Landry returned to the cottage after Mimi’s death, the scent of musty decay had been depressing, so he had his real-estate agent hire someone to clean and air out the rooms before his visits. Now that he’d moved in for the next few weeks, he’d been able to keep the same cleaner.
His grandmother had taken great pride in maintaining the tiny place. The scarred pine floors were always waxed, the air-dried bedsheets were crisp and smelled of the ocean, and the cheap linoleum-tiled kitchen had smelled of corn bread, pecan pies, roasts or shrimp boils.
Mimi had spoiled him every summer, as if compensating for his shitty life with a careless mom and her string of increasingly sorry boyfriends. His mother’s house was filled with half siblings from stepfathers that came and went, and constant drama from financial pressures. Every new romantic relationship of his mother’s had created new sets of problems and complications.
Landry placed the car keys on a table in the den and surveyed the interior with satisfaction. Most of the furniture he’d replaced over the years. Mimi’s sofa had been upgraded to a modern leather sectional. He’d kept what he could. The leather couch was draped with one of her crocheted afghan throws, a patchwork of rainbow colors against a sleek sea of black. Her old wicker rocking chair remained in the same spot. The bathroom, however, had no sentimental value and he’d gutted and expanded it the first year after Mimi’s death.
He hung his suit jacket in the bedroom closet and stepped out of the black leather loafers. Back in the den, he adjusted a glass cat figurine on the battered sideboard. The cleaning company knew his peculiarity for detail and sameness, but they weren’t perfect. His fingers accidentally brushed against a red sequined coin purse and he recoiled, as if the haunting memories associated with it could transfer into his heart. It had been one of Mimi’s treasured possessions but he had never liked the purse openly displayed. After Mimi’s death, he’d taken it off the sideboard but then wandered about the cottage, unsure of an appropriate resting place for the ghostly memento mori. In the end, Landry had returned it to just where Mimi had left it.
After a few more minor tweaks to the figurines display, he slipped open the glass doors and stepped onto the wooden deck.
The scent of salty brine swirled in the early-April wind. He inhaled deeply and leaned over the wooden railing. Mimi’s house could best be described as quaint—or ramshackle to be more precise. But here lay its secret charm—the million-dollar view. Located at the bend of one of the bayou’s fingers, Landry could look over the pine and cypress trees hugging the shoreline and see the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico.
A tiny flash of orange darted at the base of a tree.
“I’ll be damned,” Landry muttered. He hurried inside and found the binoculars in the sideboard drawer, rushed back out, then focused in on the orange patch. A ginger tabby nestled in a bed of pine needles. Closer examination revealed a swollen belly. Landry set the binoculars on the rail with a sigh. The feral cat population was alive and thriving. It was a losing battle, but he’d try to entice the mama cat into a trap and do what he could to find the kittens a home.
His eyes scanned the ocean. The waters were calm, a blue-gray sheen with a few scatterings of tame whitecaps.
But despite its calm facade, Landry secretly suspected that beneath its placid surface lay a foreign world teeming with mystery and creatures beyond most humans’ imaginations.
He knew. He’d witnessed it with his own eyes.
No, don’t go there. Landry ran a hand through his hair and dismissed the foolish memories. He’d been a kid. A scared, ridiculous kid with a huge imagination. Nothing more to it. He reentered the cottage and made his way to the kitchen, determined to change the direction of his thoughts. He opened the fridge for a drink. His hand drew back abruptly at the sight of the porcelain cat figurine sitting on the shelf by the soda cans.
The same figurine he’d straightened on the sideboard less than ten minutes ago.
Damn. It was getting worse.
Stay strong.
Jet repeated the phrase like a mantra as she sped through the rain-sloshed streets. Although it was not yet night, dark storm clouds blanketed the bayou. The town square was a jumble of small shops clustered around an old courthouse, much like any small Southern town.
But the life-size mermaid statue in the middle of the square was a departure from the norm. Rainwater streamed off the mermaid’s stone-and-steel form, giving the impression that the siren had just emerged, dripping, from the nearby gulf waters. The etched half smile on her face bespoke secrets buried deep within the mysterious body that was part sea creature, part human.
Bayou La Siryna’s founding fathers might have bought into the mermaid myth—old newspaper articles recorded local sightings—but nowadays, the natives scoffed at such nonsense. Most didn’t even recollect that the town’s name was given in recognition of the sea sirens.
Which suited Jet fine. With modern science, if humans suspected the old tales were true, mermaids would be hunted down and subjected to who-knew-what kind of experiments.
Her heart quickened as she rounded the curve on Shell Line Road with its row of rental bungalows nestled in thick pine and cypress. Lights glowed on porches and behind curtained windows like a promise, beacons of love and comfort that pierced her with longing. At one time she’d dreamed of fitting into this human world, since the merfolk didn’t have much use for her.
There it was. Third cottage on the left, where Perry had once lived. Light glimmered inside and a red Mustang was parked in the driveway, the kind of flashy car Perry would drive.
Three years. Three freaking years with no phone call, no letters, no nothing. She’d waited for an apology or any expression of remorse, had hoped incarceration would lead to introspection and recognition that he needed to change and beg her forgiveness. Stupid, stupid and more stupid. The memory of the last time she saw him replayed in her mind. During an expedition, Chilean marine police had caught them unawares. If only she had still been underwater, she would have heard the boat engine miles away. But after hours of bringing up the day’s catch, they’d taken a nap.
At their capture, Perry had pointed a finger at her, declaring it was her boat and her stuff. He’d even told them she was a freaking mermaid, a claim they laughingly dismissed. She’d had no choice but to jump overboard to protect her kind from possible exposure. The bleat of the horn and the shouting above had given way to the silence of the sea. But the usual numbing cocoon of the deep fathoms had failed to silence her despair.
In many ways, it still haunted her thoughts.
I’ve never gotten over it. All the pain of that betrayal churned inside her like a giant tidal wave as she pulled in behind the Mustang. Perry probably thought they would get back in business together. Hell, why wouldn’t he think she’d run back to him? In the past, she’d always done so, had overlooked his faults and dalliances.
She’d thought they really had something, until Shelly and her fiancé, Tillman, became a couple. Their trust and acceptance of one another had been a revelation. Jet realized that all along she’d wanted something Perry was incapable of giving—love.
She got out of her truck, hardly noticing the rain pelting her body as she strode to the door and rapped loudly. Deep inside came the muffled sound of a television. The volume lowered and footsteps approached.
