Wild Thing (The Magic Jukebox Book 3) Read online

  WILD THING

  The Magic Jukebox

  BOOK THREE

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  Copyright © 2014 by Barbara Keiler

  Kindle Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Kindle.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Table of 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

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Monica had no idea how many straws a camel could carry on its back. She only knew that if she was a camel, she’d reached her limit.

  And really, it was not a big thing in and of itself. Just one last straw. Just Jimmy being Jimmy.

  But enough. Her back had broken. She was done, done, done.

  She sat at a table at the Faulk Street Tavern, nursing a glass of wine. Maybe she should have ordered something stronger, but she wanted to remain clear-headed while she contemplated that single, final straw and waited for her best friend to join her. Emma was teaching an art class at the Brogan’s Point Community Center, but she’d promised to come to the pub as soon as her final student departed. Monica calculated that Emma’s trip from the community center to the bar would take about ten minutes. Emma didn’t own a car, although her gajillionaire boyfriend could buy her a fleet of Lamborghinis if she asked him to. Of course, one reason he was so crazy about her was that she would never ask. His wealth meant nothing to her.

  She had acquired a bicycle, however—used but in excellent shape—which enabled her to scoot around town a little more rapidly than traveling by foot. Monica glanced at her watch and hoped Emma would arrive soon. If she finished her glass of wine before Emma showed up, she might order another, and that would be the end of her clear-headedness.

  Jimmy. The asshole.

  Last night was the tenth anniversary of their first date: the junior prom in high school. Monica hadn’t even been aware that Jimmy Creighton knew who she was back then. They’d traveled in different circles. She’d been an A student, diligent and disciplined, working at her parents’ inn when she wasn’t doing homework or pursuing other moderately egg-headed activities. Jimmy had been a cut-up, a funny, handsome guy who took nothing too seriously. Yet for some reason—maybe on a dare—he’d invited her to be his date for the prom. And for some reason—maybe because he was the cutest guy who had ever asked her out—she’d said yes.

  They’d had their ups and downs over the past ten years, but Monica had thought they were mostly on an up right now. They both had jobs, he selling cars and she moving up into management at the inn. The sex was good. They hadn’t had a fight in more than a month.

  “For our anniversary,” she’d told him, “I want to make a special dinner for you. Okay?”

  “Sure, of course,” he’d said. “I love when you cook for me. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be living on buffalo wings and beer.”

  She’d scheduled a day off for herself yesterday, although she’d shown up at the inn before dawn that morning so she could accompany one of the chefs from the inn to the docks to pick up lobsters fresh off a boat. From there, she’d journeyed to the green-grocer for organic vegetables, and from there to the butcher, and from there to the wine store for a thirty-eight dollar bottle of Bordeaux. Then she’d let herself into Jimmy’s apartment, donned an apron, and gotten to work. She’d made lobster bisque. She’d made Veal Oscar, garnishing the veal with lobster meat and asparagus spears and topping it with a béarnaise sauce. She’d warmed a loaf of bread. She’d prepared a tossed salad and scalloped potatoes. She’d spread a white linen cloth over the café table that stood in one corner of his living room, and lit a tapered white candle. And waited for him to show up.

  The Ford dealership where he worked closed at six. Even allowing for traffic, he should have reached his apartment before seven. At eight-thirty, she phoned his cell. “Oh, hey,” he’d said cheerfully. “I’m over at Dave’s place. A group of us decided to pop some beers and catch the Sox game on TV. I’ll be home by midnight, okay?”

  Not okay. Final straw. Monica had blown out the candle, tucked the wine bottle under her arm, and walked out of his apartment, leaving behind her key to the place.

  That was yesterday. Today she’d gotten through the day, keeping her grumpiness in check until she realized she wasn’t terribly grumpy, after all. After previous break-ups with Jimmy, she’d felt angry or depressed, lost or confused. This time, not really. This time she was ready to shed all those straws Jimmy had been heaping onto her back for the past ten years. She was ready to move on. A little mournful, a little anxious, but ready.

  The Faulk Street Tavern was rarely crowded on a weekday afternoon, and today was no exception. Gus Naukonen, who had owned the place since before Monica was born, occupied her usual station behind the bar, wiping surfaces, filling bowls with munchies, arranging bottles. None of the wait staff had arrived yet, but anyone who wanted a drink could walk up to the bar and ask for one, which was what Monica had done. Presumably, so had the young guys in polo shirts and khakis seated around one of the big tables with a couple of pitchers of beer and heaping bowls of popcorn. They were too clean-cut and rich-looking to be a fishing crew. Monica guessed they were college kids, their spring term over and their wealthy families settling into the rambling summer homes that dotted the northern end of town, where the upper-class folks owned what they euphemistically called “cottages” but which Monica called mansions.

  She wasn’t much older than those boys, but she felt older. No—she felt mature. Jimmy was a baby. She’d outgrown him.

  A few other tables were occupied, and a man the far side of middle age sat at the bar, slumped over an empty glass. From where Monica sat, she could see Gus shooting occasional glances at the man, as if to make sure he didn’t lean too far in any direction and topple off his stool.

