly. I endeavored not to send the letters and postcards I wrote when I was too much in that mood. I mean, if you were a glamorous award-winning photojournalist, would you give up the excitement of life to come home to a small town on the Carolina coast that was home to a woman you didn’t love and the sad, whiny offspring you accidentally produced with her?

  I wouldn’t.

  “Jazz?” a male voice called.

  I started, then hurriedly stuffed the box under the bench. I frowned. Was that Joey’s voice?

  Sliding my newly written letter under the mail I’d brought on board, I cleared my throat as I heard the unmistakable sounds of someone tying a kayak up next to mine. There was the dull and hollow bang of our fiberglass hulls colliding, followed by the rough sound of abrasive sliding.

  I gritted my teeth at the way my heart fluttered. I’d been planning on staying here a while longer and maybe pulling out some of my dad’s old Duke Ellington records. Standing, I smoothed my shirt and glanced at my reflection in the tiny mottled mirror opposite me. Whatever. I ran my hands over my blonde hair that was pulled off my face like I always wore it for kayaking.

  “Jazz,” he called again on a grunt as he presumably pulled himself aboard.

  I hoped for a good tone. “Yeah? I’m coming.” I picked up the stack of mail. Sticking my head out, I grabbed the railing and made quick work of pulling myself up into the bright morning air and squinted against the sight of Joseph Butler in dark board shorts and a white fitted Under Armour shirt, the low morning sun just above his left shoulder. His dark blond hair was unkempt and wind tossed.

  “Hey,” he said, an amused smirk dancing around his lips. “What’s up?”

  “You’re wearing a halo,” I muttered with a scowl. “And I, for one, know that’s been misplaced. Step out of the sunbeam, Kelly Slater.”

  “Hmmm. Naming me after a surf god. I’ll take that comparison. Thanks.”

  “Ugh.” I rolled my eyes, but I was amused. “I was making reference to the surf bum look. The crazy hair. Not—”

  “He’s bald now.”

  “He shaves his head.”

  “Because he’s going bald.”

  “You know that’s not the point.”

  “I know. You’ve never complimented me voluntarily, you’re hardly going to start now.”

  I frowned. “I haven’t?” I stayed on the top step just below deck level and leaned my weight on one side of the opening, cocking my head. “And I didn’t realize you were tallying.”

  Joey snorted, smiling, and ran a hand through his hair, darker blond from being away at college studying and not here on the coast where he’d grown up. “It’s hardly a memory challenge of keeping count. The number is always zero.”

  “Well, what are you good at, then?” I asked, crossing my arms. “I’ll be sure to look out for it and compliment you.”

  “Finding my sister’s best friend. Knowing her habits.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  “Annoying the shit outta her,” he added, reaching out a hand to balance on the mast when the boat rocked gently.

  “Now you’re talking.” I pursed my lips.

  “Why is that, by the way?”

  “Why’s what?” The wind picked up across the water bringing the scent of bacon and biscuits from one of the marina restaurants serving breakfast. My stomach growled.

  “Why is it that I annoy you so much?”

  I shrugged. “You—” I stopped. Why was I getting drawn into this?

  “You don’t even know why, do you?” Joey ventured.

  Thinking back to the first time I met Keri Ann and saw her brother Joey, I rolled my eyes. “I do. But I doubt you remember it.” My stomach growled again, earning me an amused laugh.

  “I’ll bet you breakfast that I do.”

  “I didn’t realize you were already back for the summer.”

  “Yep. Semesters over. You missed dinner last night. Keri Ann said you were coming over.”

  I looked away. “My mom needed me. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  “I went for a morning kayak and saw yours. What are you doing out here on your own?”

  I shrugged, unwilling to tell the truth that I just needed to feel closer to my dad today. “Breakfast sounds good.”

  We climbed back into our kayaks, Joey holding mine steady, and pulled ourselves in silence back toward the marina. I’d never shared a meal with Joseph Butler, just the two of us. This would be a first.

  JOEY’S EYES DROPPED to the stack of mail I’d put on our outside table at Sunrise Cafe. “You hear from him?”

  I started, surprised.

  “I assume you go to his boat when you miss him? Maybe?” Joey sat back in his chair angled away from the table and propped an ankle over his knee. “I wish there was somewhere I could go to feel closer to Mom and Dad.” Joey smiled crookedly, then cleared his throat.

  A small burn stung my eyes and nose, my chest swelling as I acknowledged my own sadness for the loss both he and my best friend had endured when their parents died three years ago. Both their mom and their dad … gone.

  My dad was just terrible at staying in touch. Some days though, I felt it would be easier if he was dead.

  I focused on the light dusting of hair on Joey’s athletic legs rather than look at him.

  “It’s not easier, trust me,” Joey said quietly, surprising me again. I flicked my eyes back up to his, vibrantly blue in the morning light. “When they’re gone, you can never take back anything you said. You agonize over every time you were a little shit. You wonder if you remembered to tell them you loved them, or if they knew how much you did. You want to go back and be a perfect kid. Like maybe if you had been better, your father would have been at home more. And your mom would have been happier. And maybe they’d still be alive.”

  I inhaled deeply.

  “I feel like that,” I responded to his honesty. “Maybe if I’d been a better daughter, he and my mom would have worked it out. Maybe he’d still be here. And not picking the most dangerous and remote places in the world as if he doesn’t care that he may never come back.” My cheeks burned, and my throat closed as I tried to stem my embarrassing word vomit. Why was I being so honest? Just because he was, didn’t mean I had to be.

  As if he knew I felt I’d said too much, he sat forward and grabbed his menu. “So how about breakfast?”

  I nodded jerkily and followed suit. We placed our orders with the server, and I watched as Joey ignored the milk and sugar for his coffee, pushing them toward me. He took a tentative sip of the black brew, his lips
tightening and his eyes creasing as he tasted the bitterness.

  “Good?” I laughed.

  “Perfect. Any better and I’d drink too much of it.”

  I added three sugars and started pouring milk.

  He raised his eyebrow. “Would you like some coffee with your milk?”

  “What? If I had it like yours, I wouldn’t drink enough of it to keep me awake.”

  I stirred it and took a tentative sip. “Mmm. So this is … different.”

  “What is?”

  “You and I having breakfast together. Talking even. Not that I don’t consider you a friend … or at least a friend because you’re my best friend’s older brother.” I narrowed my eyes. “You want something, don’t you, Joseph?”

  Joey smirked and looked away toward the sparkling waters of Broad Creek. His profile was familiar, the same as it had always been and yet so different. His cheekbones seemed a little harsher, his jaw a little rougher, the crinkle at his eyes a little more serious. A little more beautiful. He looked back at me suddenly, and I widened my eyes in challenge as I waited for him to confess.

  “I need a favor.”

  JOSEPH NEEDED A favor.

  “And here I thought you were buying me breakfast out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Who said I was buying?”

  “You bet me breakfast.”

  “If I couldn’t remember the event that started your irritation with me. You’ve been irritated with me since the moment we met. So it has to be that day.”