Off Plan Read online

  Off Plan

  A Whispering Key Novel

  May Archer

  Copyright © 2020 by May Archer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by Cate Ashwood

  Professional Beta Read by Leslie Copeland

  Edited by One Love Editing

  Proofed by Lori Parks

  For my husband.

  Thank you for the twenty years of beach vacations and love that you didn’t know were also research.

  Cuando te miro, las nubes desaparecen y el sol ilumina mi vida. :)

  Acknowledgments

  This book and series have been banging around my head forever. A million thanks to everyone who helped me get them on the page.

  The biggest thanks go to my family for their endless patience and all the lemonade.

  Thanks to all my cheerleaders in the Posse for their love and encouragement. Special thanks to Lucy for the accountability and daily Nine-based motivation.

  Thanks to my Overlord and friend Leslie Copeland, and to Sandra, Cate, and Lori for helping make the finished product infinitely prettier.

  And, as always, thank you to every single one of you for reading my books.

  I love you all.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Preview of The Date

  Also by May Archer

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Fenn

  “‘Come to paradise,’ they said,” I muttered as a drop of sweat ran down my leg beneath my baggy shorts, all the way from my balls to my flip-flop. “‘Sunshine year-round,’ they said.”

  Nobody ever told you Florida was the gateway to hell until it was too late.

  “Morning, Fenn!”

  I poked my head out from under the hood of the blue Jeep I was trying to pull back from the brink of death, just as the screen door slammed against the house behind me. I watched an enormous pair of black shitkickers thump-thump-tha-thump down the stairs and hit the cracked concrete driveway.

  “Heya, Beale.” My eyes narrowed as I took in the bearded giant approaching me. At six six, my cousin was a solid four and a half inches taller than me. His neck was as thick as many people’s thighs, and this morning he sported a dopey, angelic smile, despite the humidity clogging the air. I was immediately suspicious. “You seem remarkably cheerful. What’s up?”

  “Up? With me? Nah. No. Nothing. Not. A. Thing.” Beale cleared his throat and took up a position with his ass against the front corner of the Jeep, massive biceps folded over his tree-trunk chest. He cleared his throat again. “Not a thing that’s, uh… up. How about you?”

  I pursed my lips. Important fact about Beale: the man couldn’t keep a secret to save his soul. Knowing this, I didn’t press for details. I just made a noncommittal noise and turned back to the engine.

  “Me? Oh, I’m just super. Nothing I love more than a predawn summons from Rafe to come work on his car.” I wiped my damp arm across my even-damper forehead and lowered my voice to approximate my oldest cousin’s pissed-off growl. “‘Kick out whichever sorry asshole’s warming your bed, Reardon, and come over! My engine won’t turn, and I’ve got stuff to do.’ He’s a charmer, your big brother.”

  “That’s funny,” Beale chuckled. “‘Specially since you haven’t had anyone in your bed since you and Gerry, back on New Year’s—”

  “Hey! That was one time, and it wasn’t my bed, and I thought you and I agreed it would never be discussed.” I shot him an accusing look. “Beers were had, Beale, and he’s practically the only gay man on the whole island I’m not related to.”

  Pickings were slim on Whispering Key, and that was the damn truth. Pickings were even slimmer since the only kind of loving, long-term relationship I was interested in was with the perfectly restored classic Dodge I’d parked next door. The car, at least, came with a repair manual, and I could trust her to get me from point A to point B, whereas humans were nearly impossible to ever fucking understand and totally impossible to trust.

  “Right, right. And your moment of weakness didn’t have anything to do with you being a sucker for that ‘Auld Lang Syne’ song—”

  “No.” I folded my arms over my chest. “It did not.” Jeez. A man got drunk and babbled about old acquaintances not being forgot just one time, and suddenly it haunted him for his whole life. “And that’s another fact you swore you’d never mention.” I shook my head sadly. “I thought family was meant to stick together.”

  Beale chuckled, then cleared his throat and looked guiltily back at the house. “Yeah, well, speaking of that… maybe give Rafe a break, you know? He’s been having a hard time with Dad, and you know he hasn’t been the same since Aimee left—”

  “Nope.” I pointed a wrench at him. “Not buying it. Aimee’s been gone a year and Rafe’s still in the mopey asshole stage. When a man is dumb enough to fall in love, he shouldn’t be allowed to mope for more than a couple hours maximum when it inevitably ends. Then he’s gotta learn his lesson and move on.”

  “Awww. Have I mentioned recently how glad I am you came and found us all those years ago? You’re like a life coach, Fenn Reardon! A terrible, terrible life coach.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  I was sorry for Rafe. I was. It probably sucked being the oldest brother, especially in a family like the Goodmans. Probably sucked having to share your name with your dad, so even at thirty, you were still called Young Rafe whenever there was a chance someone could confuse you with Big Rafe. Truly sucked that Aimee had left without ever really talking to him. But we’d all had our hearts broken, right? Some of us were just wise enough to get over it and stay over it.

  “And no matter how much you bitch and moan, I know deep down you like working on engines, and you like being helpful.” Beale smiled that sickly sweet smile again and looked at me fondly.

