The Ocean’s Daughter

Jane Cullen

Book 2

Marcel Lamothe

Copyright © 2025 by Marcel D. Lamothe

Cover design and interior artwork © 2025 Marcel D. Lamothe

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Paperback ISBN: 9798287460396

https://www.marcel-writes.com/

Formatted with Vellum

For the naturists who teach us that when we shed our coverings, we discover not vulnerability but strength—and in accepting our own truth, we learn to honor everyone else’s.

Love is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.

— Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

Author’s Note

This is a fictional story that revolves around life in and around a family nudist resort. While it contains mature themes and discussions of sexuality, it is specifically not erotica. Though it builds on events from The Naked Truth, this story stands on its own and provides context for new readers along the way.

As with the previous book, the customary use of towels for seating at nudist venues is assumed throughout the story unless otherwise specified.

Part One

The Island

Chapter 1

The Call

Sometimes, I imagine myself floating above Paradise Cove at night, looking down at the lush tropical island and the surrounding dark waters of the Atlantic, dotted with the running lights of boats headed to who-knows-where. From this height, the island takes on the shape of a teardrop, its wider northern end tapering down to the delicate southern point where waves crash against the rocks.

The resort’s private beach curves along the eastern shore, a pale crescent barely visible in the moonlight, while dense mangroves guard the western coastline like silent sentinels. Thread-like paths wind through the tropical foliage, connecting the scattered cabins and buildings dotting the resort grounds, their lights twinkling through the canopy of palm fronds and sea grape leaves.

Near the heart of the island, tucked between gnarled banyan trees and flowering hibiscus, my little cabin stands in its small clearing. Golden light pours from its windows onto the sandy soil below, creating pools of warmth in the velvet darkness. The night air carries the sound of cicadas and distant waves, while the scent of night-blooming jasmine drifts through my open windows, mingling with the salt breeze.

Inside, my naked body hung upside down off the couch, my head resting on the worn planks, my arms spread wide, with a sketchpad in one hand and pencil in the other. Eyes closed, blood rushing to my head, waiting for inspiration to strike.

Bernie, Barbara, Bailey, and Brianna Bear were waiting for me to conjure up their next misadventure. My ridiculous little passion project about a family of nudist bears had found a tiny but enthusiastic audience online—turns out there were actually people out there who appreciated animated shorts about clothes-free forest creatures discovering the joys of naturism. Every time someone left a sweet comment or a like, it made my day. But right now, those couple hundred followers couldn’t help me figure out what trouble to get my bears into next.

Finding that first spark was always the hardest part. Once an idea took root, the story would bloom on its own, characters springing to life, plot threads weaving themselves together. But tonight the spark remained elusive, leaving me suspended in the quiet darkness of my cabin. Not exactly how I’d pictured spending my nineteenth birthday, but here I was…

A thought drifted by: What if Bailey discovered he could do magic? Sweet, anxious Bailey, who worried about everything—what if he stumbled upon an ancient library of spells? The image of the timid bear cub, surrounded by towering stacks of musty old books, learning to command wind and waves, conjuring fire and light. The animation practically drew itself in my imagination—golden sparks and swirling mystical energies surrounding my timid little bear…

THUMP. THUMP.

The sounds jarred me from my reverie. Two solid knocks, this late in the day had to be the evening post. I righted myself, waiting a moment for my head to stop spinning, then padded to the door.

When I pulled it open, there was only the empty night and lingering scent of jasmine. I stood for a moment in the doorway, letting the warm, humid air embrace my bare skin. Part of me never wanted this feeling to end.

My heart did a little flip when I opened the mailbox and saw the glossy cover of Titch Bits magazine. “Go Behind the Scenes with Jane Cullen—Paradise Cove’s Hot New Art Director!” the tagline proclaimed. Already woefully out of date, I thought with a twinge.

I walked back inside while studying the cover. There I was, playing naked tour guide, gesturing at something beyond the frame. The photographer had caught me in profile, my body turned just enough that the magazine could actually be displayed in grocery stores instead of being relegated to a brown paper bag behind the counter.

I flopped back onto the couch (right side up this time) and started flipping through the magazine. The article itself was six pages, with plenty of photos—candid shots of resort life, artistic angles of our gardens and pools. I laughed when I noticed surly Quinn in the background of one of the pictures with her arms crossed. She was out of focus and blurry, but there was no mistaking that hot pink mohawk!

At 8 PM on the nose my MacBook chimed to life with an incoming video call. Time for the monthly meeting of the North American Naturist Resort Owners Association. This was the cherry on the sundae for my crappy Friday night non-birthday party.

Setting the magazine aside, I grabbed my laptop from the end table and settled it on my bare legs, clicking “Accept” before the chime could repeat.

Names and profile pictures began populating the screen. Sixty-two participants in total, though only a handful had their cameras on. I left mine off, as always, and hadn’t bothered to change Bill’s name, so I was listed as “William Bartlesby–Paradise Cove,” complete with his big grinning portrait.

A silver-haired woman appeared in the middle of the screen. “Welcome everyone to our monthly meeting of the NANRO association. I’m Isabella Montgomery, and as always, we’ll start with…”

I tuned out slightly as she went through what was clearly a well-worn script about meeting protocols and agenda items.

As one banal subject after another came up for debate, my mind drifted back to sorcerer Bailey. Surely he could cast a spell to make boring meetings more interesting! Then, like a fever dream, a different story began taking shape. “The Bureaucrat”—a mild-mannered office worker whose life slowly fills up with more and more meetings. Pre-dawn meetings, late-night meetings, weekend planning meetings about future meetings. His calendar becomes a mosaic of overlapping Zoom calls until finally, inevitably, he snaps. His villain origin story writes itself: One man’s quest to rid the world of meetings forever, even if it means burning it all down.

A rare silence fell over the call. Someone cleared their throat.

“Um, yes, this is Larry from Sunny Pines,” a hesitant voice broke through. “I feel we need to address some concerns about after-hours activities at our facilities. Nothing specific, mind you, but there have been reports of, shall we say, intimate encounters in our communal areas after sunset. Which obviously goes against our family-friendly principles…”

The silence that followed was excruciating. Without thinking, I unmuted myself and asked, “What do you mean? Like sex on the beach?”

“Bill Bartlesby!” A woman’s voice sliced through my laptop speakers with theatrical outrage. “You don’t sound like yourself today!”

Realizing my mistake, I turned on my camera and gave a faint smile. “Uh, no. I’m Jane Cullen. Bill had a heart attack a few months ago. He’s recovering well,” I added quickly, seeing concerned faces. “But his doctors wanted him to take an extended break. I’m just filling in as interim director.”

The woman glaring at me from the center of my screen was middle-aged, with that sort of aggressively maintained helmet of blonde hair that screams “I want to speak to your manager.” Like everyone else on camera, she was completely naked. She was, however, the only one wearing a pearl necklace!

“Well I’m Rebecca Aldrich,” she announced, as if that name should mean something to me.

“Now, now, Becky,” someone with their camera off chimed in. “Put away the fangs before someone gets hurt.”

Several people snickered, which only made Becky’s perfectly painted lips compress into a thin line.

“You were saying, Jane?” Becky’s eyes narrowed behind her thick designer frames.

One camera after another came to life, and suddenly it felt like I had a hundred eyes staring at me. “Well, not long after I was put in charge, we had an incident. One night, a seventeen-year-old named Hayden snuck his girlfriend onto the island to impress her. They went off into the woods and started fooling around. Somehow they set off a makeshift alarm, and in a moment of panic he went running face first into a tree and broke his nose. The irony is that when security got there a few moments later, they weren’t even naked!”

“So what did you do?” asked Gerald from Sunshine Valley, leaning toward his camera with undisguised interest.

“I mean, first of all, they were threatening to sue the resort because of his injury. But really, teenagers making out after dark? Are we really going to pretend like this isn’t an everyday occurrence?”

“So what did you do?” Becky’s voice had that precise, clipped tone of someone who already knows they’re not going to like the answer.

I shrugged. “I offered him a job. In exchange he had to drop the lawsuit and show us how he snuck in. He’s actually been an excellent addition to our security team.”

The Zoom grid erupted with chatter. “That’s actually pretty clever,” someone said. “Turn your weakness into strength,” added another. “Wish I’d thought of that with our fence-jumpers,” chimed in a third. Through it all, Becky sat perfectly still, her pearl necklace gleaming against her flushed skin, her expression suggesting she’d just bitten into a lemon.

“Actually, um, wow,” Larry from Sunny Pines stammered, his earlier nervousness transformed into genuine enthusiasm. “I was really anxious about bringing this up, but this has been so helpful. Thank you, Jane! It’s so refreshing to have a young person’s perspective on stuff like this.”

The chat exploded again. Suddenly it seemed like everyone had their own ‘after hours’ tale to tell. Through it all, Becky remained motionless, only her jaw muscle twitching beneath her perfect makeup.

Isabella cleared her throat, somehow commanding attention without raising her voice. “Well,” she said, a hint of amusement in her tone, “I can honestly say this has been our most illuminating meeting in quite some time. Thank you for your insights, Ms. Cullen. You’ve certainly given us all something to think about.” She paused. “Same time next month, everyone. And remember—clothing optional, kindness mandatory!”

I shut the MacBook’s lid and leaned back on the couch with my eyes closed, trying to process what had just happened. Not even five seconds went by before my phone vibrated. I picked it up. It was an email responding to my old request for a starving artist to paint murals on the four sides of the resort’s administrative building.

RE: Mural Artist Needed

Jane,

Found your ancient post about needing murals painted—hope I’m not too late! I’m Kat. 24. Been painting since I could hold a brush without eating it. Just finished a major project in Miami’s Wynwood district—the walls there don’t stay blank for long.

I’ll be outside Paradise Cove tomorrow at 9 AM. Look for the white conversion van that’s seen better decades. The Duchess isn’t pretty, but she’s never let me down.

See you then.

P.S. Those are my painting glasses. They’ve seen some things.

-K

I studied the photo she’d attached. Gold-rimmed glasses, green sweater, and that smile—like she was letting me in on some private joke I hadn’t heard yet. I clicked Reply and typed: “I’ll be there.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, added: “The glasses suit you,” and hit Send.

Chapter 2

Tomorrow

The August sun was already brutal at 9 AM, turning Paradise Cove’s parking lot into a shimmering mirage. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, feeling sweat trickle down my spine despite my lightweight sundress. A few early-morning guests drifted toward the beach, au naturel of course, their flip-flops clacking against the pavement.

Then I heard it—the distinctive rumble of an aging engine. A plain white van that looked like it had rolled straight out of the 1970s pulled up to the resort’s entrance. Rust had claimed strategic positions along its flanks, like a Dalmatian’s spots rendered in orange-brown. As I stood there, the passenger door creaked open in invitation.

Well, I thought, this is exactly how every horror movie starts.

My momentary hesitation must have shown on my face because Kat called out, “I promise I’m not going to murder you!” Her laughter was bright and infectious, immediately putting me at ease.

Climbing into the van, I said, “That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”

Kat looked just like the picture she sent me, except she’d swapped the comfy sweater for a plain white T-shirt. She had the most radiant smile I’d ever seen—the kind that created little crinkles at the corners of her eyes.

“You’re giving off some serious serial killer vibes with this van,” I said, settling into the passenger seat.

“This van,” Kat declared with mock aristocracy, “is The Duchess. She’s royalty where I come from. We go way back. In fact, only me and The Duchess know where all the bodies are buried.” She jerked her thumb toward the back, grinning. “You want the grand tour?”

I twisted around in my seat, half-expecting to see something out of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Behind us, the van opened up into a cozy living space. Thick white shag carpet covered the floor. A compact kitchen nestled against one wall, with a bed and bathroom at the far end. On the wall, a cork board covered in black and white photographs caught my eye. The images were too small to make out from where I sat, creating a patchwork of tiny moments frozen in time.

“So, where we going?” I asked as we pulled away.

“It’s a surprise,” she said, pulling onto the main road. “Trust me?”

“You know, you’re really leaning into those serial killer vibes.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you to wear a blindfold and handcuffs,” she teased.

“What makes you think I would’ve agreed to that?” I countered, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

“Because you have a sense of adventure.”

I was about to push back that I was the most boring 19-year-old on the planet, but then I remembered my first day at Paradise Cove, when Quinn led me up to the roof and we ziplined, bollocky bare-assed, into the nudist resort.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” I answered with a knowing smile.

“It’s not too late, you know.” She gave a quick nod toward the glovebox. “Check in there.”

I thought she was joking, but when I popped open the glovebox, there they were: a silky black blindfold and a pair of handcuffs. I picked up the cuffs first, surprised by their weight. Real metal, not some party store prop. Any rational person would have put them right back, but I just quietly stared at them.

“You want to try them on, don’t you?” she asked softly, no trace of teasing in her voice now. “You want me to handcuff you and blindfold you, don’t you?”

I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly and answered, “Is that weird?”

“Only if you think it is.” She glanced at me, then back at the road. “The seat reclines, you know.”

I found the lever and leaned back, then slipped the blindfold on. The world went black. I held out my wrists, and Kat deftly secured the cuffs with practiced ease, the hard metal clicking into place. For the first time in months, I felt myself truly relax. I could hear Kat breathing softly beside me, and felt the gentle sway of the van as she drove. It was strangely peaceful. Like floating.

“So tell me,” she said, “how does a nice girl like you become the head of a nudist resort?”

I smiled at that, settling deeper into the reclined seat. “Well, I usually start at the beginning. I was assigned to do a report for my journalism class. But really, the story is all about Bill, Paradise Cove’s larger-than-life owner. The day we met, he gave me a job and the cabin I’m in now. He made me the resort’s art director! Not because I had any formal training as an artist, but because I’d visited museums around the world. He saw something in me. That’s the kind of guy he is. Years ago, he adopted three infants who really needed homes—Quinn, Romeo and Adam. They’re great kids, all my age, and we all became fast friends.”

Kat cleared her throat. “That still doesn’t explain how you became the queen bee…”

“Ah right. Well Bill wasn’t feeling so hot—his heart was giving him trouble. I had to beg him to agree to go to the hospital! He agreed only on the condition that I take his place in his absence. In the end, they put some stents in his heart, and then he flew off to France. It’s been over three months now and I don’t know if he’s ever coming back.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit France,” she said softly.

We fell quiet for a moment. “So talk about getting thrown into the deep end,” I continued. “But I did a lot of growing up in a short amount of time. You should’ve seen the cabin Bill gave me—the place was full of dusty old boxes, like a little haunted mansion in the tropics. When we started unpacking them, among the AOL CDs we discovered a bunch of beautiful black and white nudes—all women, and all dating back to 1980.”

“That’s almost as old as The Duchess!” Kat laughed.

“So why exactly is your rust bucket called The Duchess?”

“Um, from Alice in Wonderland?”

“Oh. Never read it.”

“Really? Well, we’re definitely going to fix that!”

“So anyway, the box with the pictures also contained a journal from the photographer—a woman who called herself ‘The Collector of Experiences.’”

“Ooh, mysterious,” Kat said. “I like her already.”

“Since I was organizing Paradise Cove’s first clothing-optional art exhibit, those photos became the centerpiece. Then the ideas kept coming and it took on a life of its own. But in the meantime, I was desperately trying to find this enigmatic woman—I wanted to get her permission to use her photographs, you know?”

“And? Did you find her?”

“Eventually, yes. Well, actually she found us. But yes. Evelyn Reynolds. Somehow she went from penniless hippie artist to gazillionaire.”

“No way! I’m a penniless hippie artist—maybe I should meet this woman. Where is she now?”

“New York.”

“Oh.”

I shifted, remembering that surreal moment. “She flew down here on her private jet on opening night—unannounced. I nearly had a heart attack when I saw her. And then she just… dropped a million dollars on the project like it was pocket change.”

“Jesus Christ,” Kat muttered under her breath. The gentle rocking of the van was making me drowsy. Minutes might have passed, or maybe just seconds.

“I grew up poor,” she said, flatly. She spoke slowly, deliberately. “I grew up in a little mountain town named Tomorrow, New Mexico. It’s down in the bottom left corner of the state, by Arizona and Mexico, but even if you had a map I doubt you’d find it.”

She fell quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

“This is the kind of no-man’s land that attracts certain individuals—eccentrics, dreamers, misfits—and my mother was no different. She runs the only bookstore around, and let me tell you, this ain’t no Barnes and Noble,” she trailed off into silence.

Her voice had taken on the soothing cadence of a bedtime story, and I felt myself sinking deeper into the passenger seat.

“My maternal grandparents were vintage hippies. Attended Woodstock and did the requisite tuning in and dropping out, which is how they ended up in Tomorrow in the early 70s. Clothing definitely optional. They raised my mom and her siblings in that same spirit.”

“Mom turned that bookstore into something more than just a place to buy books—it was a lending library, a community center, a refuge. Much like Paradise Cove, we had our own dress code… or lack thereof. Picture me as a little kid, padding around barefoot and bare everything else, curled up in the corner with Lewis Carroll one day, William Shakespeare the next. I basically got my entire education right there between those shelves. Mom would glide between the stacks, just as naked as the day she was born, helping people find exactly the book they needed. People would come through and leave books, take books… some would stick around and teach art classes or hold poetry readings. Even when we barely had enough money for food, we were rich in stories.”

