5. Rosie

Chapter 5

Rosie

Forrester Sibling Group Chat

Bennett : Rosie, someone’s breaking into your boat.

Bennett : I called Sheriff Savage’s cell.

Bennett : Are you home? Are you okay?

Jules : I’ll try calling her.

Jules : She’s not answering.

Bennett : I’m going over there.

Haydn : Wait for the police.

Jules : No, they’ll be too slow. Go in. Take the taser.

Haydn : DO NOT TAKE YOUR TASER GUN.

Haydn : Rosie’s location says she’s at the shop.

Jules : She shared her location with you?

Haydn : I may have turned it on when she let me use her phone last time I was there.

Jules : Wait …

Jules : Bennett, check your phone. He turned mine on too.

Bennett : Kind of busy here.

Haydn : With or without the taser?

Bennett : I’m hiding behind the Lazy Swimmer.

Jules : The who?

Bennett : The boat right next to Rosie’s. Two men and a woman are on her boat. They don’t look like thieves.

Jules : And what do thieves look like?

Bennett : I don’t know. But these guys are in their sixties, at least.

Haydn : WITH OR WITHOUT THE TASER, BEN?

Bennett : I left the taser on my boat. But I have my knife.

Jules : Better hope this is a knife fight, then.

Haydn : Or no fight. That seems like a better thing to hope for.

Haydn : Do I need to book a flight? I can be there in eighteen hours.

Bennett : They’re going inside. I’m going to follow.

The thing about owning a new pet when you’d never owned a pet before, was that it’s time consuming.

Buying her a bed, food, little sweaters and booties, a heated blanket, setting up her cozy living space in my bedroom, taking her to the vet, and agonizing over the perfect name—well, that all chipped away at the minutes I might have used to tell my brothers I was selling my houseboat.

Whoops.

Elizabeth Bennet (aka Lizzy, aka Mrs. Darcy, aka Eliza B) was sleeping in her sunny corner of the apartment above my shop, so I sneaked outside with my paints for some free therapy. Today’s cruise-ship had already come and gone, and I didn’t have to work at the restaurant until tonight. I kept a sign in my boutique’s window with my number, so if a tourist wanted to browse, they could give me a call, but that freed up most of my afternoon to break the law.

I rolled my paintbrush through the thick, white gesso, looked to my right then my left, and ran the bristles down with a satisfying glide.

Peace hummed through my veins. There was nothing better than paint on canvas. Even if the canvas, in this instance, is the exterior, brick wall of my boutique art shop, Alaskan Chic.

And not, technically speaking, legal to paint on since I was leasing the building from the town.

But hadn’t all the best artists come into their genius under duress? At least I had both my ears intact and I hadn’t murdered anyone yet, which was more than could be said about some famous artists.

“Look, I’m going through some things right now.” I practiced saying out loud in case Sheriff Savage stopped by with his typical bad timing. Since his daughter (the one who shall not be named) broke up with my brother, I didn’t have the same sway with the sheriff I used to.

But my best friend, Charlie, was Sheriff Savage’s niece, which maybe counted for something in the world of small-town politics where nearly everyone was related in some way.

I swiped upward with the white. I’d need a ladder to really make this amazing. And a large bucket of paint formulated for southeast Alaska’s cold and rainy weather. But today, a three-foot square would do.

Hopefully.

My hand faltered. Thoughts of strangers tromping through my houseboat, looking at my belongings and picturing their belongings there … It was gross. And wrong. And sad.

But necessary.

It was the houseboat or the shop. I couldn’t afford both anymore, even with the extra work at the restaurant. Not with a huge chunk of my earnings going toward Project: Sweet Lemon (name not trademarked; I still wasn’t sold on it. I’d toyed with Project: Make Dad Love Me but that seemed too on the nose).

I’d moved into the more livable apartment above my shop—telling my brothers that it just made sense as far as convenience—and let my dad live in my houseboat until it sold. I’d had to turn down a few offers on the houseboat because Dad wasn’t quite ready to get his own place, but that was okay. He was under the strict instruction to stay so deep under the radar, he forgot what sunshine looked like.

So far, so good.

Except temporary had turned into six months, and I still hadn’t formed the close relationship with my dad—the one who’d dubbed me “sour lemon” when I was a kid because he said my personality was sour instead of sweet; but it was fine, I was over it—that I’d always dreamed of. I hadn’t given up hope yet, though. It was tricky, what with my brothers hating him and not knowing he was in contact with me. I felt like I was harboring a fugitive.

It was stressful.

Thus, free therapy.

