Bahama Mama Read online

  Anders’ grip on the doorframe tightened, but he forced himself to maintain his composure. “She wasn’t a stripper. Casey’s death was a terrible tragedy.”

  “Casey? Casey Conway?” Martha’s manicured silver eyebrows shot up. “That young actress you’ve been photographed with recently?”

  “How do you know about Casey?”

  “The two of you made the cover of Celeb Magazine’s ‘Most Intriguing Couples of the Year’ issue. It came out yesterday. Greer was livid. She lost a role to Casey recently because the casting director said she was too long in the tooth to play the ingénue. It really got her goat.”

  Casey had mentioned something about the movie and how Greer was offered the part of her mother. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit he enjoyed seeing her pretentious feathers ruffled once in a while. The smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth faded when he realized Casey would never get the chance to fulfill her dream of staring in her first major motion picture.

  A damn waste.

  Realizing he was being observed by a hawkeyed senior citizen with a taste for preying on people’s weaknesses, he pulled his shit together and bit out the most pressing questioned in his mind. “What do you want, Martha?”

  “Theodore and I are moving to Scottsdale. We’ve found a darling little community for retirees, but unfortunately, they have a strict policy about children. No overnight visits.”

  “Good for you. So?”

  “When Oberon isn’t away at school, he lives with Theodore and I in Sacramento.”

  “Where the hell is his mother?” Anders leaned forward, scowling. Like her daughter, Martha always managed to bring out the worst in him.

  The prickly little woman didn’t appear the least bit cowed. “Greer is working. She’s been very busy lately despite losing a role to that twit. She has three movies coming out this year and two more already scheduled for next.”

  Gripping the doorframe like he intended to tear it off the wall, he growled, “She sued me for full custody of my son and you’re telling me she doesn’t even bother with him? That’s just like her.”

  “Don’t suddenly play the concerned father. It looks ridiculous on you. I do recall you signed your rights away before the case even went to court.”

  “Look—”

  She put up a hand to stop him. “I didn’t come to argue with you. I’m actually glad you’re showing an interest in your son. It gives me hope my trip here wasn’t in vain.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “As I explained, Theodore and I can’t take Oberon with us to Scottsdale. And his mother is booked for the summer. That would leave Oberon at home with only the staff and a live-in nanny to look after him. I believe he’d be better off with family.”

  “I agree.”

  “Good. Then you can take him for the summer.”

  “Wait, I never said that.” Panic fluttered in Anders’ chest. A Vegas hotel was not the ideal place for a kid. What the hell would he do with him? And after what happened with Casey, he didn’t want to risk putting Obie in the same situation. If he’d been the one to eat that tainted hamburger… Anders didn’t want to think about that.

  “Why can’t you take him?” Martha frowned. “Your summer tour has been canceled and the record company is forcing you to take a sabbatical. That story was all over the internet too. It’s what gave me the idea to bring Oberon to you.”

  “Wait, Obie is here?”

  She reached over and pulled a small boy into the frame of the doorway. As she did, time slowed down like a dramatic sequence in a music video. Oberon had been standing just out of view. Now he was standing in front of Anders, staring at the ground.

  “Obie,” Anders murmured and started to reach for him, but stopped when the boy flinched. It had been a very long time. Anders was practically a stranger. A lot could happen in two years, six months, and nine days. The little guy hadn’t changed much though. His platinum blond hair was still trimmed into a neat bowl cut. He was small for his age and way too thin. Too pale, too, for a kid who’d been born and raised in California.

  When Anders said his name, Oberon’s head tilted back as his gaze traveled up the length of Anders. Slanted blue Ostergaard eyes blinked at him through bottle-thick, black, horn-rimmed glasses, and Anders’ heart did a funny little flip. Despite his diminutive size, he had the look of an Ostergaard.

  Anders cleared the thickness from his throat. “Hi there.”

  When Oberon didn’t answer, Martha said, “Don’t bother expecting a response from him. He doesn’t talk much. And he’s particularly shy around strangers.”