Sleep washed over me like an incoming tide. I was floating, sinking in an ocean made of stories, where books floated like jellyfish and a young cat swam between them, her hair streaming behind her like seaweed. “Little kitten,” I murmured, or tried to—my words bubbled away into the deep.

From somewhere above the waves, I heard Kat’s voice say, “Sweet dreams, sleeping beauty.”

Chapter 3

The Seven of Cups

Light flooded into my brain, sharp and brutal. I felt like I’d been asleep for a hundred years. The handcuffs were gone. Kat’s grinning face slowly came into focus. Her nose was almost touching mine as she peeked under the blindfold.

“Wh—Where are we?”

“Oh, you’ll see!” she said, and released the blindfold. The world snapped back to darkness, but I could hear the smile in her voice.

Before I could react, she took my right hand, sending a little jolt through my body. She used her other hand to guide me safely out of the van. My feet landed softly on cool, powdery sand.

“Can I help you out of those clothes?” she teased.

“Sure—but wait, are you saying we drove all this way just to visit a nude beach? Kat—you know I live at a nudist resort, right?” I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

She let go of my hand to pull my sundress up and over my head. It reminded me of being a little kid, when mom would help get me ready for bed.

Without sight, each sensation felt magnified—the sand working its way between my toes, the salty breeze raising goosebumps on my bare skin.

“Oh this isn’t just a nudist beach,” she said with a teasing lilt. “Ready to be amazed?”

“Do I have a choice?”

She gently pulled the blindfold from my eyes. She was completely naked, her gold-rimmed glasses glinting in the Florida sun. She stood so close that her body nearly filled my entire field of view. For a moment I stopped breathing, thinking we were going to kiss. But she spun away, tossing the dress and blindfold into the van before shutting the door.

I took a quick look around. All I saw were parked vehicles on white sand. “So… We’re in a parking lot?”

“Trust me, it gets better,” she said with a wink, taking my hand again and leading me towards the gleaming blue ocean visible in the distance.

The parking lot was alive with movement. Vehicles of every kind kept arriving, finding spaces in the soft sand. Doors swung open everywhere, releasing streams of people into the morning light. Folks moved with purpose—efficiently unpacking bags, casually shedding clothes, chatting in excited whispers. We flowed together like a river toward some unseen destination, some walking quickly, others lingering to greet friends. A bright red hang glider sailed overhead. In the distance, rainbow dots hovering above the water slowly resolved into hot air balloons, their colors vivid against the deep blue sky.

The crowd naturally began forming lines ahead of us. At first I thought we were approaching a security checkpoint or some kind of entrance station. I glanced at Kat for answers, but she just raised her eyebrows playfully.

We shuffled forward in the growing line, catching glimpses of something ahead that made people point and whisper. A woman in front of us kept rising on her tiptoes, trying to see what was causing all the excitement. Her partner laughed and said something about feeling like they were waiting in line for a new Disney ride.

We moved in stops and starts, each step revealing another piece of the puzzle: first two tall poles standing like sentries against the morning sky, then the strange ritual happening between them. People would approach hesitantly, looking around as if asking “is this really what we’re supposed to do?”, then step forward with nervous laughter.

Right in front of us stood a bear of a man, his wild beard flowing down his chest. When his turn came, he surprised everyone by moving with unexpected grace—raising his arms overhead and executing a perfect pirouette between the poles. The mist scattered into a million tiny prisms around him as he spun, transforming this naked ballerina into something magical before drifting down to the ground.

“Your turn,” she whispered behind me, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

I stepped forward, determined not to be outdone by a twirling giant. The poles loomed over me now, so much taller up close. I raised my arms, smiled, and began to spin⁠—

And promptly inhaled a mouthful of sunscreen! My attempted spin turned into an ungainly stumble, arms pinwheeling against the morning air. To my relief, it tasted like a virgin Piña Colada. From my new vantage point on the sand, I watched Kat step into position, raise her arms with balletic precision, and twirl through the mist like she’d been doing this her whole life. Not a single drop touched her glasses.

She walked over and gave me a hand up, helpfully brushing the sand off my butt. As I regained my dignity, I took in our surroundings. To our left, a rusty metal pole tilted drunkenly in the sand, its rusty sign declaring “NUDITY FORBIDDEN”. Beyond it stretched miles of deserted beach.

In front of us lay the endless expanse of turquoise water. The hot air balloons I’d spotted earlier now drifted above the waves, their bright canopies bobbing like exotic birds against the morning sky. The beach was crowded with nudists—some resting on towels soaking up the sun, others playing volleyball, and countless more drifting in the gentle surf.

To the right, a makeshift town appeared to rise in the distance from the sand, shimmering like a mirage. Kat’s fingers intertwined with mine, and we began walking toward it.

The sand felt luxurious between my toes but made each step twice the work. I started to realize that she was right about this not being just a nude beach. A couple of impossibly tall stilt walkers strode past us, their shadows stretching across the sand like sundials. Beyond the town I started to make out the outline of carnival rides, including a monster rollercoaster that rose against the sky like a mountain range transplanted to Florida.

“I can’t believe this,” I said, my eyes following the arc of a hang glider. “How is there a massive naked festival happening virtually in my backyard? And I didn’t hear anything about it!”

“I’ve always found there’s magic everywhere if you look for it,” she said, giving my hand a small squeeze.

“Like what?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Like…” her eyes lit up. “Have you ever looked at a drop of pond water under a microscope? It’s full of these tiny creatures that glow like stars. Or deep in the ocean, there are jellyfish that drift like living constellations, whole galaxies floating in the dark. Nature’s best magic tricks are usually hiding in plain sight.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean!” I said. “I’ve always been more of a sky-gazer myself. Lying on a blanket, watching clouds shape-shift during the day, counting satellites as they drift between the stars at night.”

“You’re a dreamer,” she said with a soft smile. “I like that.”

The makeshift town was taking shape now, its entrance marked by a towering gate draped with countless prayer flags that snapped and fluttered in the wind like restless birds. A crowd had gathered near the gate, obscuring our view. And then I heard it: The unmistakable sound of a snake charmer.

Kat guided us closer, and the circle parted just enough to reveal a man sitting cross-legged in the sand. His weathered skin spoke of a thousand suns, and from his reed pipe came a haunting melody that wound through the air like smoke. Before him, a cobra rose from its basket, swaying in perfect time with his pungi’s mysterious tune.

I found myself swaying gently to the melody, my hips moving in unconscious rhythm with the cobra’s dance. Kat’s hands settled softly on my waist, and she swayed with me, our bodies finding the same rhythm. The snake and we were both caught in the charmer’s spell. The hypnotic tune moved straight past thought, speaking directly to the body.

The music changed suddenly—drums thundering from beyond the gate. The cobra sank gracefully back into its basket as an army of naked puppeteers emerged through the entrance, their massive creations looming above the crowd. Mythical beasts straight out of ancient legends lurched and swayed overhead: a phoenix with wings of flame, a serpentine dragon that twisted through the air, a golden griffin whose mechanical beak opened and closed with surprising grace. The crowd parted like a wave, creating a path for these otherworldly creatures and their skilled manipulators.

The parade passed through the crowd like a dream, the massive puppets disappearing into the throng of naked festival-goers. As the last mythical beast vanished from view, I realized the snake charmer was gone too—his basket, his pungi, even the marks in the sand where he’d been sitting had vanished as if they’d never existed. Only the echo of his melody lingered in my mind.

“Come on,” Kat said, her fingers finding mine again. “Let’s go inside.”

We stepped through the gate into a maze of colorful tents and makeshift stalls that sprawled in every direction. It was like walking into a painting that hadn’t quite dried, where the artist’s last brushstrokes were still settling into place. The ocean breeze now carried a thousand new aromas: exotic spices, burning incense, and something sweet I couldn’t quite identify. Vendors called out to passing customers from beneath billowing awnings, their voices mixing with snippets of music that drifted from countless directions.

Every few steps brought a new wonder: A woman covered in spiritual tattoos creating intricate henna designs on a young girl’s back, her cone moving across the skin with practiced precision. A group of acrobats tumbling through the air, their bodies glinting with sweat and body paint. Craftspeople working in open-air stalls—weaving dream catchers, shaping glass, stringing beads into complex patterns that caught the morning light.

Kat led me through the chaos with delighted purpose, darting down one hidden alley after another. Each turn seemed to take us deeper into the labyrinth, further from the main thoroughfares.

“Are you trying to get us lost?” I asked, laughing as we ducked under a canopy of hanging crystals.

“Getting lost is half the fun,” she said, pulling me down an even narrower passage. The crowd had thinned, the music and voices from the bazaar growing fainter with each step.

As we rounded yet another corner we nearly tripped over an old woman seated on a Persian carpet outside a small indigo tent. A crystal ball rested on a twisted driftwood stand before her, catching the morning light in ways that seemed to defy physics. Without looking up, she began shuffling a well worn deck of tarot cards.

“I’ve been expecting you two,” she said softly.

“Of course you have,” Kat said with a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to two cushions I hadn’t noticed before. The crystal ball now pulsed with a mesmerizing inner light.

“One reading or two?” she asked as we settled onto the cushions. Her accent was impossible to place, as if she’d collected pieces of every language and woven them into something new.

“Two, please,” Kat said quickly.

The woman’s hands moved over the cards with practiced grace. “The cards speak of water,” she said, her fingers hovering over the first revealed card. “Always water with you two…” She turned over The Fool, then The Tower, and her expression shifted subtly. A third card: the Seven of Cups, reversed. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, though something flickered in her eyes. “The water that divides,” she murmured, “can fill our minds with visions—both sweet and terrible. But in time, the waters always clear.”

She continued turning cards, weaving a story of transformation and discovery that made my skin prickle. With each revelation, Kat’s hand found mine and squeezed tighter.

Finally, the woman sat back, studying us for a long moment. Kat’s grip on my hand hadn’t loosened since The Tower card appeared.

“The cards see clearly today,” Kat said quietly, almost to herself. Then with a slight bow of her head: “You see truly.”

The old woman extended her wrinkled hand, palm up. “All truths have their price, child.”

“Of course,” Kat said. She let go of my hand and leaned forward, whispering something in the fortune teller’s ear. The old woman’s eyes widened slightly, then her lips curved into a knowing smile. She gave Kat a small nod.

We rose from the cushions, the crystal ball’s glow fading as we stepped away. Once we were around the corner, I couldn’t help myself. “What did you tell her?” I asked.

“It’s a secret,” she said, threading her fingers through mine again.

We hadn’t gone far when a booming voice echoed across the beach: “CONDEMNED CRIMINALS NEEDED!”

Two massive men wearing nothing but black executioner’s hoods prowled through the crowd, their weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Despite their fearsome appearance, people were laughing and jostling to get a better view. Above them hung a massive black banner with blood-red lettering that proclaimed “The Tit for Tat Executioners” in an ornate gothic script.

“YOU!” One of them thrust his axe in my direction. “And your conspiring companion! Step forward to face the King’s justice!”

Kat’s eyes sparkled with mischief. Before I could protest, she grabbed my wrist. “Oh, this’ll be perfect!” She pulled me toward them, ignoring my stammered objections.

The next thing I knew, our hands were bound with thick rope and we were kneeling side by side, heads positioned over wooden blocks. A large crowd formed around us, their laughter and cheers mixing with the executioners’ increasingly outlandish list of our supposed crimes.

“These depraved criminals,” Tit proclaimed, his voice dripping with melodramatic menace, “were caught wearing PAJAMAS to bed!”

The crowd let out an exaggerated gasp of horror.

“WORSE!” bellowed Tat. “They were seen swimming WITH BATHING SUITS!”

“The audacity!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“But wait,” Tit leaned in dramatically. “Their most heinous crime…” He paused, building tension. “They were caught putting a sweater on a poodle!”

“Off with their heads!” The crowd erupted in theatrical boos and hisses.

“Shall we proceed with the execution?” Tit called to the crowd.

“Count with us!” Tat commanded. “Ten… nine…”

Someone slipped a silk scarf over my eyes. My rational mind knew it was all in fun, but my heart still hammered against my ribs. Kat’s fingers found mine between our blocks, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“Eight… seven… six…”

“Any last words, criminals?” Tit bellowed.

“Five… four…”

“I regret nothing!” Kat declared. “That poodle was cold!”

“Three… two…”

“OY! Not these two again!”

The crowd’s counting stuttered to a halt. Both axes hit the sand with a muffled thump.

“Begging your pardon, m’lady!” Tit stammered.

“What did I tell you boys about executing my favorite customers?” A woman’s voice cut through the chaos, rich with authority and barely contained amusement. The blindfold was lifted from my eyes to reveal a bosomy woman wearing nothing but a crown of seashells and an air of absolute command.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Tat mumbled. “We didn’t realize they were under your protection.”

“Well then,” she said, helping us to our feet with a knowing smile, “perhaps you two need a lesson in proper criminal identification. Report to my tent immediately… for punishment!”

Both executioners straightened, grinning. “Yes, m’lady!”

Still giggling from our brush with “death,” Kat and I made our way back through the crowd. The adrenaline from our mock execution was wearing off, leaving me surprisingly shaky and hungry. My stomach made an embarrassingly loud growl. She just smiled at me and said, “I hear ya sister—We passed a place making fresh hot arepa con queso earlier this morning–and they smelled fantastic.”

“A-what-a-what now?”

“Arepas! Colombian corn cakes stuffed with cheese. Trust me,” she said with that infectious grin, pulling me to my feet. “Your taste buds are about to have their own little festival.”

Kat’s warm fingers laced through mine as she led me through the crowd toward the source of that incredible aroma. The line was about six people deep, but I barely noticed the wait—She had started tracing small circles on my palm with her thumb, each movement sending tiny shivers up my arm.

“First bite is yours,” she said, carefully tearing off a steaming piece of the corn cake. Ooey gooey melted cheese stretched between the two halves. “Open up!”

I instinctively opened my mouth, and she popped the morsel in. The crispy exterior gave way to a tender center, and the cheese… oh my god, the cheese. I closed my eyes and made a sound that was probably inappropriate for public consumption.

“Good, right?” She said with a knowing smile. A thin strand of cheese clung to her lower lip, and I had to fight the urge to… well. I focused very intently on getting my own piece of arepa to feed her instead.

“Your turn,” I said, tearing off a piece. My hands weren’t quite as steady as hers, and a drop of hot cheese landed on her collarbone. “Oh! Sorry…”

“Don’t waste it,” she said with a wink, wiping it off with her finger and popping it in her mouth. Her eyes never left mine.

We finished the arepa like that, trading bites and trying not to drop too much cheese on each other. When the last morsel was gone, Kat licked her fingers clean with theatrical flair.

“So?” she asked. “What do you think? Better than Pizza Friday at your high school cafeteria?”

“They didn’t serve religious experiences in the cafeteria,” I said in a daze.

Watching her lick those last traces of cheese from her fingers wasn’t helping my concentration at all. I gestured toward the water. “Want to walk on the beach for a bit?”

We strolled hand in hand along the shoreline, letting the warm surf wash over our feet. The giant puppets were still dancing in the distance, but here the festival sounds had softened to a pleasant murmur.

“I have a question,” I said, watching a seabird dive into the waves. “This morning, when you barely knew me, you said I had a sense of adventure. How did you know?”

Kat was quiet for several steps, her thumb still tracing those maddening little circles on my palm. “This might sound strange,” she finally said, “but I tell people I’m vaguely psychic. Like, I can just look at a picture of someone and tell what kind of person they are. Almost like I can see their soul.”

“That’s… kind of amazing,” I said. “Like you can really grok people, you know?”

Kat’s eyes lit up. “You’ve read Stranger in a Strange Land?”

“Yeah, my granddad’s old paperback. All dog-eared and yellowed. That’s one book that’s always stuck with me.” I squeezed her hand. “Do you think that’s what drew you to painting? Being able to see things that way?”

“Oh absolutely,” she said, her energy returning. “When I paint, I’m not just capturing what something looks like—I’m trying to grok its fullness, you know? To really understand it from the inside out.” She gestured at the festival behind us with her free hand. “Look at all this. Most people would see chaos, or just naked bodies on a beach. But there’s something deeper happening here. It’s like… remember how Valentine Michael Smith had to learn to laugh? How he had to understand why humans found things funny before he could really be part of their world?”

I nodded, feeling a little thrill at how perfectly she got it.

“Well, that’s what I try to show in my art. The moment of understanding. The joke finally landing.” She paused, watching the sunlight dance across the waves. “When people look at my paintings, I want them to feel that click of recognition. Like they’re seeing something familiar for the first time.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping for when I posted that ad,” I said. “I’m not looking for giant murals of palm trees and sunsets—I’m looking for something that captures the resort’s essence.”

“You know, that’s what I love about places like this.” She gestured at the festival again. “Everyone here gets it. They understand that bodies aren’t just bodies—they’re temples, they’re art, they’re just… natural. Like Smith learning that nakedness wasn’t a sin but a way of truly seeing each other.”

“I tell people that all the time at the resort,” I said. “That it’s not about showing off or being sexual. It’s about being authentic.”

“Being your truest self,” she agreed.

We paused to let a small group of sandpipers scurry past our feet.