  Behind Monica stood the jukebox. She had her back to it, but she knew it was there, a magnificent antique rumored to possess magical properties. With its arched wood frame and its stained-glass inset of two peacocks nestling together, it was beautiful enough to belong in a museum. Its contents were a mystery: old songs that had been recorded back when vinyl records were the only available technology. No one knew what songs were in the jukebox, though. They weren’t listed on the machine. You couldn’t choose a particular song. According to legend, the songs would choose you.

  Monica had grown up hearing the myth of the jukebox’s reputed magic. She knew that if you put a quarter into the machine, three songs would play, and no one knew what those songs might be, other than that they’d be oldies, dating to her parents’ era or even longer ago than that. Sometimes a particular song would strike someone in the room a particular way, bewitching that person, or transforming her, or…something. Monica hadn’t really bought into the legend until her friend Emma and Max, the gajillionaire, had both fallen under the jukebox’s spell and found true love i
n each other’s arms.

  Monica supposed that when it came to the jukebox, she was currently an agnostic. She didn’t quite believe it was magic, but she didn’t quite not believe it, either.

  The bar’s door opened, and Monica glanced over the back of the banquette. At the sight of Emma’s wild red hair, she smiled. She was not going to cry on Emma’s shoulder. She was not going to fall apart, bemoan the death of her decade-long relationship with Jimmy, turn the afternoon into a pity party. Instead, they were going to hoist their glasses high and drink a toast to Monica’s liberation.

  “Hey,” Emma said, ambling over to Monica’s table and sliding onto the banquette facing her. “I hope you didn’t have to wait long.”

  Monica burst into tears.

  ***

  Some marinas had a rule stipulating that sailboats had to approach their slips on their motors. Ty Cronin preferred the marinas that didn’t have that rule. To him, maneuvering a boat into a slip on wind power alone was a welcome challenge. Gauging the coastal breezes, riding in on the jib, tweaking the rudder an inch one way or the other until you eased alongside a mooring or into a berth… Sweet. What was the point of sailing if you had to rely on the motor?

  The North Cove Marina at Brogan’s Point didn’t have a motor-only rule, so Ty brought the Freedom into its slip on wind power and technique. He’d had a good run up the coast from Key Biscayne. Some nasty weather off the Carolina coast, but nothing he couldn’t handle. The Freedom was a gorgeous vessel: tiny but well-equipped galley, comfortable upholstered sleeping benches, an inboard shower and state-of-the-art commode in the head, and big sails that swelled and curved and maximized the wind’s power. He hadn’t even bothered with the spinnaker. The boat moved fast enough without it, and this trip wasn’t a race.

  It was a job. Wayne MacArthur had offered him a nice chunk of change to transport the boat from his winter home in the Florida Keys to his summer home in this seaside town north of Boston. Ordinarily, Wayne had explained, he would sail the Freedom up the coast himself, but he had some business issues detaining him in Florida, and he wanted the boat moored in Brogan’s Point before Memorial Day. Ty was cool with that. The list of adventures he’d prefer over spending a week doing a solo ocean run was pretty short. Getting paid for the privilege was a bonus.

  He’d never been to Brogan’s Point before—or, for that matter, any part of New England. So what the hell. He’d sail up, spend a few days, and fly back to Florida. He had nothing going on there that couldn’t wait for a couple of weeks.

  He navigated the Freedom into its assigned slip and glided the boat into position with barely a tap against the old tires cushioning the side of the dock. He leaped off the boat and onto the smooth pine planks of the dock, lashed the boat fore and aft, and stood for a moment, his feet planted on the dock’s solid surface, his legs adjusting to the lack of roll and pitch.

  The May afternoon was mild, warm but nowhere near as humid as the heavy air smothering southern Florida at this time of year. A refreshing breeze lifted off the water, flinging a lock of Ty’s hair across his nose. He’d washed his hair that morning when he’d showered, but after a day that had started off the coast of Rhode Island, carried him through the Cape Cod Canal, and blown him into his destination on brisk, strong gusts, he could use some freshening up.

  Back on the boat, he spent a few minutes lowering the jib and wrapping it. He cleated the ropes, secured the rudder, and shut down the onboard navigating equipment. Then he ducked into the cabin, yanked off his shirt, and wedged his six-foot-two-inch frame into the closet-size bathroom. Tepid water, a bit of soap, more water and a few swipes with a towel invigorated him. He squinted at his reflection in the small slab of mirror above the sink. A raspy stubble of beard had sprouted since he’d shaved yesterday morning, somewhere around New Jersey, but he didn’t feel like shaving again. He felt like getting rich and celebrating.

  He donned a fresh shirt, stashed his duffel and laptop inside a storage bin beneath one of the upholstered benches, and secured the bin with a padlock. No saying who might be hanging around this marina. No point taking chances.