  But I’m his father. Anders swallowed the words he wanted to say and stuck his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them. He had trouble meeting the boy’s unnervingly steady gaze.

  “So, you’ll take him for the summer?” Martha put her hand on the boy’s back and guided him forward a step.

  Anders gaped at her. His lifestyle wasn’t conducive to children. He might have some time off right now, but he intended to get back to work and on the road as soon as possible. He couldn’t take the boy on tour. He shouldn’t take him at all. It wouldn’t be fair to Oberon. Anders didn’t know the first thing about being a father. His old man certainly hadn’t set a good example. Part of the reason Anders had kept his distance was so he wouldn’t screw the kid up.

  “Well?” Martha demanded.

  An emotion flickered behind Oberon’s magnified blue eyes. It was so subtle, if Anders had blinked, he would have missed it. Not fear, as he would have expected, but something more like hope. Or so he told himself.

  The painful cramping in his chest was back. A thin sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead. He was pretty certain he was having a heart attack. It sure as hell felt like he was. He could think of a thousand reasons to ignore that flicker of emotion in his son’s eyes and say no to Martha Mell. The dead body in his former hotel suite being reason numero uno. But those weren’t the words that came out of his mouth.

  “Yeah. He can stay.”

  Chapter Three

  Key West, Florida

  Molly MacBain twisted her straw wrapper into a tight little rope. Sitting across from her in the two-person booth, her date stared at his utensils and fidgeted on the padded faux leather. Piped-in top-forty music filled the Grand-Canyon-sized gaps in their conversation.

  “So,” she dragged the word out slightly longer than intended, but talking to this man was like listening to a folk song that was six minutes too long. It was going nowhere and she just wanted it to end. “How long have you been on Couples.com?”

  “A month.”

  Molly had been a member for five months but was a little embarrassed to admit it. It wasn’t because she wasn’t getting asked out on dates. She was. Just none of those first dates had led to a second one. “And what do you think of online dating so far?”

  “It’s okay.”

  When he didn’t elaborate, Molly cleared her throat. “I’ve met a few nice men, but I just haven’t clicked with anyone yet. My daughter says to give it a chance, so I’m trying.”

  She’d had four first dates prior to this one. All duds. Bachelor Number One had shaken her hand when they met for lunch and then refused to let it go because he claimed he liked holding hands when he talked to people. Just weird. Bachelor Number Two was still mooning over his wife who’d left him for a woman. He was certain she’d grow bored and come back to him eventually. Delusional. Bachelor Number Three spent dinner ranting about how he longed to break his ex-girlfriend’s neck for dumping him. Psycho. Bachelor Number Four provided a misleading picture on his profile. Molly had expected a man ten years younger and two-hundred pounds lighter. She might have gotten past his weight problem and thinning hair if he’d had a super personality. He hadn’t, and she couldn’t get past the food stains on his shirt or the fact he smelled like a cigar factory. Gross!

  Bachelor Number Five sat before her now. Jeff Worth, an IT Specialist at
Key West General Hospital and recent transplant from Canton, Ohio. He wouldn’t be so bad if he would just relax.

  At the mention of her daughter, life finally sprang into Jeff’s dull brown eyes and his brow furrowed. “Wait, you have a daughter?”

  Was he serious? “Um. Yeah. I talked about her in my profile. There’s a picture of us in my photos.”

  “I thought that was your little sister.”

  Molly moistened her dry lips and looked down at her lap, gathering her patience before she pasted on a smile and looked at him again. “Didn’t you read my profile summary? I explained I had a teenage daughter named Cheyenne. She’ll be fifteen this month. That was a recent photo of us.”

  “Wow, you must have been really young when you had her. Did you get knocked up in high school?”

  Molly bristled at the false assumption. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s cool. I meant it as a compliment.”