“Water spirits,” Kat said, her eyes following the birds. “Figures emerging from the waves, neither fully human nor fully ocean. Beautiful but wild, you know? Like those moments at dawn when the mist rises off the water and you can almost see… something.” She traced shapes in the air with her free hand. “Each figure would be transforming in a different way—some becoming foam, others dissolving into schools of fish or spreading into rays of sunlight.”

I stood there speechless, already picturing them in my mind. It was perfect—capturing both the natural beauty of Paradise Cove and that hint of magic that sometimes seemed to hover just at the edge of vision.

She gazed out at the ocean, a serene expression on her face. “Nature is so beautiful.” Then she stood up, her skin golden in the midday sun, and stretched lazily. “I’m going to go piss in it.”

I burst out laughing. “And just like that, the moment’s gone!”

“Hey,” she called over her shoulder as she waded into the water, “I’m just returning to my elemental nature!”

“Wait for me!” I cried out. “I gotta pee too!”

Once our bladders were empty, we made our way back to shore. When we reached dry sand, Kat turned to face me, taking both of my hands in hers. My heart skipped several beats as she looked deep into my eyes.

“I have something to tell you,” she said, her voice suddenly serious.

My mind went completely blank except for a single thought: Oh my god, what is happening right now?

“Yes?” I managed to squeak out. “What is it?”

Kat glanced around at the festival, a mysterious smile playing at her lips. “This… this is just the pregame show. The real magic happens after sunset.”

I blinked, trying to process this unexpected turn. “After sunset?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to me that we’d still be here then.

“Tell you what,” she said, swinging our joined hands playfully. “Remember how well you slept on the drive in? What if we head back to The Duchess for a nap? Get our energy up for tonight?”

The suggestion of sleeping next to her hit me like a wave of summer heat. My brain short-circuited, managing only the tiniest of nods.

“Perfect!” Kat’s face lit up with that irresistible grin. She squeezed my hands once before letting one go, keeping the other firmly in her grip. “Come on then, sleepyhead!”

And just like that, she was pulling me through the crowd again, leaving my scattered thoughts trailing behind us like confetti.

Chapter 4

Metamorphosis

The van’s sliding door opened with a metallic groan. Still damp from the quick rinse at the beach shower, Kat climbed in first, her body silhouetted against the afternoon light as she crawled into the nest of white sheets in the back. Inside, I lingered at the cork board I’d only glimpsed earlier. In the gentle glow filtering through the van’s curtained windows, it became a museum of moments, a chaotic constellation telling the story of a life lived in full color.

Sun-bleached Polaroids overlapped like fallen leaves: A friend playfully mooning the camera on some city sidewalk late at night. Kat skiing down fresh powder, gloriously bare against the winter white. Jubilant climbers posing triumphantly beside a gnarled bristlecone pine, their arms raised against an endless sky. Each image was a tiny window into her soul, snapshots of a life lived without restraint, surrounded by people who seemed to share her wild heart.

But one photograph easily stood apart from the rest, commanding attention through sheer artistry. I carefully unpinned it for a closer look. The black and white image was a masterwork of composition and light—bodies transformed into abstraction, light and darkness dancing together in perfect harmony.

Pleasure incarnate dominated the frame. A young woman arched backward as she rode her lover. Light cascaded across her pendulous breasts, cupped by her lover’s hands, as she reached toward transcendence, head thrown backward in rapture, arms drawn behind her like the Venus de Milo. Every line of her body spoke of abandon, of a moment of pure ecstasy captured in silver gelatin. The man lying beneath her was largely hidden by her form, his strong legs forming lines that drew the eye inward to where their bodies joined, while her figure rose above, reaching skyward.

Even with the face obscured, I knew with bone-deep certainty that this was Kat.

The realization made me feel like an intruder, witnessing a moment of such raw intimacy without permission. My cheeks burned as I carefully pinned the photograph back in its place among the patchwork of memories. Heart racing, I eased into the small bed, careful not to disturb her.

For a long moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, hyperaware of every point of contact between our bodies. Her ass pressed casually against my hip, like an old married couple. It radiated heat like an oven, as if it wasn’t already hot enough in here. My blood felt like it was on fire. I shifted slightly, which only made things worse.

I closed my eyes, but the curtains did little to stop the late August sunlight from pouring in. There was no way I was going to sleep like this.

With a frustrated groan, I retrieved the blindfold from the front seat and slipped it over my eyes, then carefully climbed back into bed.

Of course Kat was sound asleep, her gentle snores almost mocking my predicament. Squeezing my eyes shut I slowed my breathing, counting each exhale while trying to relax my muscles one by one, starting from my toes…

It didn’t work. My right hand crept down with guilty stealth. The last time I’d touched myself, I was dreaming about Romeo. I’d built such elaborate fantasies around us—marriage, children, the whole fairy tale! Then he’d tossed me aside like yesterday’s leftovers. I had to admit that one still stung a little.

I loved Paradise Cove but the vibe of non-sexual nudity was drilled into me so hard that I was starting to feel like a repressed Victorian schoolmarm.

In my mind’s eye, that black and white photograph transformed into dreams made flesh. I felt myself transported into that scene, settling into a velvet armchair in the corner of a candlelit parlor, my hand moving in rhythm with Kat’s undulations. Moonlight poured through a massive skylight above, painting her skin in silver as the studio lights dimmed one by one. Her eyes locked on mine as she rode her lover with slow deliberation, her figure rising and falling like waves in a midnight sea. The ancient house creaked and sighed around us, as if other unseen watchers lurked in shadowed corners, drawn to her radiance.

Voices outside startled me back to reality. The van suddenly felt very exposed, curtains thin as tissue paper in the bright afternoon sun. What if someone was watching me right now, stealing glimpses through the gaps?

The thought sent an electric current through me. I imagined unseen eyes drinking in every detail—the slight tremor in my thighs, my chest rising with shallow breaths. Would they notice how my skin flushed pink beneath their gaze, how my toes curled against the sheets? The wrongness of it, the sheer audacity, only heightened everything.

I couldn’t believe I was touching myself next to a virtual stranger. If Kat woke up… God, I’d die of embarrassment. I kept my movements microscopic, barely daring to breathe.

A small squeak escaped my lips as the orgasm hit, and I clapped my hand over my mouth, heart thundering. Beside me, Kat stirred at the sound. Before I could move, she rolled over, throwing one arm across my chest. Her hand landed squarely on my right breast, and her face nestled against my neck, her warm breath tickling my ear with each exhale.

I lay there, frozen, still trembling from my orgasm, while she settled against me like the world’s most gorgeous weighted blanket. This was fine. This was totally fine. I was just going to lie here, with her hand against my hardening nipple, her lips practically touching my ear, and eventually die of cardiac arrest. No big deal, right?

The weight and heat of her body pressed against mine was simultaneously too much and not enough. Each exhale against my neck sent tiny shivers down my spine, intensifying the ache between my legs. I tried to focus on my breathing, tried to will my body to calm down, but it was useless. I needed more. God help me, I needed so much more.

My hand slid down again more quickly this time. Every nerve ending was on fire, begging for release. I pressed harder, deeper, my hips rolling rhythmically against my fingers. My skin burned everywhere Kat touched me, each of her slow breaths against my neck driving me closer to the edge.

I almost missed it at first… That familiar circular motion of her thumb, so subtle it might have been unconscious. But no, there it was again, deliberately tracing a lazy spiral around my nipple. My whole body went rigid as understanding crashed through me like a wave.

She’s Awake.

My mind screamed at me to stop. Instead, my fingers moved faster of their own accord. Kat’s thumb continued its maddening circles, each rotation sending jolts of electricity straight to my core. Kat’s touch grew bolder, her hand kneading my breast in rhythm with my movements. Her mouth moved lower, teeth grazing my collarbone before her lips closed around my other nipple. She sucked hungrily, then lifted her head just long enough to murmur, “Mmm, coconut.” She dipped her head back down, her tongue teasing before her teeth gently caught my nipple.

I was beyond thinking now, beyond shame or hesitation. My hips rocked against my hand as pressure built inside me like a spring wound too tight.

Her hand began to slide down my belly, her touch leaving trails of fire across my skin. I nearly stopped breathing when her fingers covered mine, learning my rhythm before gently moving them aside. The difference between my own touch and hers was like comparing a candle to the sun.

And then my whole world changed. In one fluid motion, she slid down my body and buried her face between my thighs. The dual sensation of her tongue and fingers moving in perfect harmony short-circuited every coherent thought. Each wave of pleasure crashed higher than the last, leaving me gasping, trembling.

It was immediately obvious that I’d been playing in the bush leagues while she was a goddamned Olympian. Every movement of her tongue was deliberate, practiced, perfect. My hands found my breasts, my nipples almost painfully hard, adding to the overwhelming flood of sensation.

I tried to stay quiet but couldn’t help the tiny squeaks escaping my throat. The first orgasm crashed through me like a tsunami, but she didn’t stop—if anything, she grew more focused, more determined. It was like a gong being struck again and again, each hit resonating more powerfully than the last.

My squeaks grew more desperate, more frequent, until they blended together like a kettle reaching a boil. Heat bloomed through my body as my world narrowed to the perfect rhythm of Kat’s little touches. I was coming undone, fragmenting into pure sensation. Nothing existed beyond her mouth and fingers working their magic between my thighs. My hips rose to meet her, desperate and wild, each touch bringing me closer to something I’d only dreamed about.

The pressure built until I thought I would shatter. Through the sweet haze of pleasure, I felt Kat’s fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that sent lightning through my veins. My muscles spasmed, waves of pleasure radiating outward as her tongue traced patterns across my freshly shaved flesh. My spine arched off the bed as everything broke apart at once. The sound that tore from my throat wasn’t a squeak or a whimper—it was raw and primal, a cry of pure ecstasy that must have echoed across the entire festival grounds.

I collapsed back onto the sheets, aftershocks still pulsing through me. Kat crawled up beside me, gathering me in her arms as I shuddered and gasped. She pressed soft kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. After a long moment, she reached out and gently removed my blindfold, letting the afternoon sun paint patterns across my flushed skin.

“Well that was fun,” she said softly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Then she pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, rolled over, and announced cheerfully, “Now get some sleep!”

I lay there in shocked silence, my inner muscles still fluttering with aftershocks, feeling as if I’d just seen the face of God. Through the fog of my afterglow, I listened as her breathing quickly evened out into soft snores. After a moment’s hesitation, I rolled onto my side and curled myself around her warm body, fitting together like nested spoons.

Chapter 5

The Ocean’s Daughter

The question had been burning in my throat since we left the van, growing heavier with each step toward the beach, even as her fingers remained casually laced through mine. My mind kept circling back to that image, to the way their bodies moved together, to the raw intimacy of her and… and…

Just ask her. Just ask her. Just ask her.

“So who was that guy?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “You know… In the photograph?”

“Hmm?” Kat glanced at me, still moving to some internal rhythm as we walked. “Oh, jeez, that was forever ago…” She furrowed her brow in exaggerated concentration. “God, what was his name? Antonio? Alonso? Maybe Francisco? One of those O names, you know?”

“You don’t remember?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but something in my tone made her look at me more closely.

“Oh wait!” Her face brightened. “It was Ariel!”

“That’s… that’s not even an O name!” I said weakly.

Kat stopped walking then, turning to face me with that radiant smile that made my knees weak. “Sweetie,” she said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from my face. “It was a photoshoot. My first paid gig as a model, actually.” She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of my mouth. “I never even got his last name.”

“I don’t even know your last name! Hell, I don’t even know if ‘Kat’ is your real name!”

“Oh, it’s Młynarczyk,” she said casually. At my blank look, she added, “Katerina Młynarczyk.” She spoke each syllable slowly, as if speaking to a dim child.

“Mul… Mlin…” I tried, then gave up with a helpless wave of my hand. She just grinned and started walking again, tugging me along. “The photographer was going for this whole Ecstasy of Saint Teresa vibe, if you can believe it.” She pulled me closer as we walked, her hip bumping playfully against mine. “Though I have to say, what we did in the van was way more fun than pretending to have a religious experience with a stranger.” She paused and added, “Even if I didn’t come,” and winked.

I stumbled slightly, my mind completely derailing at her casual reference to our afternoon activities. But Kat just laughed and squeezed my hand, already focused on the growing sounds of the festival ahead.

The beach was alive with motion and music, bodies swaying like seagrass in the wind. A woman with flowing silver hair twirled past us, trailing ribbons of golden silk that caught the late afternoon light. Something about her freedom, her absolute comfort in her own skin, made my throat tight.

“I don’t know how to dance,” I blurted out. Kat turned to look at me, one eyebrow raised, the setting sun turning her eyes to amber. “I mean, I don’t know how to be…” I gestured helplessly at the festival, at her, at everything, my hand trembling slightly in the humid air. “I’ve never even kissed anyone before today, and now I’m at a freaking nudist festival with a girl I just met who does erotic photoshoots and probably thinks I’m completely⁠—”

“Jane.” Kat’s voice was soft but firm. She stepped in front of me, blocking my view of the dancers. “You’re trying to understand water by breaking it into hydrogen and oxygen.”

“But I don’t even know if you—” I swallowed hard. “Do you have someone? Back in Tomorrow? Or multiple someones? Or do you just travel around in your murder van seducing innocent resort owners?”

Her laugh was bright and sudden. “Murder van? I thought we’d upgraded it to at least a love nest.” She reached for my face with both hands, thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You want to know something true?”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

“That photo you saw? It’s beautiful, but empty.” Her eyes held mine, intense and honest. “What happened in the van? That was real. That was…” She paused, searching for the right word. But when her answer came, it came in the form of a kiss, and oh god, was she right—some things you don’t need to understand, you just need to experience. When she finally pulled back, my whole world seemed to have shifted slightly on its axis.

“Better?” she asked, her eyes dancing with that mysterious light that had drawn me in from the very first time I’d laid eyes on her.

I nodded mutely, suddenly aware that I could hear my own heartbeat over the distant festival music.

“See?” she whispered against my lips. “You know how to dance after all.”

I swayed slightly in the warm breeze, still dizzy from her kiss, from everything.

She stopped and sniffed the air, tilting her head like a curious fox. “I’m starved—and I’ve been making you burn a lot of calories today!”

We wandered back to the heart of the festival grounds, her hand gentle against my lower back as she guided me through the crowd. Strings of lights were just beginning to flicker to life in the deepening dusk. The bazaar had transformed in our absence, the marketplace now shimmering like something from a fairy tale.

“Oh! Look at these!” Kat pulled me toward a stall where skewers of fresh seafood sizzled over hot coals, the smoke carrying notes of lime and cilantro. The vendor, a woman with eyes lined in glittering gold dust, smiled at Kat’s enthusiasm.

“Two of everything,” Kat told the vendor decisively, then turned to me with a smile and added, “Trust me?”

The woman handed us a small feast wrapped in banana leaves: perfectly charred shrimp and fish, grilled plantains, and something that looked like corn on the cob but sparkled with red spices. Kat led us away from the crowded marketplace toward the water’s edge, where the noise of the festival faded into the gentle rhythm of waves.

“Here,” she said, sinking into the sand and patting the space beside her. “Best seat in the house.”

I sank down beside her, close enough that our shoulders brushed and watched as she unwrapped our dinner with the same deliberate grace she seemed to bring to everything. “Open,” she commanded softly, holding up a glistening shrimp.

Taking the bite, I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. Kat shifted onto one elbow, her body casting a long shadow across the sand as she reached for the corn.

“Try this,” she said, her voice low and musical. “It’s elote—Mexican street corn. Just…” She demonstrated, taking a bite that left a dusting of red spices on her lips. “Don’t be shy with it.”

I followed her lead, and my eyes widened at the explosion of flavors—sweet corn, butter, chile, lime, and something deeper I couldn’t name. A small sound of pleasure escaped me before I could stop it.

As the last of our seaside feast disappeared, we sat in comfortable silence, listening to the gentle crash of the waves. After a moment, Kat stood, helping me up with her. We waded into the shallows, quickly rinsing the butter and spices from our lips and fingers in the warm tropical water.

Back on the sand, Kat’s expression shifted, becoming almost childlike in the deepening blue light. She began to pace along the shoreline, her toes tracing shapes in the wet sand. As if pulled into a cherished memory, she started to speak.

“Years ago, when I was still quite young, I had the most vivid dream of my life.” Her voice took on a dreamy, far-off quality as she began to weave her tale:

“Miranda was born in a seaside village, the only child of a fisherman and his wife. From the moment she could walk, Miranda was drawn to the ocean. She would spend hours playing in the shallows, her laughter mingling with the crash of the waves.”

Kat paused, scooping up a handful of seashells. She let them trickle through her fingers as she continued.

“As Miranda grew older, she discovered a secret. Each morning, before the sun had fully risen, she would sneak down to a hidden cove and slip into the water, shedding her clothes on the shore. In those moments, immersed in the ocean’s embrace, Miranda felt a power stirring within her. The water seemed to whisper secrets, and the currents danced around her as if greeting an old friend.”

Kat began to sway, her arms flowing like the tides.

“Miranda kept her magic hidden, fearing that others would mock her or, worse, try to exploit her gift. She carried on with her life, helping her father with his fishing and her mother with the household chores. But always, the ocean called to her.”

“Years passed, and Miranda grew into a beautiful young woman. One summer, a terrible storm swept over the village. Fishing boats were tossed about like toys, and the waves threatened to swallow the homes along the shore. As the villagers huddled in fear, Miranda knew what she had to do.”