  I wiped my greasy hands on a rag and peered at Beale’s face. “Okay, seriously, man, what’s wrong with you? Are you constipated or having a stroke? Am I having a stroke and I haven’t heard? If you’ve found another stray cat that needs a home, you can fuck right off. You know I have no room for an animal.” Besides which, Beale’s cat Marjorie was an absolute terror—a pit bull with ginger fur—and nobody had time for that.

  “No, it’s not that.” Beale shot another look back at the house, then licked his lips, and his smile fell away entirely. “The thing is, I’ve got this feeling, Fenn—”

  “Ohhhh. Come on, Beale, no.” I made a vicious swipe through the air. “We’re not doing this now.” Or ever.

  “No, but for serious, though.” Beale’s blue eyes were as solemn as if he were standing in a fucking church instead of baking in the sun on his dad’s driveway, kicking at the scrub grass growing up through the pavement. “I’ve got that heavy feeling in my chest and that tightening in my gut I get when a storm’s coming. Like a portent from the Universe. And I don’t know yet if it’s good or bad, but change is coming, and—”
/>
  I shook my head, torn as ever between laughing and smacking him. “I’m not dropping down this rabbit hole with you again. I refuse.”

  I loved Beale Goodman like a brother. Loved him unreservedly, the way some people love dogs and cats and screaming infants. He was the giant, hairy love child of Rambo, Ned Flanders, and a sideshow fortune teller—big-ass boots and straining muscles; wide, earnest, blue puppy-dog eyes; a totally bizarre faith in ghosts and woo-woo fairy magic. The man commanded a phalanx of stray animals and woodland creatures Snow White would have envied, for God’s sake. I’d defy anyone not to feel protective of him. I’d kill anyone who breathed on him wrong.

  But when the man talked about feelings and spirits and portents, I wanted to kick his ass my own damn self.

  For the record, Beale was not psychic. Not even a little. He wasn’t even like that guy on TV who pretended to be psychic but was really just hyper-observant. There was zero talent involved in Beale’s premonitions, and no pretense either, just a heaping helping of anxiety wrapped up in hoodoo he’d learned in the cradle.

  His mother—my dad’s sister, Mary, may she rest in peace—might’ve claimed she had “the sight,” but she didn’t, as I’d tried and failed to explain to Beale a hundred times.

  In fact, she couldn’t.

  Because it wasn’t real.

  Therefore, the only thing she’d passed down to her middle son was an overreliance on all things mystical: auras and crystals, horoscopes and motherfucking portents.

  And, real talk? I loved Aunt Mary like my own mother—hell, more than my own mother, who only remembered my name when she prayed for me on Sundays—but if Mary had any kind of psychic ability, it would’ve been hella handy if she’d used her special powers to find us a treasure, or predict the cancer that took her, or give her sons and me a heads-up that her husband was gonna get even batshit-crazier in grief after losing her than he’d been when she was alive.

  And if the Universe was sentient enough to be sending out warnings to certain people, I could only conclude it hated me, because it hadn’t sent me a warning for any damn thing, ever, as evidenced by the fact that I lived on a forgotten island with my hick cousins and my wacky uncle, and hadn’t had sex since January.

  Just sayin’.

  “But, Fenn—”

  “But, Beale,” I interrupted in a pleading voice. “We have had this conversation approximately seventy thousand times over the past five years, man. You know I prefer to get my storm warnings from the news.”

  Beale’s forehead creased, and he darted a glance back at the house. “But—”

  I clapped him on the shoulder as I made my way to the driver’s side of the car. “Look, if you’re talking about real storms, your gut’s a liar. Nothing but radioactive sunshine in the forecast today, which is why some of us are smart enough to get our shit done early, so we can spend the sunset hanging at the only chilly spot on this entire godforsaken island.”

  Beale’s puppy-dog frown lightened somewhat. “By the rocks?”

  “Naturally. I’ve got two dozen bottles of my favorite craft-brewed stout sitting in my fridge, and you’re welcome to join me! As long as we talk about reality and not your…” I made a circle in the air with my wrench. “Whatever this is.”

  “But my mom always said ignoring a portent’s as stupid as—”

  “Ignoring a hurricane warning. I know. I know she did. But look around you, buddy. It’s only April. Not a hurricane in sight.” My gaze trailed over Beale’s head, to the little house with its dilapidated white siding and the rusting, blue-and-white awning hanging over the living room window. “And if you’re talking about metaphorical storms, that’s already come and gone, too. Your dad got the money to keep us and Goodmen Outfitters and the entire town afloat. Somehow.”

  Personally, I was still having trouble believing anyone had entrusted Rafe Goodman, Senior, with large quantities of money. I wouldn’t trust my uncle to bring me change from a vending machine without finding some insane way to “invest” it on the way back. I just knew he had to have sold, bartered, or mortgaged something to get the money, and given how few things he had left to mortgage or sell… it was kinda suspicious.

  But whatever, right? As I’d been told every time I’d asked, it was none of my business.

  I turned the key and the Jeep’s engine whined louder than a dog at dinnertime. Fuck.

  I hung my chin to my chest. “Think Big Rafe’s got any money left to spare for his son’s car? Pretty sure she needs a new ignition coil.”

