Page 12 of Doyle

The voice came from behind them, and even Stein jolted, turning.

Doyle had no words at the sight of his big sister Austen standing in the glow of the firelight. Her hair had grown since Boo’s wedding last winter, and brightened under the sun, the red in it sparkling against the flicker of light. With her deep green-blue eyes and slim build, she always reminded him a little of a mermaid, given her love of the sea.

Now, she wore a black sundress and sandals and held a rum punch. “Hey, bros. ’Sup?”

“Austen, what the—” Stein started.

Doyle leaned in for a hug.

She one-arm hugged him, then Stein. “Declan brought me for some tourist dive he’s putting together. They need a guide down to theTrident.”

“Which is?” Doyle said.

“A pirate ship that went down in the late seventeen hundreds. The thing is, they had just looted a Dutch ship, so apparently she was full of gold bullion and all sorts of riches.” She leaned in. “There’s lore that the gold is somewhere at the bottom of the sea.”

“And you’re going to find it?”

“No, I’m going to find myself with some good tips after I bring Declan’s guests sixty feet down and back up again, safely.” She lifted her glass. “Please tell me you’re both coming with me. I can’t remember the last time we went diving, Stein.”

“Me either.”

“I went with Doyle two years ago—remember when you came down to visit me?”

He did, and made a grim nod.

She sighed.

“I’ll do what I can, Tennie,” Doyle said. “I get pretty busy with the kids. Speaking of...” He’d spotted Kemar filling up a plate with patties. “Excuse me.” He walked over to the kid and Jamal, who held a handful of olives plucked from a bowl on the table.

He took the plate from Kemar’s hand.

“What?”

“You had dinner. This is for the guests.”

“C’mon—that’s not fair. I’m a guest.” He picked up the plate, grabbed a patty, and shoved it into his mouth.

The sauce spilled down his shirt.

“Nice, Kemar.” Doyle looked down at Jamal. He’d finished the last of his olives and wiped his hand on his pants.

Perfect.“Would you like to meet some nice people?” He held out his hand.

Jamal took it, glanced at Kemar.

“We’re having baked plantain and custard for dessert. I’ll make sure you get some.” Doyle addressed his words to Jamal, then looked at Kemar. “Please. We are trying to make a good impression here. Try to... just...” He drew in a breath. “Would you like to?—”

“No. I’m outta here.” Kemar turned to Jamal. “You with him or me?”

Jamal’s eyes widened.

“Give me five minutes, Kemar,” Doyle said. “Please.”

Kemar shrugged and walked away. Maybe he was a lost cause. Kemar was eight years older than Jamal. But Jamal still needed a father, a mother, a chance.

He recognized Elise and Hunter Jameson from the photos they’d sent—both from North Carolina. She was petite and pretty, dark hair down to her shoulders. He had darker skin, dark hair and eyes, a warm smile. They both wore pink shirts and white pants and held rum punch.

They talked with a couple—the woman shorter, blonde, fit, and possessing a hint of a trophy-wife vibe as she stood next to an older man, tall, white hair, tanned.

---