Kat mimed running, her feet kicking up sand.

“She raced to her secret cove, tearing off her clothes as she ran. She dove into the churning water, feeling the power surge through her veins. Miranda swam out to the heart of the storm, her body cutting through the waves like a knife. She raised her arms, and the wind and water responded, calming at her command.”

Kat stood still, her arms outstretched, face tilted to the sky.

“The storm dissipated, and the village was saved. Miranda slipped back to shore, unseen, and rejoined her family, her secret still safe. From that day on, whenever trouble stirred on the sea, the villagers would speak of a mysterious figure glimpsed among the waves, a woman with the power to tame the tides.”

Kat lowered her arms and turned to me, a soft smile on her lips. “They called her the Ocean’s Daughter, a name whispered with reverence and awe. And though no one ever knew for certain, Miranda carried the truth within her, a secret magic born of courage and sacrifice.”

The words settled into the darkness like sea foam dissolving on shore. For a moment, there was only the rhythm of waves and our shared breath, while her story seemed to hang suspended in the salt air between us, as real as the stars above.

“Dance with me,” she said softly, extending her hand.

“But there’s no music.”

She just smiled and pulled me close, one hand settling on my bare waist, our damp skin gliding together as she began to move us in a slow circle. Around us, the crowd was dispersing, but here in our little bubble of space, with waves lapping at our feet and starlight above, time seemed to pause again.

“Perfect first date,” I murmured against her shoulder. “Thank you.”

She laughed softly. “First date? This was a job interview, remember?”

“Oh god, you’re right!” I lifted my head to meet her eyes, grinning. “Well, good news: you’re hired.”

“I should hope so after I gave you a gazillion orgasms.”

“Well… I don’t think it was that many⁠—”

But before I could finish protesting, she was kissing me, slow and deep, tasting of sea spray and possibility. Our dance slowed, then stumbled, her gentle weight guiding me down until the warm water welcomed our bodies, legs tangling as the waves lapped around us.

Chapter 6

Paradise Cove

After a late morning start—courtesy of a night spent doing anything but sleeping in Kat’s van—we’d driven straight to the resort. Well, I assume we drove straight here; I’d dozed off in the passenger seat, blindfolded and cuffed again for… reasons I can’t quite explain. Now here we stood, at what was about to become her new home away from home.

The cabin door creaked open as I led the way inside. Sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floorboards, illuminating dust motes that danced in the humid air. Kat followed close behind me, her curious eyes taking in every detail of my modest dwelling.

“Welcome to my little sanctuary,” I said. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.” The familiar scent of home—a mixture of pine wood, old books, and the faint trace of coffee welcomed me back.

I watched her face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. The cabin was simple—just a living area, kitchenette, bedroom, and bath—but I’d made it my own over the past year. My sketches adorned the walls: the shoreline at dawn, residents laughing around the communal fire pit, a great blue heron I often saw in the evening.

“I love it,” she said, her smile genuine as she stepped further inside. “It’s so you, Jane.”

She moved through the space like she belonged there, barefoot on the old wooden floors. When her eyes landed on the coffee table, she broke into a delighted grin.

“Well, would you look at this! My girlfriend, the cover girl!” she exclaimed, holding up the issue of Titch Bits magazine with a grin, her thumb brushing across my photographed face with unexpected tenderness.

Heat rushed to my cheeks at her casual use of “girlfriend.” I’d never been anyone’s girlfriend before, and hearing it for the first time sent a pleasant flutter through my chest.

She plopped on the couch and began flipping through the pages while I stood for a moment, just watching her. The entire festival had felt like a dream, but now, somehow having this beautiful creature in my cabin felt even more surreal.

“Aw, no centerfold,” she pouted playfully, reaching the middle of the magazine. Her lower lip jutted out in mock disappointment.

“But I’m literally right here!” I said with a laugh, gesturing at my naked self.

Her eyes slowly traveled up from the magazine, taking their time as they traced over every inch of me. The playful pout transformed into something hungrier.

“Maybe you should stick to the articles,” I managed, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Oh, I intend to,” she said, her voice dropping to a tone that sent a warm shiver down my spine. “I want to know everything about the world famous Jane Cullen!”

“Hardly famous,” I said, rolling my eyes, but unable to stop smiling. The gentle crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she looked at me made me feel like I was the only superstar in her universe.

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus. “By the way, I sent Henry a text letting him know you’ll be staying with me while painting the murals.”

Kat’s brow furrowed slightly. “I thought you said the owner was Bill?”

“He is,” I said, settling into the armchair across from her. “But Bill put me in charge of operations, remember?”

“So who’s Henry then?” The magazine lay forgotten in her lap now, her full attention on me.

“When I took over and found that the resort’s finances were in shambles, I needed help. Henry… he put together a management team for me. We worked on the art show together, and he has an MBA and this huge professional network that’s been invaluable.”

Kat studied me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. It was only a few seconds but still, it felt like an eternity.

Finally she nodded, her eyes soft with understanding. “I get it,” she said simply, and suddenly her gaze went distant, like she was seeing something far beyond the cabin walls. She reached for my sketchbook on the coffee table and started to draw.

The pencil danced across the blank page, creating sweeping curves and graceful figures. I slid closer, transfixed. The drawing took shape beneath her hands: figures emerging from waves, their forms caught between human and water. Each stroke was precise, purposeful, as if she’d seen this exact image a thousand times before.

I held my breath, afraid the slightest sound might break whatever spell had taken hold of her.

When she finally set down the pencil, she stared at the drawing for a long moment. Then her eyes met mine.

“So,” she added softly. “What do you think?”

I leaned in closer, studying the sketch. It was both exactly what she’d described earlier and somehow more. The figures seemed to flow naturally from the water, their transformation captured in a way I’d never seen before. It was technically brilliant, but there was something else about it—something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“It’s…” I started, then stopped, searching for the right words. “It’s perfect. I’m amazed at how quickly you drew that!”

Kat shrugged, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. “Sometimes it just comes to me like that. When I can see it clearly in my mind, it’s almost like…” She trailed off, her fingers tracing one of the figures on the page.

“Like they’re already there, waiting to be drawn?” I asked.

For a moment, Kat just stared at me, her eyes wide with something that looked like recognition. Then a smile spread across her face—not her usual playful grin, but something deeper, more elemental.

“Exactly like that,” she whispered, and the words seemed to ripple through the air between us. She took my hand and guided it to one of the figures in the drawing. “See how the water moves through her? That’s how it feels when…” She caught herself, then squeezed my hand. “You understand, don’t you? About the water?”

And somehow, I did.

We sat there for a moment, my hand still under hers on the drawing, neither of us wanting to break the silence.

Kat sat up suddenly, her eyes bright with purpose. “I need to see this ugly building of yours,” she said, closing my sketchbook. “I need to really grok it, you know? Feel how the light moves around it, see how it sits in the landscape.”

I laughed. “Fair warning—when I say ugly, I mean truly, monumentally ugly. We’re talking cinder block catastrophe.”

“Perfect.” She was already standing, practically bouncing with energy. “The uglier the better. More room for transformation.”

We walked around the building twice, our bare feet silent on the manicured lawn. Kat didn’t say a word, but her eyes never stopped moving—tracking up the stark walls, lingering on the corners, studying the way shadows pooled beneath the shallow eaves. The noon sun did the architecture no favors, highlighting every crack and water stain in the cinder blocks.

“I need to feel the ground,” she announced suddenly. Before I could ask what she meant, she dropped forward into a handstand, her body forming a perfect vertical line in the lush grass. She made it look effortless, like gravity was more of a suggestion than a law. I watched, equal parts impressed and envious—the most athletic thing I’d managed lately was racing to my cabin to beat the rain.

The familiar clack-clacking of dollar-store flip-flops could only mean Ella and Bella were incoming. In my head, I narrated the scene like a nature documentary, not wanting to break whatever trance Kat was in: And here we observe the rare Florida twins in their natural habitat, today adorned with… wait, are those oranges duct-taped to their chests?!

They flew past us like they were being chased by hungry ghosts, their blonde curls streaming behind them, matching grins plastered across their faces as they giggled uncontrollably. The citrus additions to their anatomy bounced precariously with each step, secured with what looked like enough silver tape to make me wince thinking about its eventual removal.

Kat remained perfectly still in her naked handstand, as serene as a statue, while I watched the girls disappear around the bend of the building, their laughter and the staccato of their flip-flops fading into the midday quiet. After all these months, I still knew next to nothing about them. Who were their parents? Did they even have any? For all I knew, they lived in a treehouse somewhere, or maybe an undersea grotto, emerging only to terrorize the resort with their particular brand of chaos.

A flicker of movement caught my eye. Slowly, with impossible grace, Kat’s legs parted like petals opening to the sun. Time seemed to slow as she transformed the handstand into something else entirely—her body forming a perfect letter T with the kind of control that would make a master yogi proud.

The sun hung directly overhead, and I watched, mesmerized, as her body became a living blossom turned toward the light. There was something primal about it, something that reminded me of ancient stone circles and summer solstice rituals. The way she opened herself to the sky felt less like a yoga pose and more like communion—as if she were drawing the light into herself, becoming one with it.

I realized I was staring into the abyss—exactly like one isn’t supposed to at a nudist resort—when a familiar voice called my name.

“Jane! Jane Cullen, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

It was Betty Lou Pickles, and my first instinct was to run and hide.

She came barreling toward me, with an enormous quartz crystal perched on top of her hat. Just looking at it gave me a headache. I made a crack about it being a fire hazard, but she didn’t seem to notice as she zeroed in on me like a bedazzled scud missile.

“Jane Cullen, where have you been?!”

“Oh, uh… I’ve been super busy running the resort,” I muttered, but her attention had already shifted to whatever Kat was doing. Her eyes went wide, and she stood there, transfixed. I waited a beat, then decided to snap her out of it—the last thing we needed was a crowd forming and staring at Kat’s exposed undercarriage.

“Betty Lou, what did you want to tell me that’s so important?”

She blinked, finally tearing her gaze away from Kat. “It’s Shakti now, dear.”

“Um… Shakti Pickles?”

“Yes, dear. Namaste!” Her serene expression suddenly morphed into one of urgent concern as she remembered her mission. She jabbed a bejeweled finger into my chest. “There’s going to be a great storm!”

“Really? The forecast was clear this morning.”

“Not a thunderstorm, child!” Another poke. “A psychic storm!”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do? Call the psychic weather service?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Do? Oh, my dear, this isn’t about doing—it’s about being. The storm is coming, and it’s not just any storm. It’s a convergence of energies, a cosmic reckoning! The ley lines beneath us are already trembling—Can’t you feel it! If we don’t align the chakras of this place—yes, the entire island!—and cleanse the aura of every guest with sage and moonwater, the psychic fallout will be catastrophic. Guests will experience unexplained mood swings, insatiable cravings for kale, and—heaven forbid—Wi-Fi disruptions! Do you want that on your TripAdvisor reviews?!”

She leaned in closer, her substantial form loomed over me. “And for the love of Gaia, tell the chef to stop serving root vegetables after sundown. They’re grounding the energy flow. We need to elevate, not root!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Um, Miss Pickles… I have a resort to run. One that serves whatever vegetables the chef decides to cook, at whatever time they decide to cook them.” I gestured vaguely at the crystal perched on her head. “Maybe try adjusting your… antenna there if you’re picking up bad vibes from the potatoes.”

Her face burned red with anger. “You mock me now, but when the astral planes align—” Her eyes darkened like storm clouds as she raised her ringed finger from my chest to my face. “The universe has ways of dealing with non-believers, Jane Cullen.”

With that ominous pronouncement, she turned away. I stood there watching her make her way down the path, her movements reminding me of Baloo from The Jungle Book—if Baloo had been into crystals and cosmic vengeance. I wondered which of the gods I’d pissed off to deserve this fate.

“Hey, what’d I miss?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. Kat had materialized behind me, somehow already back on her feet and looking as if she’d just come back from a coffee run.

“Nothing,” I muttered. “Let’s go inside.”

I pushed open the heavy doors of the administrative building and Kat followed me inside. The antiquated HVAC system was doing its best to battle the Florida summer heat but definitely losing the war. I paused for a moment, letting my eyes slowly adjust to the relative darkness. The chaos of the makerspace began to take shape—beat up equipment, boxes full of long-forgotten contents, all covered with a layer of dirt and grime. I’d planned to give Kat the big tour, to recount how Henry and I, and the rest of The Exhibitionists, had spent countless hours here, putting together The Naked Truth nude art exhibit, but now I realized how boring that would sound to someone that wasn’t there. “Yo check out this Canon imagePROGRAF PRO-9100! This beauty can crank out one life-size portrait every two days!”

“Let’s see if there’s anyone upstairs,” I said to Kat.

The wooden stairs creaked under our feet as I led the way up. “Bill’s three adopted kids live up here. Well, lived. I mean, this one’s Romeo’s room.” I gestured to the first door. “He left for Costa Rica right around when I was getting settled here. He learned holistic medicine from Ray—Ray’s this amazing healer who helped my mom with her fibromyalgia, and now the four of them are living there.”

“Four?” Kat looked at me like she was trying to solve a math problem.

“Oh god, I’m telling this all wrong.” I laughed. “My dad’s the fourth. He’s there too.” I waved my hand vaguely in what I hoped was the direction of Central America. At this rate, I’d somehow end up explaining how my third-grade teacher’s cousin’s dog also moved to Costa Rica.

“Let’s see if Quinn’s in her room.” I walked a few steps down the hall and knocked on the next door. Silence. “Nope, guess not!”

I led Kat to the last door—an old submarine hatch that had always made me smile. I rapped my knuckles against the metal, causing reverberations to echo down the hallway. “Yo Adam! You in there?”

Silence. I tried the handle. Not locked. “Maybe he’ll be back soon,” I said and pulled open the heavy door.

The familiar smell hit me first—a mix of ozone, solder, and something indefinably Adam. Light streamed through the windows, catching dust motes dancing above mountains of circuitry and mysterious gadgets. A half-assembled robot arm dangled from the ceiling like some kind of mechanical stalactite. The walls had long since vanished behind layers of diagrams, their edges curling and overlapping like technological wallpaper.

The steampunk goggles I once thought would change the world sat casually behind one of his monitors, tossed aside like a once-favorite toy. I picked them up, sliding them over my eyes.

Kat quirked an eyebrow at me. “Project Julia,” I explained. “When I first met Adam, he convinced me he’d created this revolutionary brain-computer interface—tech straight out of a sci-fi novel… With one teensy problem: it only worked for him. Long story short, I volunteered to have my brain waves recorded a few times a week. He said he was training it, like those AI models everyone’s obsessed with now…”

I pulled the goggles off, turning them over in my hands. “That’s actually what led me to moving here, to Paradise Cove—to getting my cabin and eventually running the place.”

“Of course, in the end, none of it worked,” I said softly, looking down at the goggles. “Adam got caught up in his own story.”

“And you believed him?”

“I did. Call me naive I guess.”

The metallic groan of the submarine door interrupted us. “Jane! A most fortuitous visit! And who is this new potential test subject for my latest innovations?”

“Hey Adam, it’s been a while! This is my girlfriend Kat. She’s going to be painting murals on this beast of a building.”

Adam noticed the headset in my hands and said, “Ah, Julia!” He wove through the chaos of his lab toward a metal cabinet, talking over his shoulder as he went. “Since you two are in love, you’d be perfect specimens for my latest experiment: Project Juno!”

He emerged from the cabinet holding what looked like two chrome colanders connected by a rainbow tangle of wires. “The breakthrough came when I realized—” he paused for dramatic effect, holding the devices up like sacred artifacts, “—that love creates quantum entanglement in the visual cortex!”

“Um, Adam. Remember how Julia ended up? Like, not well… Let’s not do this again, okay?”

“No, no, no!” His eyes lit up with a manic gleam. “This is completely different! Julia was trying to interface with a computer. This is pure human-to-human connection! I’ve tested it extensively. Well, technically only on myself… using mirrors… but the principle is sound!”

“What exactly does it do?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“Random visual sharing! Like postcards from each other’s eyes. Completely unpredictable, completely magical!” He gestured with the colanders, making the wires dance. “One moment you’re seeing through your own eyes, the next—snap!—you’re seeing yourself through your lover’s gaze.”

Kat shrugged, a hint of amusement playing at her lips. “Well I’ve got nothing to hide…”

My stomach did that familiar flip—the one that always came right before I did something that was probably stupid but definitely interesting. “Oh what the hell. Let’s do it!”

Adam arranged us in two chairs facing each other, carefully positioning the colanders on our heads. The metal was cool against my scalp, and I could hear Kat trying not to laugh.

“Alright, initiating in three, two—” Adam fiddled with something behind us, mumbling under his breath, “oh, I  should probably mention the minor side effect of permanent neural binding—one⁠—”

“Wait, what?!”

And then it happened. Like a Polaroid developing in my mind, I saw myself. Not a fleeting glimpse, but a clear, permanent image I could access anytime—me, sitting there in the dim afternoon light, the absurd colander perched on my head. But more than just seeing myself, I felt the depth of emotion behind Kat’s gaze. Through her eyes, I was luminous. Perfect.

The sensation of the chair beneath me snapped back into focus as I returned to my own perspective. I looked at Kat, who was touching her temple with a look of wonder.

