Spring Fling

Chapter One

Monica Suarez closed the door to her red Honda and stared up at the rambling two-story house looming before her. The gravel driveway crunched beneath her sneakers as she assessed the rental property nestled just off of Route 98, about five miles from sleepy downtown Carrabelle, Florida. She set her Fendi shades on top of her head, propped one perfectly manicured hand on her hip, and smiled at the secluded little slice of heaven she had all to herself. The white clapboard house standing before her was more than 100 years old and set back on a quarter-mile of ancient pine scrub forest, with the front of the house opening up to a private strip of beach on the Gulf of Mexico. She listened as the early March wind blew through the witch hair Spanish moss in the slash pines above, causing the boughs of the tree to creak. She shuddered as the shore crashed gently in the distance, echoing through the property like a faraway sigh.

This place is definitely haunted, she chuckled to herself, still smiling.

Monica retrieved her bag from the trunk of her car and slung it over her shoulder, eager to get in and open up a bottle of wine. It had been a long drive down from Tuscaloosa, and she was more than ready to kick up her heels and relax. She yawned as she scrolled through the emails in her phone, trying to locate the directions for how to get in. The Panhandle Vacation Rentals company had indicated in her confirmation letter that the key to the property would be underneath a seashell by the back door, and as she approached the wooden back porch, she spied it instantly. The boards of the unreliable-looking wooden back stairs groaned under her weight as she approached the door, and she cringed, half expecting the step to buckle.

I have got to call the property manager about these stairs, she tsked to herself. No wonder this place was so cheap.

The giant white clam shell that hid the house key was situated next to a potted bush of sea grapes and arranged with a somewhat artfully curated collection of driftwood and pinecones. The squeaky stairs were forgotten as she regarded the wraparound porch and the hanging swing that overlooked the wild sugar sand beach. Monica inhaled a deep breath of brisk, salty air into her lungs before reaching down and turning over the shell. She blinked. There was nothing there.

Monica’s smile quickly turned to a frown as she lifted up the driftwood, turned over every pine cone, and rummaged around in the potted sea grape plant. Still, no key. Exasperated, Monica huffed and blew a rapidly frizzing lock of hair from her face.

This cannot be happening.

The back door of the house featured a built-in multi-pane window, allowing Monica to peer in and assess her situation. She raised one hand to her eyes to cut the glare of the rapidly setting Sun in search of another entry. Her other hand instinctively went to the door handle to brace herself and, to her surprise, the knob turned easily. Monica tried the knob again and found that the door was unlocked. Frustrated and without any other option, she pushed the sea swollen wooden door open with a heave.

Monica’s nose wrinkled and she let out a moan of displeasure as she appraised the interior of the rental property. The back door opened into a hallway that led to a kitchen that had clearly not been updated since the mid-1970s and was outfitted with avocado-hued appliances. The room emanated a faint metallic, sulfurous smell that immediately hit her nose as she approached the island sink. The kitchen overlooked the small living room, which featured rattan outdoor furniture instead of a normal couch or armchairs and a small television set on top of a microwave cart that also looked like it was from another era. All design aesthetic aside, what she had really wanted from the rental house when she first found the listing online was the view. The entire back wall of the house was made of sliding glass doors that overlooked a pool, hot tub, and her own private stretch of beach, and that was the only thing that Monica cared about at that moment.

Satisfied with her panoramic view at least, Monica slung her purse on the kitchen island, and it landed on the counter with a thud and a soft, subtle crinkle. Like the back porch, the kitchen counter was also decorated with detritus and nature from around the property, and in her haste to examine the room, Monica had failed to notice a small white paper bag. A fast food bag.

Great, this place is rickety and dirty, too, she thought to herself, shaking her head. I am definitely going to ask for a refund.

