3. Cat

Bad thingsusually come in threes.

One, the scarf-ocean debacle.

Two, Noah startling me into sloshing water all over him.

Three is coming. Something will happen. It's a law of nature and karma. Until it does, I'm going to assume the next time I see Noah, I'll have poppyseeds in my teeth or I'll run into his mailbox with my bike or I'll accidentally turn all his white shirts pink in the laundry.

I don't know why I'm doing his laundry in this situation, because that's not my job, but karma has made worse things happen, so it's best to be prepared. I haven't seen Noah since a few days ago, and thanks to the calendar we use for scheduling cleanings, I can probably avoid seeing him for the rest of the summer. If I'm crafty.

I'm nothing if not crafty. They don't call me Clever Cat for nothing.

Okay, no one calls me that. But they should.

"You busy?" Otto calls from the kitchen.

I'm sitting on a wicker porch chair, the waves crashing on the beach in the distance and sea air ruffling my hair while I peel peaches. "Just making jam."

"You almost done, Cattywampus? I need to talk to you."

Okay, that is one of my nicknames, and it's far more apt.

I glance down at the three full buckets sitting at my feet waiting to be peeled. "Not even close. How about you grab a peeler and come help me? We can chat in the sun."

Otto steps outside, letting the back door swing shut behind him. His hands are up like he can push away the manual labor. "These old hands? I'll mess something up."

I lower the peeler. "You're literally a chef."

He squints, tilting his head to the side so his overgrown white hair flops over his shoulder. He's always been suited to island life, with his leathery skin and shoulder-length blond hair. He's a Beach Boys surfer bro to the bones. It's unclear if his hair has gone white from age or was bleached by the sun. "Am I, though?"

"Yes. You're a chef. It's your job." His only job, but I don't add that part. Over the last few years, he's been sloughing more and more responsibility from the BB onto my shoulders. I don't complain. It means I get paid more than what I made as a teen, when the only thing I'd do was clean the guest rooms after school. When Otto had cancer a few years back, I took on more responsibility so he could meet with doctors and focus on chemo. He was diagnosed with skin cancer, but it moved to his lymph nodes. It was a scary time for both of us and I stepped up a lot. Some of those job assignments sort of stuck after he got the all-clear.

So, I'm not complaining. But let's call an orange an orange here. The man can peel peaches.

"Why didn't you blanche them first?" he asks, watching my peeler. "Much easier to get the skin off that way."

"I'm following Mom's recipe to a T."

Otto nods. "I need to head out."

"I thought you wanted to talk."

Otto sits on the other wicker porch chair. He's in orange board shorts and a green Hawaiian shirt he hasn't bothered to button. And people say my style is eclectic. "After we talk, I want to head out."

"Surfing?" I ask, but not because of his attire. This is daily wear for Uncle Otto.

"No."

"Skating?"

"No," he says, defensively.

"Then where?" It's not Saturday, so there's no farmer's market, and his fishing buddy just had a hip replacement, so they're on a small break.

"Golfing," he says quietly, like he's been caught singing to Taylor Swift while making scrambled eggs.

That happened last week.

But golfing? That's not embarrassing. The man is in his fifties and spends more time outside than in. He can golf in the middle of the day if he wants to—even if it means stepping on Belacourt land. We only have one family checked in to the BB currently. They've been spending their days at the beach, so Otto isn't really needed here. Besides, we keep our phone numbers in each of the rooms in case we aren't home when a guest has a question.

"I'll be around for a while. This jam takes forever. If the Carmichaels return and need dinner recs or whatever, I'll cover."

"Okay." He leans back, letting out a weary sigh. It stands the hair on the back of my neck to attention. I have a feeling the golf wasn't why he came to talk to me. Unless he's ashamed? Mom was forever harping on the Belacourt greed, and Otto never was a fan of them either?.?.?. but it's just golfing.

I take a sip from my cold LaCroix, then pull out another peach and start peeling so I'm not staring at him. "What did you want to talk about?"

Otto stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles.

When I look up from the peach, he's staring at me. "What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says, a little too quickly. "Just wanted to check in with you. See how things are going."

"At the BB? I feel like it's pretty much the same as usual. We're slow, but that's to be expected right now."

"And the cleaning business?"

"I don't know if I'd call it a business, but?—"

"You would." Otto gives a decisive nod. "It's a company your mother would be proud of, even if she hated who you clean for."