  His wallet and cell phone stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, he emerged from the cabin and sprang back onto the dock. He snapped a couple of photos with his phone. The boat in its berth. The supply shack at the end of the dock, a massive wooden crate overflowing with bright orange life vests beside the open door. The much larger building on shore, situated midway between this dock and the next one, with a phony-looking anchor painted on its side, and above it the words “North Cove Marina” in nautical blue and gold lettering. Ty texted the photos to Wayne, along with a brief message: “Made it safe and sound.” Then he waited.

  In less than a minute, his phone vibrated. “Check’s in the mail,” Wayne had texted back. Ty tapped the phone to open his PayPal account. Twenty thousand dollars had just been added to it.

  He grinned, transferred the money to his bank account with a few clicks, and strode up the deck to dry land. The door to the large building was open, and he stepped inside.

  The front room was ugly in a familiar way. The pale green walls were decorated with a few nautical-themed prints, framed maps, oversized ropes and doughnut-shaped lifesavers. More boxes of bright orange life vests stood on the floor. A counter extended the length of the room, manned by a skinny kid who looked barely out of high school. He wore a polo shirt with the cute-cartoon anchor insignia stitched above the pocket, and salmon-red slacks.

  “Hi,” Ty greeted him. “I just sailed Wayne MacArthur’s boat in.”

  The kid opened a loose-leaf notebook. The fancier the yacht club, Ty had noticed over the years, the more old-fashioned. He’d worked at some marinas that operated out of shacks no bigger than an outhouse but managed their slips and monitored conditions with up-to-date computer software. An upscale place like this, where the staff wore shirts with anchors above the pockets, used notebooks.

  “What slip did you park in?”

  Ty recited the number of the slip Wayne had instructed him to use. The kid flipped through the pages of his notebook, found what he was looking for, then glanced out a window behind the counter and eyeballed the boat. “Nice ship,” he said.

  “She sailed beautifully.”

  “Is Mr. MacArthur still on board?”

  “No. I brought her up myself. He’s flying up.”

  “Okay.” The kid turned the notebook around so it faced Ty, handed him a pen, and asked him to sign his name.

  Ty considered asking where the nearest bar was, but then realized the kid was probably too young to drink. Not that that would have stopped Ty when he’d been that age. He’d been filching the occasional beer by the time he was fifteen, not to get drunk but to piss off his grandparents. Still, this was a ritzy yacht club in a ritzy town. He smiled, gave the kid a nod and headed back outside.

  Strolling through the parking lot, he tapped his phone, searching for bars in the area. Without wheels, he needed to find a bar close by.

  The Faulk Street Tavern. It sounded quaint and New England-y. He called up a map of Brogan’s Point and located the place, less than half a mile away. Since he’d have to return to the boat after he’d drunk himself a toast or two, he didn’t want to travel too far for his refreshment.

  Brogan’s Point didn’t have much of a downtown. It boasted a nice-looking beach, though, stretching along the ocean below a stone and concrete sea wall. A few shops lined the street bordering the sea wall, and more shops filled the streets intersecting it, two- and three-story buildings constructed of clapboard, brick, and stone. Eateries, hardware stores, ice-cream parlors. A real estate office. A women’s clothing boutique. A Starbucks, of course. Turning from the stores, he gazed along the ocean’s edge. Not far south of where he stood, several commercial docks lined with trawlers stretched eastward into the ocean. Ty could just make out the silhouettes of some warehouses near the trawlers. Fish markets, he figured.

  If a Hollywood director wanted to film a movi
e in a stereotypical New England seaside town, he could do worse than Brogan’s Point. It had everything Ty expected such a place to have, short of a guy in a yellow rain slicker, dropping his R’s and eating a bowl of chowder. Or chow-dah, he supposed.

  He strolled up the street, enjoying the solidity of the asphalt beneath the soles of his sneakers, enjoying the blunt breezes that rose up off the ocean to slap against the side of his head. Yeah, he could see spending a few days here before buying a plane ticket back to Florida. He could sleep on the boat, use up his food supply, and spend some time on the beach, even if the water here wouldn’t be warm like what he was used to down in Florida or what he’d grown up with in California. Ocean was ocean. Sand was sand. Ty’s parents used to joke that he was actually the son of a mermaid, given his affinity for the sea.

  Up ahead he spotted the corner where Faulk Street intersected with Atlantic Avenue. He turned onto the side street and entered the bar.

  To his great relief, it wasn’t quaint. It appeared to be a working-class establishment, a little dim, a little scruffy, not too crowded but already redolent with the stinging scent of hard booze, beer, and oily, salty edibles. He stood just inside the doorway, surveying the place and considering where he ought to plant himself. The tables all looked too big for one person. A few of the bar stools were occupied, but more were empty. That seemed like the better bet.

  He strode across the room, the center of which was clear of furniture. A dance floor? If it were his choice, he would have filled that space with a pool table. But he wasn’t really up for a game right now. He’d done a week of hard sailing. He needed to decompress.

  The woman behind the bar stood nearly as tall as Ty, with square shoulders, short hair fading from ginger to gray, and a pleasantly weathered face. She had the sort of no-bullshit look of a sports coach, or maybe a shrink. He supposed either of those character types would make good bartenders. “What can I get you?” she asked.