I finished the square and ran my brush through the thick glob of navy blue paint. I was planning on doing an oceanscape, but that blue blob looked an awful lot like a playful dodo bird. How fun would that be? And not many people would see it back here, anyway, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to let my art be a little more playful—

My phone buzzed in my back pocket as I drew a sinuous line of navy to outline the body. My smooth strokes were interrupted when my phone buzzed again. And again. Until it was a nonstop butt-cheek massage, completely ruining my attempted Zen. Which could only mean one thing.

The family group chat. My three older brothers texted like teenage girls with their first cell phone, and last summer I’d begged to be included in their group chat. Joke was on me, because they rarely shared the juicy details of their lives and mostly used it to give each other a hard time and check on me.

But it was an easy vehicle to get under their skin when I was bored.

“Rosie Forrester. Defacing public property,” a gray, authoritative voice barked.

My heart gave a resounding kerthump and then nothing at all. I was dead … nope. My heart restarted at a race. Nothing to do but grin and attempt to charm him.

“Good morning, Sheriff Savage. You’re looking well today,” I chirped as I turned to face him. “Isn’t this weather spectacular?” A gray cloud moved to cover the sun.

The wrinkle lines around his eyes deepened with sternness. “We’ve talked about this, Rosie.”

It took everything in me not to squirm. Because the truth was, I liked Sheriff Savage. He may have always been in the wrong place at the wrong time—for me, anyway—but he was steady, loyal to Winterhaven, and gave off dad vibes in spades. I hated disappointing him, and I couldn’t afford any more visits to the police station. Literally , couldn’t afford. I was still paying off the last fine he slapped me with for parking my truck in the middle of the road during Winterhaven’s equivalent of rush hour, stalling traffic on both sides for over forty-five minutes.

But I couldn’t let commuters run over the adorable family of river otters sedately walking adjacent to the street as if they were part-snail. People couldn’t see them under the thick foliage, and I worried they’d get hit in everyone’s rush. The honks, the police siren, and the flashing headlights couldn’t deter them—and I ended up chasing them away from the road with my best rendition of The Wobble—which, for the record, worked.

It worked so well, that by the time Sheriff Savage approached, the otters had made themselves scarce. Leaving me holding the bag like a spurned accomplice, and everyone else claiming they’d never seen the otters in the first place.

The result was a fine for causing a public disturbance, another fine for disrupting traffic, and a video of me dancing The Wobble that made me a local celebrity for all the wrong reasons.

“It’s not defacing ,” I said. “It’s art.”

He snorted, but he did stare at the blue blob like he might be seeing some potential. Was maybe moved by the flow of paint. As his gaze drifted upward to the two windows above the shop, he yawned. Not really the reaction I was going for. But I got it. Blobs were boring to the uninspired.

He squinted at me. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”

I held my breath.

“Paint over whatever this is”—he waved at my almost-dodo bird—”and answer your brothers’ texts, and I’ll pretend I never saw it.”

I paused. Don’t ask, Rosie. Don’t you dare ask. “That’s it? No ticket?” Dang it! When had I become the kid who reminded the teacher she forgot to assign homework?

“No ticket,” he confirmed. His gaze drifted back up to the window, and he rocked back on his heels and removed his hat, oh, so casual. “You ever consider renting out that extra room?”

The second apartment was nearly uninhabitable, but I was intrigued. Sheriff Savage had never looked so forcibly chill. “Why?”

“Your brothers thought someone broke into your houseboat, but when I had one of my guys check it out, they said it was a Realtor. Are you selling?”

I nodded slowly. “I don’t want to, but …” I shrugged.

“Seems like you could make some extra money renting the second apartment out.”

We both glanced up. I didn’t know what he was picturing, but I knew exactly what was behind that window. A dark apartment filled with dust, boxes, something I heard squeaking when it got quiet enough, and the mural no one knew about (yes, yes, another secret; I was addicted to them. There were only so many ways to be mysterious on an island this small.)

“Maybe even enough money to keep your houseboat. Something to think about.” He slapped his hat against his leg a few times then propped it back on his head.

After Sheriff Savage left, with one more pointed finger at the dodo bird, I finally read my texts. Heaven save me from overprotective older brothers.

I was lucky Bennett only saw the sales agent. What if he’d spotted Dad instead?

Rosie : Brothers. I love you. I really do. But chill. I’m selling my boat. PLEASE don’t scare off potential buyers with weaponry. I didn’t answer right away because I have a life. Which you should all look into having instead of texting me nonstop AND CHECKING MY LOCATION, HAYDN.

I painted over the dodo bird blob with a twinge of regret for what could have been, and mulled on Sheriff Savage’s suggestion of renting out the spare apartment. And it wasn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. Clean it out and find a good tenant, save up enough money to help Dad really get on his feet, plus I’d get to keep my store and my houseboat.

This might just solve all my problems.

Except for the problem of my brothers, of course, who were all exasperating (but adorable) lunatics.