My cheeks warm and I focus on the peach again. I only clean one of the rich houses on the island, and that gig only came about by chance. Mom was opposed to families like the Belacourts, people with so much wealth they couldn't spend it all if they tried. She thought they didn't do enough to help others.

She was right, of course, but I don't plan on quitting for that reason. I'll gladly take their money.

The other two ladies I clean for adored Mom, and she loved them.

"Stella would have gotten a kick out of how much you charge them, though," Otto says, clearly still thinking of the Belacourts.

I swallow, afraid I'll blush. It's a curse of my fair skin that I turn red so easily. I shouldn't charge the Belacourts as much as I do, but they didn't balk when I quoted my price, so here we are.

"You're happy, then?" Otto asks, his blue eyes raking over my face.

My pulse spikes. If his cancer is back, I'm going to throw up. I lower the peeler. "Who's dying?"

He sits up. "No one. Well, everyone is to some degree, but no one we know is close to the grave."

No cancer, then. "Why are you being weird?"

Otto frowns. "I just wanted to make sure you're happy, Cat."

"I'm happy." My smile strains, stretching over my face. "How could I not be? I get to live here with you, doing the things I love most."

He cringes but covers it quickly. "Making peach jam?"

"Yes. Jam is the thing I love most."

He looks at me suspiciously. "Any boyfriends?"

"You'd know," I say, focusing on the peach again. I'm not in the mood to deep dive into my single life.

"So, no?" he says.

"No one right now." I was hoping Dax Miller would ask me out, but so far it's been crickets from him. I go out of my way to ride my bike past him on the way to work—the man fixes boats shirtless, ladies—but the most I've ever gotten was a wink once when I waved. To be honest, I'm not entirely sure he wasn't just squinting into the sun. I guess me on a bike isn't all that enticing.

Shocker.

When you live on an island like this, there aren't a whole lot of dating options. It's retired men or guys like Beau and Tristan, whom I've known since I was in diapers. I've tried apps before and spread my radius to include the mainland guys, but none of those dates ever developed into anything real. I'm not past my prime. I don't need to worry about a lonely existence yet. I'm only twenty-seven, for heaven's sake.

My parents were married and had had me by the time they were twenty-one, but they were high school sweethearts. Totally different situation.

Did I once see myself following in their footsteps and being married with five kids and a happy beachy life by now? Maybe I did, but some dreams have to pivot when the high school boyfriend turns out to be a tool and you're well past twenty-one without any romantic prospects.

Besides, guys these days are just not the same. Give me James Dean leaning against a car any day.

In my dreams, obviously. That's probably why I've had a thing for Dax. He totally has that bad boy vibe going, with his hot smolder and his shoulder tats. I pull out my phone and text my friend Holland.

Cat

Wanna watch Rebel Without a Cause tonight? I've got a hankering.

"If you ever need a night out, Cat, take it," Otto says, getting to his feet with a few creaks and a long groan. "There are plenty of cool, hip places to hang out on the mainland. You don't need to stick around for me."

I lower my phone and look up at my uncle. Cool, hip places? Like?.?.?. clubs?

Oh. My. Gosh. He's trying to get me to go out. Is he worried I won't find anyone and I'll be stuck living with him forever? Okay, maybe it's been a few years since I've had a boyfriend, but I like our situation here. We're happy. It's been me and Otto against the world for so long, we're a real team.

But apparently, both of us don't share that opinion, and one of us thinks I'm a spinster.

Are my feelings hurt that my fifty-four-year-old uncle thinks I need to get out more? Maybe. Or maybe he's onto something and I don't want to admit it.

Remember that dream about the husband and five kids? I won't ever admit it out loud, but it's still what I want more than anything. Which is a struggle when there are no men to date.

"I'll date," I say. "When I find the right guy."

"How will you find the right guy? What's your plan?"

I toss my finished peach into the bucket and pluck out another one. "I was hoping he'd show up at the house one day and I'd just know."

Otto narrows his eyes, clearly unsure whether to take me seriously or not.

I mean, it's a solid plan, right? We have a fairly steady stream of customers staying here. They're usually married or vacationing with significant others, but you never know when a hot, single, eligible guy might drop in on you.

It happened to me literally just the other day.

Well, I don't know if Noah is single, and I certainly won't call him eligible.

Why am I even thinking about him?