“Well?” Adam bounced on his toes, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“It worked! It actually worked!” I said, still processing the image burned into my memory. “Like a mental photograph I can look at whenever I want!”

“Of course it works!” Adam beamed. “And you’ll get more snapshots randomly. Could be minutes apart, could be years. The quantum entanglement is unpredictable but permanent!”

I barely heard him. I was too busy studying Kat’s face, wondering what other moments I’d get to see through her eyes.

The days flowed like watercolors. Kat transformed the cinder block walls with her brushes while I mixed paints and fetched ladders, watching her create mystical worlds on drab concrete. My hands were perpetually stained with one shade or another—today cerulean blue from a clumsy moment with the roller, tomorrow burnt sienna from steadying a dripping brush.

At night, we’d curl up in my bed for storytime. She alternated between Alice’s adventures down the rabbit hole and Anaïs Nin’s sultry Parisian nights. I never knew which wonderland we’d visit, but I was learning to love the mystery.

Chapter 7

Come In, Have a Seat

The chirp of my phone jolted me awake. I blinked in the darkness, momentarily disoriented. The red numbers on my bedside clock glowed accusingly: 4:03 AM.

Beside me, Kat’s breathing remained deep and steady, her nude silhouette a gentle curve beneath the thin summer sheet. I carefully reached for my phone, trying not to disturb her. The screen’s harsh light made me squint as I read the message.

From Henry: Need to see you ASAP. My place. Critical.

My stomach tightened. Henry wasn’t one for melodrama or unnecessary urgency. If he said it was critical, especially at this hour, something was seriously wrong.

I slipped out of bed, Kat stirring slightly before settling back into sleep. The wooden floor was cool beneath my bare feet as I padded out the door naked as a jaybird.

The dew-dampened path led me to my golf cart—to my surprise, a luna moth rested on the seat, its pale green wings spread like a miniature ghost in the moonlight. I paused, admiring the delicate visitor before gently blowing a soft stream of air in its direction. It fluttered up, briefly illuminated in the starlight before disappearing into the darkness.

I slid behind the wheel, and the cart’s electric motor hummed to life, its sound an intrusion in the sleeping resort. I navigated the familiar paths, headlights illuminating the manicured grounds in ghostly relief. The island slumbered around me—cabins dark, the main buildings silent sentinels against the star-scattered sky. A chorus of cicadas provided a constant soundtrack, their buzzing undulating in the humid August air.

Henry’s cabin, larger and more elaborate than mine, appeared around the bend. Unlike the darkness I’d left behind, light spilled from every window, as if he’d warded off the night by illuminating every corner. That, more than anything, set my heart racing. Henry, ever the pragmatist, wasn’t one to waste electricity.

The door swung open before I could knock. Henry stood framed in the doorway, a tumbler of amber liquid clutched in one hand. His normally immaculate appearance had abandoned him—hair disheveled, eyes rimmed red, his naked body somehow looking more vulnerable than I’d ever seen it at the resort.

“Jane! Come in, have a seat,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward his living room with the glass.

“Geez, you look like shit,” I blurted out, stepping past him.

He shut the door and shook his head wearily. “It’s been a rough night.”

The living room was an extension of Henry himself—meticulously organized even in crisis, with expensive furniture arranged for both aesthetics and function. He waved me toward one of the oversized recliners that dominated the space.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, raising his glass slightly.

“Jesus, Henry, the sun isn’t even up yet!” I settled into the recliner, which practically swallowed my petite frame. My feet barely touched the floor, making me feel even younger than I already was next to Henry’s weathered gravitas.

He grunted something unintelligible and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with a bottle of strawberry milk. He handed it to me without comment before refilling his own glass and lowering himself into the chair opposite mine.

“How old are you now? Sixteen?” He asked with that infuriating half-smirk of his, eyes twinkling with mischief even through the exhaustion. He took a long swallow of his drink, the ice cubes clinking against the glass as he watched my reaction over the rim.

“I’m nineteen, Henry, come on, you know this,” I said flatly, holding his gaze as I cracked open the strawberry milk with a decisive twist. I took a long, deliberate swig. It was delicious.

“Right, right,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair with practiced nonchalance. “When I was your age, I was already three years into a spectacular downward spiral of bad decisions and great stories.” He swirled the brown liquid in his glass. “Fake IDs, dive bars, and women who were definitely smarter than me. But that’s what being young is for—making terrible choices while your liver can still handle the abuse.”

“Henry, I come from an Irish family, remember? When I used to visit my Granny O’Brien she used to make us Baileys hot chocolate with whipped cream… And if you think alcohol makes for great stories, you should hear what Kat did to me last night with nothing but her tongue and an ice cube.”

My words caught him mid-gulp, sending whiskey spraying as he coughed and sputtered. He set the empty glass on the side table with a definitive clink. “Well, shit. I really set myself up for that one.”

“Henry,” I said, my patience wearing thin, “why did you call me here at this ungodly hour?”

He settled into the chair across from me, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He ran a hand through his short snow-white hair, the gesture somehow transforming him—from the disheveled, slightly drunk man who’d greeted me at the door to the businessman I knew. But his eyes, still bloodshot and weary, betrayed him. He seemed to be searching for words, his mouth opening and closing once before he finally spoke.

“When Bill left and you took over,” he began slowly, “you discovered he’d been doing a terrible job with the finances.”

I nodded. This wasn’t news—it was the reason Henry had stepped in to begin with.

“My team got that consolidation loan, restructured operations. Things have been better—much better, in fact.” He paused, rubbing his palm across his forehead. “But the bank… they found out what was going on. Not the improved finances, not the rising bookings or the sustainable business model we’ve built. No, what they found out was—” he made air quotes with his fingers, “A high school kid is running the resort.”

I became acutely aware of the strawberry milk mustache cooling on my upper lip. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, suddenly feeling exactly like what they’d described—a child playing at being grown-up, drowning in an oversized chair. Words failed me completely.

“At first they wanted to pull the plug,” Henry continued, his voice flat. “It was messy. Lawyers—teams of lawyers—got involved. In the end, I feel like I won the battle but lost the war.” He gestured vaguely. “I was on the phone all night, one meeting after another. Long story short: Bill was forced to sell his share. The rest is just dominoes falling: He put you in charge, you put me in charge, et cetera.” His eyes met mine, grief and exhaustion mingling in them. “I’m sorry, Jane, but it’s over.”

The room seemed to tilt around me, furniture and walls receding as if I were falling down a well. It felt like my entire world was crashing down in slow motion, each second stretching into a small eternity of loss.

“But the mural’s barely begun!” The words burst from me, desperate and nonsensical even to my own ears. Of all the consequences, this was hardly the most significant, yet it was the first concrete loss my mind could grasp.

Henry’s expression softened. He reached across the space between us, placing his hand briefly on my knee. “I know. I know this is a lot.”

“What about my cabin?” The words barely made it past the tightness in my throat.

“You’ll have two weeks to vacate,” he said gently. “The new owners want to bring in their own staff.”

I swallowed hard. My cabin—my first real home that felt truly mine. And without a job or a place to stay…

“And Bill?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Henry shook his head. “He’s not coming back, Jane. He met a woman in Paris.” His voice softened. “Marguerite. Art dealer. Fifteen years younger but twice as sharp. You’d like her.” He smiled faintly. “Bill’s fit, happy… building a new life there. Last we spoke, he was taking French cooking classes and had joined some naturist community in the south.”

The bottle of strawberry milk sat forgotten in my hand, warming in my tightening grip. Paradise lost, indeed—and me, cast out along with everyone else.

Part Two

North by Northeast

Chapter 8

Picking Up the Pieces

The cabin door creaked as I pushed it open. Inside, a single lamp cast honeyed light across the living room, where Kat lounged on the couch, her bare skin glowing in the warm illumination. She tossed the issue of Titch Bits aside and looked up at me with those impossibly dark eyes of hers.

“Your face looks like someone just told you clothing’s become mandatory at Paradise Cove,” she said.

I chuckled despite the hollow ache in my chest. She rose from the couch and folded me into her arms.

“What’s wrong?” she murmured in my ear.

I leaned into her warmth, trying to find the right words. “It was always temporary,” I said at last. “From the start, my title was ‘Interim Executive Director.’ I guess… I just didn’t expect it to end so soon.”

Kat took my hand and led me to the couch. We sat and I placed my head on her shoulder, shutting my eyes against the reality of it all. “We have to leave, Kat—I’ve lost my job… my cabin…”

For a long while we just sat together in the quiet, the soft whir of the ceiling fan and distant chorus of cicadas filling the night air. Kat’s thumb slowly traced circles in my palm, a gentle reminder that I wasn’t alone in this. “Home is wherever we make it, babe. As long as we’re together, that’s all that matters.”

I turned my face into her neck, breathing in her familiar scent. “Together,” I echoed softly.

Kat reached for the discarded magazine. “What about this? You must have made some contacts here, right?”

I sat up and took it from her, thumbing through the glossy pages. “God… Cora Waverly from New York City…” I shook my head, remembering how embarrassed I’d been the first time we met. “You know, if someone had told me a year ago I’d be posing naked for a magazine, I would’ve said they were crazy. But man was she persuasive—” The magazine slipped from my fingers and I clapped both hands over my mouth, my eyes going wide.

“What?” Kat asked with a startled laugh, clearly caught between amusement and concern.

“Oh my god, you just reminded me of the other pushy New York socialite in my life—Evelyn Reynolds!”

Kat’s brow furrowed as she tried to place the name. “The rich photographer from the ’80s you told me about?”

“Yes, exactly!” My heart was starting to race. “Right before she left she told me to come up and visit—that she had some business she wanted to discuss.”

I scrambled for my laptop, nearly tripping over my own feet in my hurry. The keys clicked softly as I typed:

Evelyn,

If your invitation still stands, we’ll be heading your way very soon. Some unexpected changes here have freed up my schedule rather dramatically.

Best,

Jane

I hadn’t even closed my laptop when the reply pinged back:

Fucking fantastic. I thought I was going to die of old age waiting for you. Here’s my address:

9560 Midline Rd

Freeville, New York

Don’t dawdle—I’m not getting any younger.

- ER

“Freeville?” Kat peered over my shoulder as I pulled up Google Maps. “Where the hell’s that?”

“Looks like…” I zoomed out on the map. “Southeast of Ithaca, I guess?”

Kat’s face fell. “Ithaca? I thought you said New York City?” She flopped back dramatically on the couch. “And here I was already planning my fabulous new life as a Greenwich Village artist.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry to crush your dreams of becoming a starving artist in the big city.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I’m already a starving artist. I was hoping to upgrade to ‘struggling artist’ at least.” She nudged my shoulder with her foot. “So, when do we leave?”

“As soon as my brain starts working again. Right now…” I stifled a yawn. “Right now I need sleep.”

The silk of my sleep mask pressed cool against my closed eyes as I lay sprawled across Kat, her fingertips tracing lazy patterns on my bare skin. The gentle touch was making me drowsy again, though we’d done anything but sleep earlier. I hummed contentedly, enjoying the weight of the morning air and Kat’s warm skin against mine.

A soft knock knock, and suddenly a snapshot of Quinn standing nervously in our doorway flashed into my mind.

“Jesus!” I jerked upright, yanking off my mask. “What the hell? Don’t you knock?”

“I… did knock?” She took a hesitant step back, looking between us with confusion.

Kat sat up and smiled at Quinn. “What brings you to our bedroom this lovely morning?”

“Henry says you’re leaving.” Tears were welling up in her eyes. “And now Adam just texted that he’s going too! Please, I don’t care where you’re going—just take me with you. I don’t want to stay here alone.”

“Quinn, we barely have enough money for gas,” I said, thinking about the cozy nights I had already envisioned in The Duchess. “And the van’s tiny⁠—”

Kat shot me a look that spoke volumes.

“Of course you can come,” she said to Quinn, then to me she added, “We’ll make it work. I’ve driven up I-95 a few times. There’s lots of cheap motels. Besides—when it comes to road trips, the more the merrier, right?”

Quinn squealed and launched herself at us for a hug, nearly knocking us both over. “Thank you thank you thank you! I’ll go pack right now!” She darted toward the door, then spun back. “Wait—when are we going?”

“Right now, Quinn. Go pack whatever you can’t live without. Time to see what life’s like outside of Paradise Cove.”

We loaded the last of our suitcases into the van under a flawless blue sky. The morning sun had already heated the metal to an uncomfortable temperature, and I was grateful when we finally climbed inside. Kat took her place in the driver’s seat, Quinn behind her in the middle seat, and me in the passenger seat—our unspoken arrangement for the entire journey.

Kat turned the key. The engine coughed to life, then settled into its familiar rumble. She sat there, waiting, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.

Finally she looked at Quinn through the rear view mirror. “Put on your damn seat belt already!”

“What?” Quinn’s voice held genuine confusion. “I have to wear clothes and a seat belt?”

Kat’s eyes met mine, and I could see her already questioning her generous offer from earlier. She took a deep breath. “I really don’t care if you wear clothes, Quinn, but the seat belt is non-negotiable.”

An idea hit me and I quickly released my seat belt. “Race ya!” I called, already yanking my shirt over my head. We scrambled out of our clothes, and Kat gave an amused head shake as we finally left Paradise Cove.

The van’s engine groaned as Kat coaxed her up to speed. I watched the speedometer needle creep past sixty with a growing sense of triumph.

“Ah, freedom… You can practically feel the open road calling⁠—”

We rounded a bend and a sea of red brake lights stretched endlessly before us. Kat eased off the gas with a knowing smile.

“Welcome to I-95.” She gestured at the traffic ahead. “This thing runs all the way up to Canada. Though once we get to D. C. we’ll have to hop onto some other highways to get to Ithaca⁠—”

“To get to where?” Quinn leaned forward between our seats.

“Ithaca, New York,” Kat repeated patiently. “We’re heading to see Evelyn Reynolds.”

“Right, right.” She nodded sagely, clearly having no idea what Kat was talking about.

“So… how long is this trip actually going to take?” I asked.

Kat glanced at the endless line of stopped cars ahead of us. “At this rate? Until the sun explodes.” She sighed. “But normally? About three days.”

I reclined my seat and pulled the sleep mask over my eyes, letting the gentle sway of the van and the murmur of their voices wash over me. Quinn was asking Kat about where she grew up, and Kat’s low, patient answers began to blur together. After being up since four AM, sleep came easily.

A deafening crack of thunder jolted me awake. Quinn’s “HOLY SHIT!” from the backseat was nearly as loud.

Another thunderclap, and suddenly the sky opened up. The rain hit like a solid wall of water, drumming against the metal roof with such fury I could barely hear Kat muttering, “Jesus Christ, I don’t need a van—I need a fucking ark!”

“What the hell!” I yanked off my sleep mask. “I checked the weather app before we left—it didn’t say anything about afternoon storms today!”

The van lurched sideways as her tires lost their grip, and Quinn and I both screamed. Kat’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel as she fought to keep us straight.

“We gotta get off this highway. Now.”

Through the chaos of water and windshield wipers, I caught a glimpse of an exit sign. Kat must have seen it too—she was already moving us over.

“Coosawhatchie, South Carolina,” she read as we passed by it, the words barely visible through the deluge.

We crawled along the surface road, Kat hunched forward, peering through the rain as the windows fogged up. The town seemed to consist mostly of forested land. On and on we went, until finally⁠—

“There!” Kat pointed at a flickering motel sign and turned into the lot.

The moment she switched off the engine, the rain stopped. Just… stopped. Like someone had turned off a tap.

We sat in stunned silence, staring out the windows at the dark gray clouds.

“Well.” Kat drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I guess the storm’s over. It’s almost 5 o’clock. Should we stop here for the night or push on further?”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a house,” Quinn announced, already reaching for the door handle. “Let’s see what kind of food this place has!”

“Quinn!” Kat and I shouted in unison. “Put your damn dress on before someone calls the cops!”

Chapter 9

Tattooed Gentleman Aesthetic

We checked in quickly, dodging fat drops that fell lazily from the motel’s overflowing gutters. The August heat was already turning the parking lot into a steam bath. Quinn practically bounced with excitement when she spotted the attached diner with its neon “EATS” sign flickering in the window.

“Oh my god, a real roadside diner!” she squealed, as if we’d stumbled upon a hidden gem instead of a greasy spoon with laminated menus. “I’ve only seen these in old movies!”

The motel restaurant wasn’t exactly five-star dining, but at that point I would’ve eaten pretty much anything that wasn’t wrapped in cellophane.

Inside, the hostess took one look at our bedraggled trio and quickly ushered us to a booth. Kat practically collapsed into her seat. I slid in next to her, close enough that our thighs pressed together. Quinn, somehow still bouncing with energy despite the endless road trip, immediately started flipping through the menu like she was studying for an exam.

Kat barely looked at the menu before tossing it aside. “I don’t know about you but I’m having a caesar salad,” she announced, rubbing her temples.

“Same.” I threw my menu on top of hers. “Something about traveling makes me crave veggies.”

Quinn made a face like we’d suggested eating dirt. “Ugh, I need real food.”

“So get a burger,” I said, pointing to the extensive list on her menu. “They have like fifteen different kinds.”

“Yeah but I’m a vegetarian.”

“That’s fine, they have veggie burgers too.”