  Beale ducked his head around the side of the hood and rolled his eyes. “You kidding? Rafe wouldn’t take money, even if Dad offered.”

  I grunted in agreement. “Your brother’s smart. Anything Big Rafe offers comes with more strings than a piano and more questions than answers.”

  “Hey!” Beale glanced at the house and lowered his voice. “Keep it down, would ya? Dad’s sitting right in the kitchen, drinking his coffee.”

  “And?” I shot back, moving around to tinker with the engine again. “Not saying anything I haven’t said to his face, as you know. Fact: we still don’t know how your dad came into money all of a sudden, and he won’t tell anyone. I heard through the grapevine that he tried three banks and none of them would loan him five bucks. Next day, Big Rafe’s talking about getting up some kind of extravaganza over at the pavilion for Labor Day with a concert—a concert! Like anyone besides Lenny Wilkins and his kazoo would agree to play a concert in Whispering Key!—and he’s making it rain dollar bills over the motel.”

  I waved a hand toward the two-story yellow cinder block monstrosity I called home, just visible from the Goodmans’ house through a tree break between the lots.

  “In the past three months, he’s hired people to come over and redo the roof, start fixing the pool, and repair the walkway to the beach. And what the hell for, Beale, when we haven’t had a tourist stay on Whispering Key in decades? Why isn’t he using his super-secret stash of money to do something useful, like buy another boat so we can offer more tours, since that’s the only money we have coming in? Or to fix the bridge to the mainland? Or—”

  “More boats would mean us leading more tours, and you barely tolerate the tourists.”

  “I like the tourists just fine! It’s the charming them I don’t like. The pretense. The tall tales and the fake smiles.”

  “Maybe Dad gets that! And maybe he wants you to be happier living over there,” Beale suggested, nodding at the motel.

  “Oh, God!” The laugh I gave in response started way down in my stomach and probably sounded a little deranged. “Shit, Beale. That’ll be the day, when Big Rafe worries about my comfort. He still refers to me as ‘Mary’s nephew,’ you know.” Or worse, Mary’s brother’s boy, even though my dad had been gone longer than Aunt Mary.

  “Because you are!”

  “Sure, Beale. Sure.” There was no arguing with his relentless need to see the good in things. Put Beale Goodman in the fucking jungle with nothing but a pocketknife and some chewing gum and he’d MacGyver you a tent, a cooking fire, and a satellite radio made out of coconuts or some shit. Put him on a boat stranded in the ocean and he’d make you a sail out of seaweed and steer you home with a compass made out of fishing line and pocket change. But if you put him in a room full of people, he floundered like a fish on a line, because poor Beale actually believed the things people said and took them at their face value.

  It was adorable and horrifying at the same time.

  I, myself, had zero delusions about where I fit in the Goodman hierarchy. I was an employee, for sure, since I helped run Goodmen Outfitters’ one and only tour boat, running tours from the mainland. And I was family when I needed to get roped into shit, like impromptu Jeep repair. But beyond that?

  “What in the name of Jacob Godfrey’s ghost do I care if the pool’s fixed?” I demanded, pulling my sweat-soaked T-shirt away from my chest. “I’d much rather have Rafe fix the plumbing.” In fact, I’d much rather see him te
ar the place down and start over.

  Beale shrugged. “The motel was nice once. I’ve seen pictures. Mid-century architecture and all that.”

  “Yeah?” I peered through the trees again, trying to see what he saw, but I couldn’t get there. Like many of the buildings on the key, the motel had been built in 1940-something, around the time the Berlin Wall was being constructed, and had approximately the same level of charm. Faded blue and yellow letters on a white sign spelled out “The Five Star Resort” atop a rusting steel pole in the front parking lot. Eight of the thirty-two rooms had a view of the Gulf of Mexico, and those rooms were the first to flood every time there was a bad storm, since the door locks caved at the first sign of a breeze. Every mattress in the place was older than I was, and the decor was pictured in the dictionary next to the word dingy.

  Beale rubbed at the back of his neck. “He tries, you know? My dad.”

  Typical Beale.

  I considered an appropriate response to this.

  I wanted to say, “Tries to do what, Beale?” because if it didn’t involve pouring endless hours into researching shipwrecks and lost treasures, or pouring endless dollars—dollars he didn’t have—into funding every treasure hunter with a decoder ring and the map off a cereal box, or deluding tourists with talk of all the Whispering Key ghosts, or trolling the internet for the next big get-rich-quick scheme, I didn’t believe Big Rafe tried very hard at much.

  But then again, who the hell knew what Big Rafe was trying to do? He was never forthcoming about his plans, not to his sons and sure as heck not to me. Everything was shrouded in secrecy. When he’d announced that Goodmen Outfitters was facing bankruptcy last Christmas due to his own financial mismanagement, all of us had been shocked, and my youngest cousin, Gage, had been so pissed, he’d gone back to Southwestern Florida Tech three weeks early. When Big Rafe had decided to run for mayor the month after that, he’d informed the family by standing up at the council meeting and declaring his candidacy. Young Rafe had been so upset, he’d walked out.