"I'll go on a date," I say quickly, mostly to end this conversation. At book club last week, Jane tried to convince me to give island guys another shot. Maybe she was onto something then. "I won't give up and go buy six cats."

Otto makes a repulsed face. "One Cat is enough for me."

"I know." I roll my eyes. He's said that so many times over the course of my life. "What about one Cat and one kitty?"

He shudders in revulsion. I don't know why he's always hated cats, but he has. I wanted one so badly in fifth grade, and it's one of the only things he put his foot down on—which is saying a lot, because that's when I was still reeling from my parents' deaths and Otto would have done nearly anything for me. He claims to be allergic, but I'm ninety percent sure that's a lie.

"I'm leaving," he says, going for the door to let himself back into the house.

"Good luck with your golf swing. That's a thing people say, right?"

"Not sure," Otto says. "I'll let you know."

The door swings shut behind him just as my phone chimes to indicate an incoming text. I pull it out and swipe it open.

Holland

Or we can go out so you can meet a real man. Jane might not have been entirely wrong at book club, you know.

I totally expected Holland to want a night in, which is part of why I texted her instead of Ivy, who's been one of my best friends most of my life. But Ivy just returned to the island and probably needs time to settle in anyway.

Cat

Fictional men will do fine for me right now

Hot ones in black and white, preferably

Holland

I'll bring the popcorn

Cat

I need to fill you in on Noah Belacourt, btw

Holland

DID YOU SEE HIM?

Cat

Yes. Worst day ever

Holland

Were his sisters there? I kind of want to see if they look as plastic in real life as they do on screen

Cat

You're not missing anything there, Holls.

Holland

Wait. So are the Belacourt sisters here or not?

Cat

It's just Noah so far. But he's back FOR THE ENTIRE SUMMER and I've already embarrassed myself in front of him twice. So I need popcorn and you and James Dean

Holland

I'll be there at 8

Four hoursand eighteen sealed jars of jam later, I'm tossing used dishes into the giant stock pot in the sink so they can soak. I love me some peach jam, but the amount of effort that goes into one little jar is unreal. This is a favorite among our guests, though, so I won't stop making it. The process is soothing, anyway. I like doing it.

I'm a regular Betty Crocker. Minus the husband, the two perfect children, and the apron.

I wash sticky sugar from my palms before going to the front door and picking up the pile of mail that has been pushed through the slot. Most of the letters are junk, but two have come for Otto, so I take them into our small office. After my feet cross the threshold into the room, I freeze, my eyes skimming over the return address.

Killigan Hammer Cancer Institute.

Those four words make my stomach turn over. It's been three years since Otto came home clean and free of all cancer, thanks to chemo, radiation, and surgery to remove some of his lymph nodes. Why are they sending him letters now, and why is there a red-stamped "final notice" on the front of the envelope?

Silence echoes in the empty house as I cross to the desk pushed up against the wall, reaching behind the pot for the key to Otto's top drawer. He probably doesn't know I'm aware of this key, but I've seen him put it away so many times that he's either in denial or trusts me.

I glance down at the bill from Killigan Hammer and frown. Evidently, he doesn't trust me enough.

It doesn't take very long to rifle through the drawer and find previous bills from the same place. I lay them across the desk, picking my jaw up off the floor. Each of the bills are the same, with varying levels of unpaid notices stamped across them. The number grows with each late fee, but it's so big to begin with it doesn't change a whole lot. There are way too many zeroes involved, and according to the statements, Otto hasn't been making his monthly payments for a while.

Ninety-two thousand dollars. The price for saving his life.

I open my banking app and check out my finances, but they look the same as they did yesterday. I'd been so proud of the little nest egg I'd slowly been building, but up against these outstanding bills, my six thousand is a drop in the bucket.

I close my eyes and lean back in the stiff leather chair.

Why didn't he tell me? Why doesn't he trust me with this?

Voices outside indicate that the Carmichael family has returned. I sit up quickly and shove the bills back into the drawer, locking it and putting the key away. Sliding Otto's latest bill between two pieces of junk mail, I leave the stack on his desk.

He'll come home, find it, and pull me in to talk again. Maybe that's why he came out on the porch before he left. If I give him time, he'll confront me on his own, then we can sit down and make a plan. Together. Team Keene.

I turn just in time to put a large smile on my face and welcome the Carmichaels home from the beach.

But they aren't alone.

They have a billionaire with them.