LOST AND FOUND
GWENNA SEBASTIAN
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
To sweet Mel. For all the right reasons.
Acknowledgements
Huge thanks goes to Elle Parker, who, with a great deal of patience, helped me with the world of ePublishing. She never stops encouraging me.
A special shout out go to my cheering gallery and test readers: Tara, Kathy P and Diane. You guys are the best without a doubt.
Very special thank you to Cyn, my editor. I can’t say enough about having someone you can trust to take you through the editing process and Cyn was that and so much more. She told me she wanted this story to shine and it’s because of her that it’s so much more than when I submitted it. Thank you seems lame in the face of the work she did with me, but thank you anyway, girlfriend. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And last, deepest appreciation to Melanie. My dearest friend who reads everything I pen down, isn’t afraid to say what she thinks and hand holds me through all my doubts. She believes in me, for whatever reason and because of that faith, I realized the most important dream in my life—publishing my first novel.
Chapter 1
Currituck Lighthouse sliced through the gray skies, the unpainted brick dull in the weak winter light. Mark Connor barely noticed it as he drove down Route Twelve, heading south to Kitty Hawk. During the summer, this road was crowded with tourists, making the narrow two-lane highway slow going. But in January, the height of the off-season, it was an empty road until you reached Duck.
The barrier islands along the coast of North Carolina were by and large deserted during the coldest part of the winter. People came for the beaches, the lighthouses, and the fishing. This time of year, you got miles of cold beaches with bitter ocean spray whipped at you by the blustery weather. It was damp, raw, and uninviting.
That suited Mark fine. The less he had to deal with people, the happier he was. Home remodels were what he searched for, this one being sweeter than most. Back in the eighties, a couple had bought the land above Corolla, building a massive house there, renting it out over the years as an investment. They were ready to live down here full time, but the place needed a major overhaul. When built, it had been outfitted for tourists. Now the owners wanted to turn it into the luxury retirement home they’d waited years to enjoy.
The wind buffeted Mark’s old Suburban, throwing salt spray over the hood and windshield. He put his cigarette between his lips in order to use both hands on the steering wheel to keep the truck on the road. The sky was a dull gray with dark clouds. It would probably rain before he got back.
He drove through the small town of Duck. There wasn’t a lot here during the winter months except some essentials for the locals: a post office, market, a couple of small restaurants. A pair of four-wheel drives were parked at the plaza. Someone walked their black Lab along the shoulder of the road as he drove on toward Southern Shores. The walker was so bundled up against the elements, Mark couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. Not that he cared.
The owners had made sure that everything Mark would need in the way of supplies had been delivered to the house. That included hardwood floors, boxes upon boxes of tiles, fixtures, molding, new cabinets for the kitchen and four bathrooms, countertops, paint and much more. Most of it was stacked in the great room.
Mark agreed to have the work completed by the end of April. He traveled, mostly along the east coast, looking for rehab jobs just like this one, where he'd have complete run of the place while the owners were away, even living there. Mark stipulated that he'd wouldn’t accept payment until they returned and were satisfied with the results.
He had started work after moving in at the beginning of November. It was only him, in one, big-ass home located in the northernmost part of the Outer Banks.
This part of the island was more developed, with enormous vacation rentals lining both sides of the highway, all in the classic “Outer Banker” style. They stood empty during the cold months, windows shuttered against the elements. Mark came into Southern Shores, a town a little bigger than Duck. He rolled the window down far enough to toss what was left of his cigarette outside as he drove past a couple of large gated communities with more expensive homes built up on stilts. Like the dwellings along the road, they were vacant for the season. Even the docks, lashed by the winter surf, were bare of the boats that would return in April and May.
A truck drove past him, heading north as Mark continued south. More vehicles now, he no longer had the highway to himself. He was coming into the heart of the Outer Banks where it was the most built-up, the stretch of Kitty Hawk to Nags Head. Here, land was at a premium with cottages built right next to each other along with the condos, hotels and businesses. Most of the rentals had names, a charming custom that Mark didn’t understand.
He didn’t like coming into town, so he kept his trips to a minimum. Groceries, kerosene, batteries, the odd item at the local Home Depot or Walmart. There were a couple of pizza places that stayed open all year where he’d often pick one up after going through the Brew-Thru, getting three or four cases of beer.
Mark waited at a light in front of the Kitty Hawk fire station, glancing at his watch while he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
He was in town to meet a potential employee. The owners had bought a massive spa tub to go into the master bathroom. At fifty-eight, Mark was still in excellent shape. He could hold his own just fine. But there was no way he could muscle that bastard into the bathroom by himself, let alone up the stairs to the second floor. The plumbing was becoming an issue as well. Mark was a big enough man to admit when he was in over his head.
He continued driving after the light changed.
One of the perks of this job was a satellite hook-up for the multitude of TVs and the internet. Realizing he needed someone to help him, Mark ran an ad on Craig’s List looking for a licensed plumber who could do some carpentry and was willing to move in for a few weeks, possibly more.
He spotted the restaurant he was looking for up on the right side of the highway in a small strip mall. It was one of those places done up for tourists with the usual pirate and seaside theme. Mark wouldn’t normally come here, preferring one of the bars off the main road, but it would be easy for the guy he was meeting to find.
He’d only gotten one response, from a guy who said he'd drive down from Norfolk. He sure as hell hoped he wasn’t wasting his time by meeting up with this man. He put the truck in park and climbed out. The wind whipped past, snatching his breath with its bitterness. He ignored it, slamming the Suburban’s door before heading for the entrance.
God, the place was tacky. The bartender, a tall, slim guy with thinning hair, nodded