The look of pure disgust on Quinn’s face would have been comical if Kat hadn’t been radiating waves of exhausted impatience beside me.

“Just get the damn chili already,” Kat snapped, clearly at her limit. I gently squeezed her leg under the table, a silent reminder to play nice.

Quinn’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Chili… that’s the hot soup thing with beans?”

“You’ve never had chili?” Kat asked, her expression shifting from exhaustion to disbelief. Coming from New Mexico, she probably considered this culinary ignorance a personal affront.

Quinn shook her head with such innocent bewilderment that I had to bite back a laugh. Sometimes I had to remind myself that she’d grown up on a nudist tropical island.

“Trust me, you’ll love it,” Kat said, her tone softening slightly.

Our waitress appeared, beaming like we were the highlight of her day. “Y’all talking about our world famous three-bean chili? Won best vegetarian chili in the county four years running!”

“We’ll take two caesar salads and a bowl of your award-winning chili for the chili virgin over here,” Kat said. The waitress’s pen paused over her pad. “You sure you don’t want to try it too, hon? Secret family recipe and all.”

“No thanks, I’ll pass. Honestly, I’m more of a chili verde girl. But regardless, after all the gas station garbage I ate today, I just want something that grew out of fertile soil.”

As the waitress left, Quinn tilted her head and asked, “I still don’t understand how you two fell in love so quickly. Didn’t you just meet a couple of weeks ago?”

“It’s because we’re water brothers,” Kat said simply.

Quinn’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Brothers? But you’re girls?” She turned to me, genuinely concerned. “Jane, you never told me you had siblings…”

“I don’t—” I started, but Kat was already talking over me, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten in her enthusiasm for one of her favorite topics.

“Water brothers—from Stranger in a Strange Land,” she explained. “You never read it?”

“Someone told me it was about religion.”

Kat’s eye roll was practically audible. “Let me give you the super-condensed version,” she said. “The main character, Valentine Michael Smith, is a human born on Mars and raised by Martians.”

Quinn made a face. “But there are no Martians.”

“Yes, Quinn,” Kat said with exaggerated patience, “but it’s an old novel and back then people thought there were. You can call them Zebs from Zebulon if it makes you feel better!”

“Oh, okay.”

The waitress arrived just then with our food, and I watched with amusement as Quinn’s philosophical questions about Martians were immediately forgotten in favor of investigating her first-ever bowl of chili. She lifted a spoonful to her nose, sniffing it cautiously like a suspicious cat.

The moment the spoon touched her lips, though, her eyes went wide with delight. “Oh my god,” she mumbled around the mouthful, “this is amazing!” She took another spoonful, practically bouncing in her seat. “This. Is. AMAZING! The beans! The spices! The… the… what’s that smoky taste?”

Kat leaned forward and inhaled the steam rising from Quinn’s bowl. “Smells like chipotle peppers,” she said, the corner of her mouth twitching up. “But I’d have to taste it to be sure.”

I exchanged an amused glance with Kat. It was nice being out in the real world for a change.

Kat swallowed a bite of her salad and picked up where she’d left off. “So the government sends a rocket to Mars and brings Michael Smith home. He’s eighteen⁠—”

“Like me!” Quinn interrupted, barely looking up from her bowl.

“Yes, he’s a child, like you.” Kat’s tone was pointed, but fond. “Symbolically he’s like a newborn. Can’t walk, can’t do anything. But bit by bit, he learns to be human.”

Quinn paused mid-bite. “I thought you said he was human?”

I could practically hear Kat counting to ten in her head. “He’s a human raised by Martians. In other words, he’s the ultimate outsider.”

Seeing Kat’s mounting frustration, I jumped in. “The Martians in the book don’t die. Well, to be more specific, when they ‘die’ it’s a transformation.”

Quinn’s face lit up with understanding. “Like how a caterpillar transforms into a butterfly?”

Kat’s hand came down on the table with enough force to make our water glasses jump. “Yes!” The excitement in her voice drew curious looks from nearby diners. “Now you’re getting it! When a caterpillar transforms into a chrysalis, one can imagine that it might mourn its ‘death’ as a caterpillar. But as we know, it’s just the beginning of their transformation, not the end.”

I watched Quinn scrape her spoon around the edges of her bowl, determined not to waste a single bean.

Kat continued. “And like any good outsider story, he teaches the locals—that’s us—a lesson or two.”

“Like what?” Her words were slightly muffled by her mouthful of chili, but her eyes were bright with understanding.

“Well, for one thing,” Kat’s grin widened, “he becomes a nudist.”

Quinn’s spoon clattered against her bowl. “Oh! Why didn’t anyone tell me this was a nudist story?”

“So long story short, Michael basically asks questions like ‘Why do people believe what they do?’” Kat explained, absently adding a dash of chipotle sauce to Quinn’s nearly-empty bowl. “Like the nudism thing. A lot of people think it’s wrong to walk around naked in front of strangers. But you clearly don’t. Why not? And besides, why do we even care what other people think?”

“You’re starting to sound like Ray,” Quinn said, and I felt a sudden pang at the mention of the old healer and philosopher. I wondered what he would make of Kat—probably see right through her tough exterior to the gentle soul beneath.

Kat sat up straighter. “Sounds like my kind of person. You know what my mom always said? ‘All the great teachers are climbing the same mountain, just from different sides.’”

I smiled, remembering how Ray had helped me question everything I thought I knew about myself. His words about creating rather than finding yourself had changed my life. And here was Kat, unknowingly echoing those same profound truths.

Kat’s expression softened as she looked at me, and I could see her earlier road-weariness melting away. “The Martian concept of water brotherhood is deeply rooted in shared trust, intimacy, and a profound sense of connection that goes beyond human societal norms. In the novel, those who become water brothers embrace a form of love that is unconditional, boundless, and communal. They share everything—physical, emotional, and spiritual—without jealousy or possessiveness. So within Michael’s growing group, love is not just present; it’s fundamental to their way of life.”

“So can I be water brothers with you guys?”

“Absolutely not.”

Quinn slumped back in the vinyl booth, her lips pursed into a pout. “Why not?”

“Becoming a water brother isn’t about trying to gain entry to some exclusive club. It’s not about wanting to belong—it’s about already belonging, about recognizing a truth that’s already there. It’s akin to getting married, but more so,” Kat said sharply. “Do you want to marry me, Quinn?”

Quinn’s eyes dropped to the tabletop, but I could see the hurt flickering across her face. Before any of us could say another word, a shadow fell across our table.

“Evening, ladies.”

I looked up to see a young man standing there, all calculated nonchalance. Everything about him screamed “I spend more time on my appearance than you do.” His beard was trimmed with architectural precision, the edges so sharp they could probably cut glass. A waxed mustache curled slightly at the ends, like he’d stepped out of some hipster catalog. His shoes—who wears polished leather oxfords to a diner in Coosawhatchie, South Carolina? —gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.

He flashed a smile at Quinn, revealing teeth that had definitely seen professional whitening. “I’m Michael Smith,” he said, with a wink and a nod that made his perfectly coiffed hair barely move—probably held in place by some artisanal pomade that cost more than our entire meal.

Quinn’s eyes lit up. “Oh! It must be a sign!” She slid toward the edge of the booth, suddenly all smiles.

Kat and I shared a look. This guy had obviously been eavesdropping on our conversation.

His eyes flicked to Quinn’s fidgeting hands as she tugged at the collar of her dress for the hundredth time that evening. “You look uncomfortable in that dress,” he said with a vague gesture. One tattooed forearm was visible where he’d carefully rolled up his fitted button-down sleeve. “Why don’t you come to my room and I’ll help you out of it?”

“Don’t,” Kat muttered.

“He’s clearly a douchebag,” I added under my breath.

Quinn stood up, grabbing her purse with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Well, Michael,” she said, emphasizing the name with a smirk that told me she wasn’t buying his act for a second, “I’d love to.”

She gave us a little wave and a self-satisfied smile before following him out, the scent of his sandalwood cologne lingering behind them.

I stabbed my salad a little too aggressively. “Michael Smith my ass. My money’s on Coop or Becket… or maybe Jax from Jacksonville.”

“Forget them,” Kat said softly, her shoulder brushing mine. “How does a long, hot shower sound?”

I’d been lying awake, staring at the ceiling, trying not to imagine worst-case scenarios. Earlier, Kat and I had stumbled into the room, giddy at the prospect of some quality alone time after being trapped in the van all day. But Kat had noticed my obvious distraction, and the water was tepid at best, so we agreed to cut it short.

The door swung open around midnight, letting in a slice of bluish LED lighting from the parking lot.

I leapt out of bed. “Quinn where were you? I was worried sick about you!”

“Me? I’m fine!” Her voice was bright, almost giddy. “I had a great night!” She  immediately started stripping down for bed, completely unfazed by my concern.

“You know, you shouldn’t have sex with people you don’t know!” The words burst out before I could stop them. Kat made a small noise that might have been a snort. She knew exactly how many minutes had passed between our first meeting and our first… kiss.

“Thanks, mom,” Quinn’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “but I didn’t sleep with him.”

I sniffed the air reflexively, searching for any telltale signs of deception. Not my proudest moment. “No? So where’ve you been all this time?”

“I went up to Vincent’s room⁠—”

“Vincent?”

“The tattooed gentleman who escorted me earlier, remember?”

“Oh right.”

“So we went to his room, and we had a long conversation while he gave me a great massage. I told him it was nice being on the receiving end for once, but when he heard I was a professional massage therapist he begged me to give him one.” She sighed. “Me and my big mouth!”

“And then what?”

“Nothing. I was rubbing his back and he fell asleep.”

I raised an eyebrow. Clearly that didn’t explain all the hours she was missing.

“Then I went back to the restaurant and had another bowl of chili.”

“Well good luck sleeping tonight.”

“Jane, listen. I met this guy there⁠—”

“Another one?!”

“Will you shut up for a minute!” The edge in Quinn’s voice caught me off guard. “I met this guy, and we got to talking about nudism and all that, and he told me his uncle is selling a thousand acres in Kentucky for only a hundred bucks an acre. But there’s a catch: He’s only interested in selling it to other nudists. Turn it into a naturist park, you know?”

I stood there in the dark, trying to process this pivot from potential sexual assault to real estate development.

The sound of Quinn rummaging through her purse filled the silence. “I’ve got his contact information right here.” She pulled out a business card. “Joseph T. Harrington.”

“Quinn…” I kept my voice gentle. “We don’t have $100K to buy land in Kentucky. And just think, that’s just the starting price. Tack on legal fees, property taxes, permits. It’s just one cost after another…”

“No, you’re right.” Her voice had gone small. “I thought maybe we could get a bank loan or something, but you’re right. It’s stupid.” I heard the business card hit the bottom of her purse, followed by the creak of springs as she threw herself onto her bed.

Chapter 10

Night Swimming

The morning had started well enough, all things considered. I’d woken up with Kat spooning me, and despite how things ended the night before Quinn woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Kat made it abundantly clear we needed to make good time today. The plan was to push through and get at least to Virginia. So we started by returning to the motel’s diner for a quick breakfast: yogurt parfaits for Kat and me, chili for Quinn despite our pleas to be reasonable.

We’d barely made it back on the highway when Quinn piped up from the backseat. “Don’t people play games on road trips? Like ‘I Spy’ or something?”

“I swear to god I’ll murder you myself,” Kat said, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, grinning. “Didn’t you tell me you like to listen to serial killer podcasts while driving?”

Kat’s face lit up. “Now you’re talking. Hey Quinn, have you ever heard of the show My Favorite Murder?”

“No?” Quinn shifted in the backseat. “I’m not even sure what a podcast is.”

“It’s like a radio show,” Kat explained. “This one just happens to be about serial killers.” She glanced at me. “Grab my iPod and search for the Carl Panzram episode, will ya?”

I dug through her center console, past crumpled receipts and half-empty chapsticks, until I found the ancient relic.

As I scrolled through her playlist, Quinn’s voice got smaller. “This is punishment for last night, isn’t it?”

“Not at all!” Kat adjusted her rearview mirror until she could see Quinn’s face. “Think of this as higher education. Trust me, after this, you’ll never want to wander off with strange men again.”

I pressed play before Quinn could protest. Kat hummed along to the opening theme music like it was a lullaby, while I settled in to watch karma unfold in the form of true crime storytelling.

Five episodes and countless grisly crimes later, I glanced back at Quinn. She was in a seated fetal position, chin resting on her knees as she methodically chewed her thumbnail.

“Hey Quinn,” Kat called out as she pulled The Duchess into a truck stop. “Why don’t you and Jane get dressed and grab some lunch while I fill up? I’ll meet you inside shortly.”

Quinn shook her head weakly. “I don’t think I can eat.”

“But you should,” Kat said. “It’s a long time till supper.” She hopped out to start pumping gas.

Quinn and I quickly got dressed and headed inside. The flickering fluorescent lights didn’t do her complexion any favors—at least until her eyes landed on the menu board.

“Oh, they have chili!”

“Gas station chili, Quinn? Are you actively trying to kill yourself?”

“But Jane, this is FOUR bean vegetarian chili!” Quinn pointed excitedly at the menu board. “It’s got to be even better than the three bean kind!”

I stared at her for a moment. “Whatever. It’s your funeral.”

We’d just sat at a table when Kat walked in, keys jingling in her hand. She took one look at Quinn and stopped dead in her tracks.

“I thought you said you couldn’t eat?”

Quinn just grunted, her gaze never leaving her bowl.

“It has four kinds of beans,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

Kat’s expression was a perfect mix of horror and resignation as she slid into the seat next to me. I pointed to the second ice coffee on the table. “Here, I got you one too. Seemed like the safest option on the menu.”

Quinn finally looked up from her bowl and let out a glorious belch.

As we climbed back in and started to undress, I asked if we could switch to the Lore podcast, which I’d noticed on the iPod.

Quinn’s response was a simple, “Anything else. Please.” 

“You’ll love it,” Kat said, sliding the keys in the ignition. “It’s all about folklore and weird history. Like, did you know some cultures used to bury—well, you know what? I don’t want to spoil anything…”

The afternoon melted away like the ice in our cups. Aaron Mahnke’s voice wove dark tales through our speakers while I watched the endless parade of pine trees and billboards blur past my window. Every now and then, a passing trucker would catch a glimpse of our clothing-optional arrangement and announce their discovery with a cheerful blast of their air horn. I’d just smile and wave—after all, we were giving them a story to tell at their next rest stop.

A sudden shudder ran through the van, followed by an ominous grinding noise. A cloud of smoke started billowing from under the hood.

“We’re all gonna die!” Quinn cried out in a panic.

Kat was already pulling onto the shoulder. The van gave one final violent shake before going completely still. “It’s fine,” she muttered, but she didn’t sound very convincing.

“Stay put,” she said before getting out and popping the hood. Steam hissed into the humid afternoon air while she poked around the engine. After a few minutes, she slammed it shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, wiping her greasy hands on her shorts.

“As I suspected, it’s a coolant leak. The radiator hose is blown.”

“Can you fix it?” I asked.

“It’s easy to fix, but we need a new hose.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, frowning.

I checked my phone. “It’s just past six. Want me to call a tow truck and we can call it a night?”

Kat nodded slowly. “Yeah, that’s probably our best bet.”

The tow truck driver, a man who introduced himself only as “Red,” had the kind of weathered face that suggested he’d spent his entire life standing in the wind. He kept up a rambling monologue about everything from local politics to his ex-wife’s cat while we sat crammed in the cab of his truck, the road rolling beneath us as the broken van bobbed along behind us.

By the time we reached the garage at the southern edge of Richmond, the sun was setting, painting the sky in fiery oranges and pinks that seemed to mock our predicament.

“Won’t be able to look at it till tomorrow,” the mechanic told us, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Parts shop’s closed now anyway.”

We checked into the motel next door, too exhausted to care about its one-star rating on Google Maps. The room was exactly what you’d expect from a place that charged by the hour—water stains on the ceiling, carpet that had seen better decades, and a bedspread that I refused to touch without protective gloves.

“Home sweet home,” Kat said, dropping our bags by the door.

Quinn wandered to the window, peering out at the neon vacancy sign casting its sickly glow into the room. “Hey, didn’t that one episode mention a murder in a motel just like this? The one with the traveling salesman?”

Kat grinned. “Well! Look who’s becoming a true crime aficionado.”

“I’m starving,” I announced, grabbing the sticky room service menu from the nightstand. “They actually have a decent selection⁠—”

“Of chili?” Quinn asked hopefully.

“No, no chili. I was gonna say a decent selection of salads.”

Twenty minutes later, a bored-looking teenager wheeled in our dinner on a cart that had definitely seen better days. The “fresh garden salads” were mostly wilted lettuce in styrofoam containers.

“I miss that truck stop chili,” Quinn sighed, poking at a piece of dried out tomato with a plastic fork.

As soon as we finished eating that garbage we took turns taking a shower—it wheezed and groaned like it was on its deathbed—and then got ready for bed.

I crashed hard as soon as my head hit the pillow, despite the constant parade of trucks on the nearby interstate and what sounded like a domestic dispute three doors down. Exhaustion is better than any sleeping pill.

A few hours later, I jolted awake to rhythmic thumping and some very enthusiastic moaning from the other side of our paper-thin wall.

