The Sometime Sister by Katherine Nichols (e novels for free .TXT) 📗

Splashes of color from lavender, yellow, and red flowers growing wild lined the road. A warm breeze rippled through them, carrying their sweet scent with it.

The farther we got from Montañita, the more deserted the beach became. A few surfers slipped in and out of the waves, and groups of sun worshipers draped themselves over chairs or napped on blankets in the golden-brown sand. Clouds skimmed the ocean, casting reflections that made it impossible to determine where sea and sky separated.

We passed stretches of uninhabited shoreline. It was after eleven, and I was getting close to demanding he take me back to the hotel when a large, wooden sign featuring seagulls with big blue feet announced we were in Piqueros Patas Azules.

“We’re here,” he said and pulled the car into a gravel parking lot.

The combination bar and restaurant featured open-air seating. Hammocks with views of the ocean were strung between palm trees. Colorful umbrellas over wooden benches offered additional places to sit. About a dozen patrons sat at the tables scattered along the shoreline. One couple, entangled in a hammock, swung lazily back and forth.

“It’s the Piqueros Patas Azules, the Blue Booby. They have the freshest seafood in the entire world. And there’s a cool museum here. I’ve never been inside, but the sign looks cool.” He hopped from the jeep, came around for me, and made a big show of helping me out of the vehicle. This was the first time he had been so gentlemanly, and it struck me as odd, as if he were trying to impress someone other than me.

When we walked in, the bartender greeted Prez by name. They shared an elaborate handshake before my escort introduced me as Grace from the States. Then he ordered two drafts and carried both to the table closest to the beach, set them down, and pulled out my chair.

He asserted they had the best ceviche in town and insisted I try it. At home I would have avoided raw seafood, no matter how wonderful the citrus sauce marinade was. But he was convincing, so I agreed to give it a shot.

“I’m good with whatever, as long as it’s not guinea pig.”

When he left to place our order, I strolled back through the bar in search of a restroom. Nautical memorabilia covered the walls. Crinkled, carelessly framed maps seemed in danger of disintegration. A rusted anchor the size of a plump five-year-old child sat in a corner. Besides the bells and compasses scattered throughout the restaurant, a gigantic tortoiseshell hung next to an enormous jawbone identified as belonging to a killer shark.

The restroom was all the way in the back. When I returned, an assortment of food awaited me.

“Just in time,” he said. “Dig in.”

The tart aroma of citrus and the yeasty smell of freshly baked pastry was a perfect combination.

“They make their empanadas with beer dough,” Prez explained between bites. “It’s unfreaking believable.”

We dug in. Our only conversation was if I wanted another drink. I did and he went to get them.

The tide had gained momentum. Bronzed creatures, predominantly male with a few intrepid females in the mix, paddled out to the invisible line where the waves grew into monstrous forces. These fearless surfers rose from the sea to mount crests with the power to toss them aside as if they were rag dolls. Most rode with admirable prowess. Occasionally, one would disappear under the weight of the water, and I would hold my breath until the ocean spewed him back to the surface.

A tiny blonde woman paddled out, farther and farther from the shore. She rose on her board and hovered like a hummingbird before launching her slight frame up and onto the top of a wave. For a moment, I was certain Stella was alive, flying above the sea with the birds from my dream.

A sudden shadow blocked my view. At first, I thought Prez had returned. But this man was shorter and thicker.

“May I please join you?” He sat and removed his Panama hat. His shoulders were more bent than in the photograph, and he’d grown a full beard. But there was no mistaking those blazing, intense eyes. It was Adelmo Balsuto.

“I do not mean to frighten you, Grace Burnette.” He spoke with what Stella and I had called the late-night DJ introducing a seduction song voice. He kept those burning eyes fixed on mine.

“You didn’t,” I lied. “I just wasn’t expecting you. I was supposed to meet Eva. What are you doing here?”

He stared at me before answering. “It is strange how much you’re like her.”

“Listen, I’m with someone and if you don’t leave—”

“You are here with Preston Allen. I asked him to bring you here so we could talk.”

“What would we have to discuss?”

“Ah, Grace. Stella said you could be strong willed, but you are also clever. I understand you want to uncover what happened to your sister. I will help you with that. Would you be so kind as to come with me?” He extended his hand.

Something about Adelmo Balsuto made his request seem more of a command, gentle but still an order. I never follow orders from men I have just met, but he was different. It could have been because he’d known my sister so well, or because I desperately needed to learn what he knew. Whatever it was, I put my hand in his, and he led me from the safety of the beach to the other side of the bar. We walked to a narrow pathway that slipped behind low-lying dunes. I squealed when a streak of color scurried across my feet and disappeared down a hole in the sand. Two stalks with eyeballs at their ends periscoped up and watched as I hurried past.

Balsuto laughed. “We have disturbed the locals. Red, yellow, blue—beautiful little crustaceans.”

We continued several more yards until the pathway narrowed, making it necessary for him to walk ahead of me. We passed a thick plexiglass display with shards of pottery inside it. Among the