Page 45 of Captiva Café

And no amount of YouTube fame or fully-booked rooms could ever compare to the weight of her daughter's head briefly resting on her shoulder as they walked across the warm sand, connected by bonds that neither distance nor silence could break.

CHAPTER 15

"Ican't believe I let you talk me into this. This is extortion," Chelsea said, trying to get comfortable in the desk chair. The antique wooden seat creaked ominously beneath her as she shifted, searching for a position that wouldn't leave her back in knots by lunchtime.

Jacqui Hutchins, owner of the Captiva Island Art Gallery, glanced up from arranging a display of handblown glass sculptures, her dark hair falling in a curtain across one shoulder. "It's not extortion. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement."

"It's slave labor," Chelsea countered, eyeing the ancient computer on the desk with suspicion. "Does this thing even connect to the internet, or do I need to send messages by carrier pigeon?"

"It works perfectly fine," Jacqui said, stepping back to assess the arrangement of cobalt and amber glass pieces catching the morning light. "And you're being paid, which, by definition, makes it not slavery."

"Minimum wage to man a desk when I could be painting?" Chelsea sniffed. "That's practically indentured servitude."

Jacqui straightened, placing her hands on her hips. At thirty-two, she was nearly twenty-five years Chelsea's junior, but her no-nonsense demeanor could make even the most stubborn islander back down. "Let's be honest, Chelsea. We both know you're not here for the money or the stimulating environment of art sales."

Chelsea's protest died on her lips. “Busted.”

"You're here," Jacqui continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper despite the empty gallery, "because this place shares a wall with Linda St. James's office, and you're hoping to eavesdrop on her love life."

Chelsea had the grace to look mildly ashamed—but only mildly. "That's a gross oversimplification of a complex situation."

"Is it though?" Jacqui's eyebrow arched skeptically.

"Fine," Chelsea huffed, abandoning the pretense. "But you have to admit, Linda St. James wearing lipstick and perfume is a development of island-wide significance. The woman has worn the same beige linen shift every day for fifteen years. Now suddenly she's in floral dresses with actual waistlines!"

The corner of Jacqui's mouth twitched. "It is...unexpected."

"It's seismic," Chelsea insisted, warming to her subject. "Linda has terrorized business owners, tourists, and perfectly innocent inn proprietors with her 'journalistic standards' for decades. If Byron Jameson has somehow melted the ice queen's heart, I need details. For posterity."

"For gossip," Jacqui corrected.

"For science," Chelsea countered primly. "The anthropological study of mating rituals among the island's indigenous characters."

Jacqui couldn't suppress her laugh any longer. "You're ridiculous. And you're lucky I actually do need weekend help." She glanced at her watch. "Linda usually comes downstairs andheads across to RC Otters at eight-thirty sharp. It's nearly that now. I'll be in the back room cataloging new inventory if you need anything—or if you hear any breaking news about honey-flavored romance."

"Honey-flavored—oh!" Chelsea's eyes widened in delight. "Because he's a beekeeper. That's good. I'm using that."

"Please don't," Jacqui groaned, already heading toward the back room.

Left alone, Chelsea did a quick assessment of her surveillance capabilities. The gallery occupied a charming single-story structure with large windows facing Andy Rosse Lane. Linda's newspaper office and attached apartment were in the building next door, separated only by a narrow garden path and, more importantly, a surprisingly thin wall that ran the length of the gallery's eastern side.

Chelsea had discovered this architectural quirk the year earlier, when Jacqui first rented the space. While helping her protégée arrange paintings, Chelsea had clearly heard Linda's voice through the wall, lecturing some poor soul about proper comma usage. At the time, it had seemed merely inconvenient. Now, it was strategic gold.

She was just considering whether she could reasonably press her ear directly to the wall without looking completely deranged when the gallery's front door swung open. The little bell overhead jingled cheerfully, announcing the day's first visitor.

Chelsea prepared her most welcoming smile—which froze halfway when she saw who it was.

Byron Jameson filled the doorway, his impressive height forcing him to duck slightly beneath the frame. His white beard, neatly trimmed and gleaming in the morning light, gave him the jolly appearance that had made him Captiva's unofficial Santa Claus for years. Today, however, there was nothing jolly about his expression. He looked distinctly...nervous.

"Morning, Chelsea," he said, his deep voice oddly hesitant. "Didn't expect to see you here. Jacqui around?"

"Just cataloging inventory. Can I help you with something?"

Byron shifted his weight, clutching a small paper bag that Chelsea hadn't initially noticed. "Just had a quick question about...art."

"Art," Chelsea repeated flatly. In the twenty years she'd known Byron Jameson, he had never once asked about art. Fishing, yes. Weather patterns, absolutely. The best place to source wood for beehive construction, frequently. But not art.

"Yes, art," Byron confirmed, the tips of his ears reddening above his beard. "Specifically, what kind of art a woman might appreciate. As a gift."

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