“Oh god, OH GOD, OHHHHH GODDDD!”

Kat stirred beside me. “Sounds like someone just found religion…”

“HARDER! HARDER!”

From the other bed came Quinn’s voice, small and mortified: “Are they…?”

The headboard next door slammed against our wall with increasing intensity, sending little flakes of gray paint drifting down onto our sheets.

“YES! YES! RIDE ME LIKE A MECHANICAL BULL, DADDY!”

Quinn shot up, yanking her sundress over her head in one fluid motion. “Nope nope nope. I’m not doing this! I’ll be back when… when… whatever this is stops.” She practically sprinted out the door, not even bothering with footwear.

“Alone at last,” Kat purred, rolling toward me.

“You’re not serious!” I glanced at the still-vibrating wall.

She just raised her eyebrows at me, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “You bet your sweet ass I am! Besides, we can’t let the neighbors have all the fun, can we?”

The loud banging on our door nearly gave me a heart attack. “OPEN UP, THIS IS THE POLICE!”

Kat raised her head up from between my legs. “You have got to be kidding me!”

Clutching a sheet around me, I stumbled to the door and yanked it open to the swampy night air. There stood a police officer trying very hard to maintain his professional composure. Next to him was Quinn, wrapped in a motel towel so small it barely covered the essentials, her bright pink mohawk plastered to her head like a dead flamingo.

“Evening ladies,” the officer began. “We found your friend here skinny dipping in the motel pool at 2 AM. The night manager observed her on the security cameras and called us immediately.”

Quinn was practically shaking with indignation, water still dripping down her legs onto the concrete walkway. “There was literally no one around?! The pool lights weren’t even on! How can you possibly call this a crime?! Where I come from, swimming with clothes is like… eating a sandwich with the wrapper still on!”

The officer’s mustache twitched. “Ma’am, this isn’t—wherever you’re from.”

“I’m an anarchist!” Quinn declared.

“She means she’s Canadian,” I cut in quickly. “Very… progressive up there.”

“Well ladies, I’m going to let this slide with a warning. But please—no more naked swimming. The rules exist for a reason.”

“Yes sir,” Kat said, while Quinn muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “fascist pool rules.”

“And maybe…” he paused, clearly choosing his next words carefully, “maybe keep the noise down? We’ve had several complaints about this room tonight.”

I felt my face burst into flames. “That wasn’t us! That was next door!”

“Mhm.” He didn’t look convinced. “You girls have a good night now.”

Chapter 11

The Odyssey

The garage’s waiting room smelled like yesterday’s coffee and old cigarettes. We’d skipped breakfast entirely, beelining for Red’s Auto at an hour when normal people were still dreaming. The sooner we got the van fixed, the sooner we could leave Richmond and its one-star motel memories behind.

Red moved with the urgency of a tranquilized sloth, humming along to Ke$ha’s “TiK ToK” blasting from tinny speakers overhead while he replaced the radiator hose.

The hard plastic chairs made my back ache, but Quinn was clearly suffering more. She sat hunched over, arms wrapped around her midsection, rocking slightly.

A sound like angry plumbing erupted from her direction.

“You gonna make it there, Bubble Guts?” Kat asked, not looking up from the vintage issue of Popular Mechanics she was reading.

Quinn’s face contorted. “I think last night’s salad is trying to kill me,” she groaned.

Kat and I exchanged a look.

“The salad, huh?” I said with a raised eyebrow.

Quinn’s only response was another gurgle that sounded like it came from the depths of the underworld.

“Red,” Kat called out, suddenly urgent. “How much longer? We might have a situation here.”

Red looked up from under the hood, a wrench in one greasy hand. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of Quinn, now visibly sweating and a shade paler than she’d been two minutes ago.

“I don’t normally allow civilians to use the head,” he said slowly, his gaze tracking Quinn’s increasingly frantic rocking. Then she made a sound that could have been mistaken for a dying animal, and he actually took a step back.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, wiping his hands on a rag before fishing a key from his pocket. “Down the hall, last door on the left.”

Quinn snatched the key and bolted, nearly colliding with a stack of tires on her way out.

“What in tarnation did you feed that poor girl?” Red asked, genuine concern on his weathered face.

“Salad,” Kat and I replied in unison.

Red looked like he didn’t believe us for a second, but returned to The Duchess with newfound urgency.

Day three on the road, and I was starting to think our journey might actually proceed normally. No apocalyptic thunderstorms like day one. No smoking engine and roadside mechanic adventures like day two. Just the hypnotic hum of tires on I-95 and Quinn’s soft snores from the back where she’d curled up with Kat’s dog-eared copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

I was half-dozing in the passenger seat when my phone rang. I fumbled through my purse to retrieve it. It was Evelyn Reynolds!

“Hello?” I answered, suddenly nervous.

“Jane.” The voice was crisp, impatient. “I can’t believe you’re driving. I specifically told you not to dawdle.”

I blinked at the phone. “What? I don’t⁠—”

“Three days! At this rate you’ll arrive for Christmas. We have important business to attend to, and you’re puttering up the coast like you’re on some leisurely sightseeing tour.”

Kat glanced over, one eyebrow raised in that way that somehow made her look both concerned and amused.

“How do you even know we’re driving?” I asked.

“Details, details. Hand the phone to Katerina, please.”

“She wants to talk to you,” I said, holding out the phone. “It’s Evelyn.”

Kat arched an eyebrow, but took the phone with one hand, keeping the other firmly on the wheel. “Yes?”

I watched her face as she listened, her expression giving nothing away.

“Right,” she said. Then, “Yep. Yip. Yup,” and finally, “Roger that.”

She handed the phone back to me, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“What was that about?” I asked.

Kat flicked on her turn signal. “Change of plans. We’re making a quick detour.”

“Where? Why?”

She pointed to a green highway sign as we passed under it. “Stafford Regional Airport, Fredericksburg, Virginia. This is our stop, ladies.”

Quinn sat up in the back, her book forgotten. “Airport? What happened to New York?”

Before my brain could catch up with what was happening, Kat had bypassed the main terminal entirely and was pulling up to a gate marked “Private Aviation.”

A security guard approached, and Kat rolled down her window like this was all perfectly normal. “Cullen party?” he asked, consulting his clipboard with all the excitement of someone checking a grocery list.

“That’s us,” Kat confirmed, shooting me a look that clearly said ‘just roll with it because I have no idea what’s happening either.’

The guard waved us through, and suddenly the van was rumbling across actual tarmac heading toward a sleek private jet with engines already humming.

“That’s our ride,” Kat announced, as if this was an everyday occurrence in her world.

Quinn pressed her face against the window. “Holy shit.”

A uniformed man gestured for us to a stop near one of the hangars, and Kat shut off the engine with a dramatic flourish. “End of the line for our faithful steed, at least for now.”

“Keys?” he asked simply as we climbed out.

Kat tossed them to him. “Take care of The Duchess for me.”

He caught them with a nod and got into the driver’s seat without another word.

The three of us watched as a tall, impeccably dressed young Black man emerged from the jet and descended the aircraft stairs, clutching his slim laptop that reflected the early morning sunlight.

“Ms. Cullen, Ms. Młynarczyk, Ms. Quinn,” he said in a crisp British accent, his expression unreadable behind stylish glasses. “I’m Spencer Xavier, Ms. Reynolds’ executive assistant. Please follow me. We’re on a tight schedule.”

I followed in a daze. From the top of the stairs, I turned back for a moment and watched Kat’s old rust bucket drive off in the direction we’d just come from, while two crew members began efficiently transferring our bags to the aircraft’s cargo hold.

Inside, the interior was all cream leather and polished wood, with spacious seats that looked more comfortable than my bed back home.

Spencer gestured for us to take seats, and I sank into buttery-soft upholstery as the door sealed shut behind us.

“I’ve never been on a plane before,” Quinn said, her voice small as she gripped the armrests. “Are there seatbelts on these things?”

“Right here,” I said, helping her buckle up. “It’s just like a car, except… you know, with wings.”

“I’ve never been on a plane either,” Kat admitted, though she looked more thrilled than terrified.

“I’ve flown a lot,” I said, “but always on big commercial planes. Never anything like…” I gestured around the cabin.

Two short blondes emerged from the cockpit, identical down to their matching pilot caps. And that was all they were wearing. I blinked hard, wondering if three days of road trip fatigue had finally caught up with me.

“Welcome aboard!” the one on the left said cheerfully. “I’m Captain Hazel, and this is my sister Sam, our co-pilot today! We couldn’t help overhearing it’s some first flights today?”

“First time on any plane,” Quinn said, her nervousness seemingly forgotten as she stared at our flight crew.

“Well, you’re in for a treat,” Sam said. “This is an Embraer Phenom 300E—the E stands for Enhanced! She’s the most popular business jet in the world for good reason. Bathroom’s in the back, refreshments in the galley, and we’ll have you in Ithaca in just over an hour.”

“Wait,” Quinn interrupted, tugging at her sundress. “Does this mean we don’t have to stay dressed?”

The twins exchanged amused glances. “Girl, they don’t call us Bare Air for nothing,” Hazel laughed. “Clothing optional is our specialty.”

Quinn’s seatbelt clicked open before Hazel had finished speaking. In a flash, her sundress went sailing over the back of her seat. “Now this is my kind of airline!”

I caught Kat’s eye and grinned. Within minutes, we’d all followed Quinn’s lead, our clothes neatly folded and stowed in the side compartments. Even Spencer had stripped off his suit and stowed his laptop.

“All set?” Hazel asked, doing a final check of the cabin. After confirming everyone was settled, she nodded toward someone outside. The door sealed shut with a solid thunk. “We’ll be ready for takeoff in a few.”

The two disappeared back into the cockpit. Moments later, the engines hummed to life, and the jet began to move.

“Oh!” Quinn squeaked, grabbing my arm. “Is this normal? Why are we going so slow?”

“We’re just taxiing to the runway,” I explained, though my own stomach was doing little flips. This felt nothing like a commercial flight – the jet seemed almost delicate compared to the lumbering airliners I was used to.

Spencer, already absorbed in whatever was on his laptop screen, didn’t even look up as we turned onto the runway. The engines’ pitch changed, growing from a hum to a powerful roar.

“Here we go!” Kat said, grinning as we accelerated. Quinn’s grip on my arm tightened.

The sensation of liftoff was surprisingly gentle. As we banked toward the north, I caught a glimpse of Kat’s van through the window, now just a tiny speck in the vast airport complex below. The ground fell away quickly as we climbed through scattered clouds, the landscape transforming into a patchwork of greens and browns far beneath us.

The seatbelt sign chimed off, and Hazel’s voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve reached our cruising altitude of thirty-nine thousand feet. Weather looks clear all the way to Ithaca, so feel free to move about the cabin.”

Spencer retrieved his laptop and settled back into work. I watched him work for a moment before my curiosity got the better of me. “I have a question.” He looked up from his screen. “How did Evelyn even know where we were? And why not just call and tell us to hurry up?”

“Because she’s Evelyn Reynolds,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And because Ms. Młynarczyk’s phone has approximately sixteen unpatched security vulnerabilities that made tracking your progress a rather trivial exercise.”

“You hacked my phone?” Kat asked, her eyes still fixed on the landscape passing below. She didn’t even sound surprised.

“I prefer ‘monitored your location data in the interest of Ms. Reynolds’ scheduling efficiency.’” Spencer’s face remained perfectly neutral, though I caught the faintest hint of a smile. “But yes, essentially.”

“Well, in that case, just call me Kat. Breaking into my phone definitely puts us on a first-name basis!”

“Just Jane for me too,” I added.

“And Quinn!” she chimed in next to me. “Though I guess if you’ve been tracking us, you probably knew that already.”

“Indeed. Ms. Reynolds had me conduct extensive background checks on all three of you. Standard procedure for anyone she plans to do business with.”

A moment of silence filled the cabin. Then Quinn leaned forward. “Do you… do you have anything about me?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I don’t know anything about my parents.”

Spencer’s fingers moved across his laptop keyboard. “Yes, one moment. Poppy and Michael Quinn,” he said softly, his professional demeanor giving way to something gentler. “They died in a car accident on Route 27 just outside of Miami. You were eight months old.”

Quinn went very still. “Wait—my mother was Poppy Quinn too?”

“Yes.” Spencer turned his laptop around. “This is from their wedding.”

Quinn stared at the screen for a long moment, then turned to look out the window. In the reflection against the dark glass, I could see tears welling in her eyes that she was trying hard not to show.

Spencer quietly closed his laptop and gazed out his own window, giving her the moment she needed.

The landing was so smooth I barely felt it. As we taxied to a stop inside a large hangar, I caught sight of a sleek black Escalade waiting for us.

Over the intercom, Hazel announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ithaca Tompkins International Airport. The local time is 10:47 AM. The weather is sunny and the temperature is a muggy 84°F degrees.

“We wish you a pleasant stay in Ithaca and we hope to see you again very soon. On behalf of all our crew, thank you for flying with Bare Air on this beautiful Sunday morning. Have a naked day!”

Spencer led us down the aircraft stairs and straight into the SUV’s climate-controlled interior. As we pulled away from the airport, the landscape opened up into rolling hills dotted with farmland. Fifteen minutes later, we turned onto a private drive that wound through manicured grounds before revealing what could only be described as an estate—a sprawling modern structure of glass and stone that somehow managed to look both imposing and perfectly at home among the trees.

Spencer guided us through the house with practiced efficiency, our bare feet silent on the polished floors, until we reached a set of double doors. He knocked once, then pushed them open.

Evelyn Reynolds was waiting for us.

Chapter 12

Whitmore’s Folly

Evelyn Reynolds sat in a plush armchair near floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the rolling Finger Lakes countryside. She was completely naked, of course—I wouldn’t have expected anything else.

“I trust the flight was comfortable?” She fixed us with those piercing eyes that had captured all those amazing portraits.

I nodded. “It was a great flight, thank you. I can only imagine how much it cost!”

Evelyn looked at me for a long moment. “There are more important things than money, my dear. Though I suppose that’s easier to say when you have enough of it.”

“Like having your own jet?” Quinn asked, clearly still processing the morning’s adventures. “How does someone even get that rich?”

Her smile was warm but there was an edge to her voice. “Honestly? I sold out and got lucky. I traded my artistic vision for a long stint on Madison Avenue, where I lived modestly and invested most of my salary into tech stocks—Apple alone made me a multi-millionaire.” She gestured toward the window, where a hummingbird was flitting across her carefully maintained garden. “But the real windfall came later. I switched to Bitcoin when it was still less than a dollar. And voilà—from millionaire to billionaire, just like that.”

As if on cue, French doors at the far end of the room swung open. Two servers wheeled in gleaming silver carts laden with covered dishes, while a third followed with what looked like an entire coffee shop’s worth of equipment.

“I thought we might enjoy some brunch,” Evelyn said. “The flight from Virginia is just long enough to work up an appetite.”

The servers moved with practiced efficiency, transforming the coffee table before us into an impromptu dining space. Crystal glasses appeared alongside delicate china plates. One of them lifted silver covers to reveal eggs Benedict, fresh fruit, and pastries that looked like they belonged in a Paris bakery window.

“Traditional and vegetarian eggs Benedict,” the server announced quietly. “Coffee? Tea? Orange juice?” another server asked, working his way around our little group.

Quinn’s eyes were as wide as the plates. “Is this what being rich is like all the time?”

“Only when I have guests worth impressing,” Evelyn replied with a wink, accepting a steaming cup of what smelled like espresso. “Though I must admit, good help is one luxury I’ve grown quite attached to.”

Kat sipped her mimosa while I opted for coffee and Quinn excitedly pointed at a particularly elaborate-looking pastry. I watched the servers discreetly exit the way they’d come, leaving us to enjoy what had to be the fanciest breakfast I’d ever seen. The room fell quiet except for the gentle clink of silverware and the distant trill of that hummingbird, still exploring the gardens.

Evelyn set down her espresso cup with a decisive clink. “Now then, let’s get to business. The nudist movement has painted itself into a corner. We’re trapped behind resort walls and restricted to whatever strips of beach the government allows us. That’s not freedom—that’s just a bigger cage.”

She leaned forward slightly. “So… I’m looking for fresh new ideas. How can we bring the joys of nudism to the masses?”

My mind went completely blank under Evelyn’s expectant stare.

“Oh!” Quinn suddenly exclaimed, rummaging through her purse. “The first night of our trip, I met this guy…” She pulled out a slightly crumpled business card and handed it to Evelyn. “His uncle’s looking to sell over a thousand acres to make a naturist park. Only a hundred dollars an acre!”

Evelyn studied the card. “Joseph T. Harrington, Mason County, Kentucky,” she read softly, her gaze drifting toward the window.

Spencer’s fingers flew across his laptop keyboard. “Found it. The property abuts the Ohio River. Has a community airport. Near the town of Maysville.” He glanced up. “This has legs, ma’am”—though it sounded more like “mum.”

Evelyn studied the card for another moment before setting it aside. “Please call Mr. Harrington first thing in the morning,” she instructed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well,” Evelyn murmured, a hint of amusement in her voice, “maybe this road trip wasn’t for nothing after all. So what else?”

My momentary relief evaporated. I thought Quinn’s discovery had gotten me off the hook, but Evelyn’s piercing gaze was right back on me, expectant. This time I didn’t even have the excuse of being caught off guard.