  She wiped the edges of her mouth with her napkin and returned it to her lap before she took a deep breath. “My ex and I started dating when I was sixteen. Trevor was older, but my parents really liked him. I married him right out of high school and had Cheyenne when I was nineteen.”

  “Are you divorced?”

  “Yes.” She smiled past gritted teeth. “That was in my profile as well.”

  “Oh,” he said in a tone that sounded like well, that changes things.

  Molly was going to ask him about it when the waitress popped up, her brassy voice interrupting the awkward conversation.

  “How you doing tonight, folks? My name’s Bea. Easy to remember, ‘cause I’ll Bea your server, get it?” She took a seat beside Molly, scooting into the tiny booth as if she was planning to join them for dinner. “Have you decided on your order?”

  Moving over as far as she could to give the hippy, middle-aged woman more room, Molly looked at her sideways. “I’ll have the petite filet and a baked potato, please.”

  “Sounds great. You want that spud loaded?”

  “Sure.”

  “Butter. Sour cream. How about some bacon? I love the bacon here. It’s thin and crispy just like bacon should be. I like to take it to go and munch on it in the car on the way home.”

  Molly wanted to smile at the absurdity of the situation. She glanced at Jeff to see if he shared her amusement, but his face was stoic and his deep-set eyes were dull and lifeless again. Michigan J. Frog came to mind.

  “The bacon must be good then.” Molly smiled at the waitress. “I’ll try it. Thanks, Bea.”

  “You betcha. And for you, honey pie? What’ll you have?”

  “T-bone steak. Baked potato. Dry.”

  “You sure I can’t get you an appetizer? Maybe a Bloomin’ Onion?”

  Molly shook her head. “No, thank you.” She didn’t want the date to last any longer than it had to. The only reason she’d stuck it out this far was because she was hoping to avoid another lecture from her precocious teenage daughter.

  “Your dinner will be right up then. You kids have fun.”

  Molly watched the waitress go. She hated chain restaurants. Give her a local diner or dive any day. On an island filled with dozens of quirky, one-of-a-kind restaurants. Jeff had insisted on meeting at the Aussie steakhouse.

  “So,” she began again, gearing up for the fifth chorus. Or was this the sixth? It was always hard to tell with a run-on song. She leaned forward a little in the booth and smiled gently at her date, prepared to give him another chance. “What kind of music do you like?”

  Jeff shrugged. “Anything but rap or country. I hate country.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Molly tilted her head to the side. “You do realize I’m a country music singer?”

  His gaze lifted to hers. “I thought you said you owned a bookstore in town.”

  “I do. For almost a year now. But before that, I supported myself as a country singer for twelve years. I traveled all over the country singing in honkytonks, performing at state fairs… I even opened for Carrie Underwood once.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s a multi-Grammy-award-winning country music artist.”

  “Did you ever record an album?”

  Pressing her lips together, Molly sat straighter in the booth. That was a touchy subject. “I had a little mouth to feed. Touring provided a regular income where knocking on doors and schmoozing record label executives in Nashville did not.”

  “And now you own a bookstore?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s smart.”

  “How so?”

  He lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Not everyone knows when to give up on a lost cause.”

  Was he intentionally trying to be a jerk? She couldn’t tell. Crossing her arms, she sat back in the booth and did her best to bite her tongue.

  Nope, she couldn’t leave it alone.

  “I’m still a singer and musician. I headline at Dixie’s Bar and Grille here in town two nights a week.”

  “Oh.”

  No apology? No sheepishness? She fought the urge to get up and storm out. The song was definitely over.

  A server who wasn’t their waitress Bea arrived with their food.

  “That was quick.” Molly gave the server a tight smile. She could hear Cheyenne’s voice in her head saying: Give the guy a chance, mom. Maybe he’s just as nervous as you are.

  Molly forced herself to calm down and focused on her meal. She was on the second bite of her steak when a foul odor drifted toward her. For a moment, she thought it was her filet, but the sour, musky smell had the distinct scent of BO. She glanced across the table at Jeff and saw the telling stain spreading in a ring beneath his armpits. The guy was sweating like a glass of iced tea at a Labor Day picnic.