Monica picked up the still-fragrant, greasy bag that likely held a burger and fries at some point and tossed it in the trash. As she opened the lid, an empty disposable cup, a French fry holder, and a burger wrapper were clearly visible, along with a stack of crumpled napkins. She wiped her hands, realizing they were covered with the grease from the bag, and her frown returned again. Monica scanned the kitchen sink for soap and came up empty. She spied a small bathroom out of the corner of her eye and prayed that there was a bar of hand soap in there.

As she approached the bathroom, the off-putting metallic aroma grew even stronger, and she decided that the rotten egg smell was clearly coming from the plumbing. Monica sighed heavily as she looked around the less-than-luxurious bathroom, finding more and more reason to want to pack up and leave. Her girlfriends from high school were originally supposed to meet her at the beachside rental for a spring break reunion of sorts. She had hoped to show them that, after twenty years, she was still cool and had worked hard to become successful enough to rent a beach house all on her own. She was Monica Effing Suarez, and she had made it. Well, sort of. Now, as she looked around the decidedly ramshackle rental house, she was almost glad they had all flaked out. If the deposit wasn’t nonrefundable, she probably would have canceled, too.

With her fingers finally clean of mystery grease, Monica wiped her hands on a nearby towel and moved to turn off the stubborn sink knob. As she stared at her reflection in the rusted out bathroom mirror, a cold chill ran down her spine. On the shelf just below the mirror and above the sink was a razor, a toothbrush, and toothpaste. A navy blue toiletry bag hung from the towel bar rack, and a men’s dress shirt was draped over the clawfoot tub. The evidence she had subconsciously collected over the last few minutes finally began to add up as the floorboards creaked behind her.

Monica held her breath and slowly turned to see the shadow of a man filling the doorway.

What the hell are you doing here?

Her legs went numb and a silent scream caught in her throat as an unfamiliar voice boomed into the tiny, ancient bathroom, confirming her fears.

Monica was most definitely and terrifyingly not alone.

Chapter Two

Jim Martin was boring. Not just boring: painfully average and chubby and boring. He had suspected this fact since about the third grade, when he became aware that most of the other boys in class didn’t have a double chin or wear a men’s size L shirt. He suspected it still when he had a ton of friends that were girls in high school but no girlfriends. But most recently, his suspicions were confirmed by his now-almost-ex-wife, Julie, who made it abundantly clear that he was nothing special. She had told him so herself.

The rental beach house in Carrabelle, Florida was supposed to be a romantic getaway for him and Julie. It was supposed to be a break before tax season kicked in at his Marietta, Georgia accounting firm. The vacation was supposed to be a way for him and Julie to reconnect after being separated since Christmas. It was supposed to save their marriage. Instead, Julie went on a cruise with her boss, Simon Drexler.

Simon. That little prick. Jim supposed he should have seen it coming. Simon was seven years younger than him and his wife, and Julie always brushed off their close working relationship as though he was like a little brother. Jim trusted his wife when it came to other men, so his guard was down, but Simon was good looking, adventurous, and rich; all of the things that he wasn’t. And now, Simon was probably boning his wife in an oceanfront Norweigian cruise line suite somewhere in the Caribbean.

Jim tried to put off the thought of Simon humping his wife as he pulled up to the white clapboard vacation home. He stepped out of his Acura and retrieved his suitcase and a bag from Five Guys before surveying the scene. It was just the kind of space he had been hoping to find among the millions of beachfront condos and rental houses available online. This place was clearly full of history, and Jim was itching to photograph every inch of the property, from the crumbling brick foundation sprouting deep green ferns to the sweeping expanse of pristine Gulf of Mexico beach out front. His wife had never really appreciated his photography hobby and, in a way, he was glad to have the time to himself to really focus on his craft. If only he could get the metaphorical knife unlodged from his heart, maybe Jim would have a chance of enjoying himself on vacation just a little.

The front porch steps groaned under his weight as he approached the back of the house and located the keys where the property manager indicated they would be. With some effort, he pushed open the water-swollen back door and entered the kitschy, old Florida-style cottage. He