  Molly put her fork down and the remnants of her anger dissipated into pity. “How’s your steak?”

  “Good.”

  Getting the man to talk was like persuading a cow to play poker.

  “How’s everything?” Bea returned, scooting Molly over in the booth again. The waitress pointed at Molly’s plate. “Your potato looks delish. Did they put enough bacon on top?”

  “Yes. It’s yummy.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? You enjoy it. You doing okay over there, honey pie?”

  Jeff nodded.

  “Good deal. You’ll let me know if you need anything else. Okay?”

  As Molly watched the waitress move off again, she grinned. “Gosh. That was weird. I thought she was going to offer to cut my meat.”

  Jeff just stared at her blankly, cartoon crickets chirping behind him. Strike three for having no sense of humor. Cheyenne was going to be so disappointed. She really didn’t want Molly to be alone, but Molly didn’t think that was such a terrible thing. As long as she had Cheyenne, a roof over her head, and place to play music couple of nights a week, life was good. She didn’t need a man to make her happy.

  When she got lonely, she had her celebrity crush to fantasize about. He never said the wrong thing, left the toilet seat up, or let her down. Her relationship with her music idol Anders Ostergaard was the longest she’d ever had with a man. He was the most dependable type of boyfriend. A fictional one.

  The remainder of the date passed in silence after Molly gave up trying. She took the rest of her meal to go and tried to decline Jeff’s offer to walk her to her car. They stopped awkwardly beside the passenger side door. She had intended to put the white Styrofoam to-go container on the floor, but Jeff was in the way.

  “So.” He was the one to say it this time. “I had a really great time tonight.”

  He did?

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  Now that was a pig in a pirate costume she wasn’t expecting.

  He stared at her with an overeager gleam in his dull brown eyes. Was he self-absorbed or just clueless when it came to reading body cues? She’d been edging away from him since they arrived at her car, clearly implying she wanted to leave. She felt sorry for him again. Maybe he was just really awkward aro
und women, and she was being too hard on him. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she also didn’t want to date him out of pity.

  “Um,” she said, fixing to take the chicken’s way out. She wanted to tell him she would send him an email and then never send one, but her conscience wouldn’t let her. So, she flat out lied instead. “Sure. I’d like that. Call me.”

  Dagnabit.

  “Okay.” He gave her an awkward hug.

  “Okay. Goodnight.” She smiled back a bit too brightly.

  The teenage inquisition was waiting for Molly when she came through the door. Cheyenne was seated at the dinette table in the center of their kitchen-living room combo. Their modest two-bedroom apartment wasn’t much, but it was home. It was a lot smaller than the ranch house they used to rent in Nashville, but they didn’t have a lot of stuff. Most of the furniture and artwork had come with the rental. The two acoustic guitars on stands in the living room were Molly’s as was the large painting hanging above the sofa. It was done by a good friend of hers from a photograph of Molly and her band on stage at the State Fair of Texas, the biggest exhibition of its kind in the USA. It was by far the largest audience she’d ever played for and one of the highlights of her career.

  Her idol Anders Ostergaard was the headliner of the event, but he’d performed on the main stage and their paths never crossed.

  “Well?” The teenager at the table looked up from her open laptop, one skeptical brown eyebrow raised in question. Her smooth mocha hair was tied back into a neat ponytail. She wore a conservative periwinkle blue top that brought out her freckles and matched her eyes. Cheyenne had inherited Molly’s features, including her nose and dimpled smile, but that was where the comparisons ended. The demure teenager was a tall, lanky brunette, while Molly with her long, unruly red-gold curls was a curvy, 5’2”.

  As Molly dropped her purse by the door, she debated telling her daughter the truth but decided against it. “He was nice.”

  “But he had a lisp? Maybe a third eyeball on his forehead? Or wait, he wasn’t tall enough?”