“Jane,” Quinn turned to me excitedly, “remember when you were telling me about your idea for a nudist resort high-rise?”

“Oh, right! Well it seems like so often, nudist resorts are in these far-off places. I mean, Paradise Cove is literally on a tropical island. So I thought: what if we took all the essentials—pool, gym, restaurants, hotel rooms—and put them in a high-rise in every downtown of every city? People could go on their lunch hour or after work.”

Evelyn’s expression remained neutral. “Not a bad concept,” she said, in a tone that suggested she’d heard it before. “But I’m looking for something… fresher. What else have you got?”

I shot Quinn a desperate look. My savior of the last two rounds just shrugged apologetically.

Kat cleared her throat. She’d been so quiet I’d almost forgotten she was there.

“What about something more… accessible?” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Not a high-rise downtown, but a youth and community center. Like the YMCA model—a plain building with plenty of parking.” Her voice grew more confident. “We could have mentors teaching young people about healthy living, stress management, exercise… Places where working families—where kids from any background—could actually afford to go.” She paused. “Being naked would just be part of it. The bigger focus would be on helping people feel comfortable in their own skin.”

Evelyn leaned back in her chair, a small smile playing at her lips as she considered this. After a moment, she turned to Spencer. “Your thoughts?”

“Running demographics now, ma’am,” he replied, eyes fixed on his screen. Then: “Nashua, New Hampshire would be ideal for a pilot program. The greater downtown area has multiple affordable properties, and the city’s small enough to test the concept without overextending. Plus, it’s a quick flight into Boire Field.”

“New Hampshire. Nice place,” Evelyn said to Spencer. “Please make the arrangements.”

She turned her attention back to me. “Now, let’s talk business.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“I have something much more important to discuss.” Evelyn’s smile faded. “Tomorrow morning, I’m checking into Memorial Sloan Kettering. Stage three lung cancer.” She said it matter-of-factly, like announcing a lunch order. “While I’m undergoing treatment, I need someone to take charge here. I want that someone to be you, Jane.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, no, no. This is exactly what happened with Bill at Paradise Cove. I’m nineteen! I should be picking out college classes right now, not playing CEO of your… your empire!” My voice cracked on the last word. “There must be someone better qualified.”

“This isn’t Paradise Cove,” Evelyn said firmly. “I know the mess Bill left you—a skeleton crew and a mountain of debt. My empire as you call it is nothing like that. I have professionals like Spencer here, and money’s not an issue.”

“But why me? I still don’t understand.”

“Because you’re honest,” Evelyn said simply. “And you have good instincts. The rest…” She waved her hand dismissively. “That’s what the professionals are for. I just need someone I can trust to make the right decisions.”

I sat there speechless, struggling to process everything.

“Ma’am, if I may,” Spencer said into the silence, “perhaps a tour of the estate would be… enlightening?”

Evelyn’s warm smile returned. “An excellent suggestion. But first—” she gestured to our barely-touched brunch “—let’s finish our meal. There’s no need to let Chef Lexi’s eggs Benedict go cold on my account.”

Spencer led us out through a set of French doors onto a flagstone terrace that overlooked the sprawling estate grounds. “The main grounds cover approximately one hundred acres,” Spencer explained. “The gardens are particularly impressive this time of year.”

We descended a short flight of stone steps to a path that wound between formal gardens with their geometric hedges and vibrant flower beds. Quinn wandered off the path to examine a cluster of delphinium, while Kat hung back, arms crossed, her gaze traveling between the manor house and the surrounding grounds.

“The gardening staff maintains everything you see, plus the apple orchard beyond that tree line, and the kitchen gardens on the eastern side,” Spencer continued, his voice carrying a hint of pride. “Ah, and here comes EJ now.”

A tall man in his fifties, wearing nothing but a weathered Red Sox cap, approached us. Dirt clung to his sturdy work boots, and he peeled off a glove to extend his hand.

“EJ Williams, Head Groundskeeper,” he said with a firm handshake and an easy smile. “Heard we had visitors. Special ones, from what Spencer tells me.”

“Jane,” I said. “And that’s Quinn over there, and Kat.”

“Nice property, isn’t it? Been working it for fifteen years now. Ms. Reynolds gives me free rein as long as I keep it looking…” He gestured vaguely at the pristine surroundings. “Like this.”

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted. A pair of monarch butterflies drifted past, their orange wings brilliant against the deep green hedges. We all fell silent for a moment, watching them dance through the late summer air.

EJ turned to Spencer. “We’ve got a delivery of mulch coming in this afternoon. And we still need to discuss that drainage issue near the east pond.”

“I’ll find you after the tour,” Spencer assured him with a nod.

He started back down the path, calling over his shoulder, “Try the peaches when you get to the orchard—just picked fresh this morning!”

As he strode away, Spencer guided us toward a gleaming glass structure on our right. Sunlight sparkled off its Victorian-inspired framework, making the whole building shimmer like a giant crystal.

“The conservatory,” he explained, opening one of the ornate brass-handled doors to reveal a humid space filled with tropical plants and the gentle sound of running water. Delicate orchids hung from moss-covered branches, while broadleaf palms stretched toward the soaring glass ceiling. “A therapeutic escape during our harsh winters—a slice of paradise when everything outside is buried in snow.”

After lingering among the orchids and hanging ferns, Spencer led us back toward the main house, taking a winding path through the gardens. Around each curve, another feature of the estate revealed itself: first a gleaming infinity pool that seemed to merge with the distant lake, then a pristine tennis court surrounded by tall hedges, and finally what appeared to be a small art studio, its north-facing windows nestled among ancient maples.

“And now for the manor itself,” Spencer said as we climbed the terrace steps. He paused at the top, turning to face the limestone façade with its graceful arched windows and intricate Victorian detailing. “Reynolds Manor was built in 1878 by a rather eccentric railroad baron, Edward Whitmore. The local papers at the time called it ‘Whitmore’s Folly’ due to its remote location and ambitious scale.”

His lips curved in a slight smile. “The third floor east wing is said to be haunted by Whitmore’s young wife, Adelaide, who died under mysterious circumstances. Some of the staff claim they’ve heard piano music late at night, though there hasn’t been a piano in that wing for decades.” He shrugged. “Ms. Reynolds finds the ghost stories rather amusing. She says if Adelaide is still around, she’s been a perfectly agreeable housemate.”

Quinn’s eyes went wide. “Have you ever seen her?”

“I make it a point never to confirm or deny supernatural encounters,” Spencer replied with practiced diplomacy. “Though I will say the east wing has a rather remarkable library that’s worth visiting, spirits or no spirits.”

He gestured toward the ornate double doors. “The house has thirty-two rooms, including a ballroom that occupies most of the third floor. Whitmore spared no expense—Tiffany glass in every window, hand-carved mahogany throughout, and if you look up…” He directed our gaze to an elaborate rose window above the entrance. “That’s genuine Venetian stained glass from the 1870s. Local legend claims the red piece in the center glows on full moon nights when Adelaide’s ghost is restless.”

A woman in her early sixties appeared in the doorway, her silver hair swept into an elegant twist. Like everyone else we’d met, she was completely at ease in her nudity, carrying herself with a quiet dignity that reminded me of a ballet instructor.

“Larissa Weber, our House Manager,” Spencer said. “Larissa, these are Ms. Reynolds’ special guests: Jane, Quinn, and Kat.”

“Ah, willkommen to Reynolds Manor,” she said, her crisp German accent giving her words a precise, musical quality. She studied us with keen blue eyes that missed nothing. “I’ve prepared rooms for you in the west wing—each with a view of the gardens. The morning light there is particularly lovely.” She handed me a simple business card, a hint of a smile softening her professional demeanor. “You’ll find everything you need in your rooms, but please call if I’ve overlooked anything. The kitchens are always open, and the staff is here to help.”

We’d barely stepped away from Larissa when a woman with short dark hair emerged from a side room, speaking quietly into an earpiece.

“And this is Beth Harper, Head of Security,” Spencer said.

Beth unhooked her earpiece and gave us a casual wave.

“I can’t imagine there’s much crime out here,” I said, curious about what a security team actually did in such a remote location.

“Ah, not much excitement out here—mostly keeping the deer out of EJ’s gardens and making sure the property stays private. Well, except for that mountain lion last spring,” she added with a slight grin. “That was an interesting week.” She reattached her earpiece and headed back to her rounds.

Spencer led us up a curving staircase to the second floor, where sunlight streamed through those magnificent Tiffany windows, casting kaleidoscope patterns on the Persian carpets. He stopped at a pair of heavy wooden doors facing each other across the hallway.

“Quinn, you’ll be here,” he said, opening the door on the left to reveal a sitting room that opened into a bedroom beyond. The décor managed to be both elegant and inviting—plush furniture in warm creams and golds, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and French doors leading to a private balcony. “Jane, Kat, your suite is just across the way.”

Our room mirrored Quinn’s layout but in softer blues and greens, with a view that stretched across the formal gardens to the distant hills. A pair of red-tailed hawks circled lazily in the midday sky, riding the thermals above the estate.

Spencer waited until we’d had a chance to take it all in. “So Jane—what do you say?”

I hesitated, looking around at this hidden world Evelyn had created. A world of art and beauty and possibility. But also a world with expectations. Responsibilities.

Kat squeezed my hand gently. When I glanced at her, she gave me a small nod.

I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

Chapter 13

Pandora’s Box

As soon as Quinn and Spencer left, Kat locked the door and pulled me close.

“Finally,” she whispered, her lips finding mine. We kissed deeply, desperately, days of frustrated desire pouring out. Her hands traced down my sides, making me shiver.

Kat slowly pulled back, her eyes holding mine. She turned to the suitcases by the door, unzipped hers, and retrieved a black silk blindfold. “Why don’t you head to the bedroom and get comfortable?” she murmured, pressing the soft fabric into my palm. “I need to grab a few more things,” she added with a wink.

With a racing pulse and the silk clutched in my hand, I made my way alone, anticipation building with each step.

In the bedroom, I lay back on cool white sheets, securing the blindfold over my eyes. Sweet darkness wrapped around me, and suddenly I could breathe again.

I heard Kat’s soft footsteps return. My pulse quickened as she wound rope around my left wrist, pulling it gently but firmly to the bedpost. Then the other wrist, each tug spreading warmth through my body. My ankles followed, one at a time, until I was spread wide and secured to each corner of the bed.

“Quiet now,” Kat whispered, and I felt soft fabric press gently against my mouth. As she tied it in place, the last thread of control slipped away.

Kat’s weight pressed down on me. As her lips traced along my collarbone, a thought sliced through me like lightning: what if people saw me like this—spread-eagled, gagged and bound to the bedposts of a guest room bed. My nipples hardened at the thought, and I squirmed against the ropes, testing their hold.

Her mouth closed over my breast, hot and demanding. I arched into her touch, my muffled moan barely audible through the fabric. Her tongue traced lazy circles around my nipple before her teeth gently caught the sensitive flesh. Each touch sent sparks shooting through my core.

Kat’s fingers danced lower, drawing invisible patterns across my stomach until they found the wetness between my legs. She worked me slowly, deliberately, like we had all the time in the world. Like she wasn’t aware of how desperate I was getting, how my hips kept rising to meet her touch.

Suddenly, Project Juno flared to life. The quantum flash pierced my darkness, and for a moment I was looking down at myself through Kat’s eyes—seeing what she saw: my body spread and bound, stripped of every pretense of control. A new thought blazed through me: What if Project Juno was malfunctioning right now? What if someone, somewhere, was seeing her fingers sliding into me, watching me writhe against the ropes as she ran a thumb over my clit? Every movement, every response, every intimate moment streaming live into a stranger’s consciousness.

The thought sent heat flooding through me. My world narrowed to where her fingers met my tender flesh, to the exquisite pressure building inside me. When her mouth replaced her fingers, I nearly screamed into the gag. Each stroke of her tongue brought me closer while my mind raced with visions of unseen watchers witnessing my surrender.

She slid two fingers inside me, curling them forward as her tongue continued its relentless pace. The dual sensation was too much. My body convulsed as pleasure exploded through me, my cry of release muffled by fabric.

But Kat wasn’t done with me yet. Her fingers kept moving, coaxing aftershocks from my trembling body until they built into a second wave. I was still shaking from that orgasm when a knock at the door made my blood run cold.

“Just a moment!” Kat called out cheerfully, as if she hadn’t just reduced me to a quivering mess.

The door opened. “Sorry to disturb,” Spencer’s crisp accent drifted in. “I just wanted to confirm tomorrow’s schedule– oh.” A pause. “I see you’re… occupied…”

I lay there, my skin still flushed from two intense orgasms, while my proper British administrator stood in the doorway. My thighs were slick with evidence of exactly how “occupied” I’d been. The mortification should have killed me on the spot.

“Was there something urgent?” Kat asked, cool as ever.

“Um, yes—I’d like to meet with you two, and miss Quinn, down in my office at 3 PM. Carry on.” The door clicked shut behind him, taking with it any last shred of my dignity.

Kat’s laugh was rich and knowing as she returned to the bed. “Now,” she purred, her fingers already sliding back between my thighs, “where were we?”

After a short rest and a much-needed shower, the two of us—plus Quinn—sat in Spencer’s office, surrounded by a stack of white Apple boxes. He held out his hand expectantly. “Phones, please.”

Kat pulled the DroidBuddy relic from her purse, so old that the charging port was different from anything manufactured in the last decade.

“Here,” I said, handing over my iPhone 12. It wasn’t exactly cutting edge, but next to Kat’s phone it looked positively futuristic.

“Oh, I’ve never had one. Just never saw the point,” Quinn said with a casual shrug, as if admitting to never having tried sushi.

“Right.” Spencer said. “Well, you’ll each be getting new iPhones. They’re secure, encrypted, and come pre-loaded with our house management app, Evie.” Before any of us could ask, he continued, “It was Evelyn’s nickname growing up. Among other things, it includes location sharing so staff can coordinate more efficiently.”

“Location sharing?” Quinn tilted her head.

“Like Apple’s Find My app,” Spencer explained, then seeing her blank expression, added, “It lets you see where other people are.”

“Oh! Like a map with little dots?” Quinn’s eyes lit up. “That’s rather clever.”

Spencer had already begun the transfer process. He picked up Kat’s Android with two fingers, like it might explode. “There’s… practically nothing on here.”

“I don’t use it for much,” Kat shrugged. “Emails, texts, that’s about it.”

“I’ll have this properly incinerated,” Spencer muttered, and somehow I didn’t think he was entirely joking.

My own transfer went quickly as well since everything was already backed up in the cloud. While we waited, Spencer opened another box, revealing sleek Apple Watches. “These are essential. They’re your keys to the estate – literally. No watch, no entry. They’re waterproof, of course,” he added, clearly used to explaining technology to nudists.

Finally, he set a MacBook Air in front of me, impossibly thin and light. “Same model I use. It’s got everything you’ll need to run the estate. Project management, scheduling, budgeting…” He trailed off, tapping away at his keyboard. “There. You should all be set up now.”

Quinn was already poking at her new phone with fascination. She discovered the camera filters almost immediately, her eyes lighting up with each new transformation.

“Look, I’m a sparkly unicorn!” she exclaimed, tilting the phone to show us her rainbow-horned digital self.

“Oh, you’re a unicorn alright,” I muttered. But I couldn’t help smiling at her enthusiasm.

Spencer leaned back in his chair. “I’ve drafted a press release regarding your interim position—Interim Creative Director and Estate Manager. You’ll find a copy in your inbox. And I’ve booked your flight to Nashua, New Hampshire. Departure at 9 AM sharp Tuesday morning.”

“Tuesday?” I blinked. “But I just got here.”

“That gives you the rest of today and tomorrow to rest,” Spencer said. Seeing my expression, his crisp demeanor softened slightly. “I know it’s abrupt, but Ms. Reynolds is eager to get these projects off the ground.” His lips quirked. “Pun intended. Hazel will be your pilot.”

I looked at my shiny new electronic gizmos, thought about the press release announcing my position. Here he was on a Sunday afternoon getting me set up—I could hardly complain about going on a private flight on a luxury jet. “Alright then. Tuesday morning it is.”

“Right,” Spencer said. “Your local contact is Ashley Capaldi—thirty-two, Nashua native. MBA from UNH, six years in community development.” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s already established three successful wellness centers across New England. The meeting is exploratory. You’ll have full authority to offer her a consulting contract if you think she’s right as project manager for the community initiative.”

He glanced at his watch. “By the time you depart, I’ll have the full project scope ready for you—budget limitations, timeline, the works. In the meantime, the algorithm’s identified One Court Street downtown as the ideal property. That’s where you and Ms. Capaldi will rendezvous.”

My mind was swimming. Seeing the look on my face, Spencer added helpfully. “Don’t worry—I’ll have your complete agenda synced across all devices. Phone, watch, laptop. Consider yourself thoroughly digitally tethered.”

“Okay,” I said weakly, “anything else?”

“Yes,” Spencer said, and I could have sworn there was a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes. “At 2 PM you will depart from Nashua’s Boire Field airport and head to the Harrington property in Mason, Kentucky.”

“Wait—you mean I’m not coming back here?”

“Correct. Also Mr. Harrington has requested you spend the night there.”

“What? He wants me to sleep with him?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

Spencer’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline, disappearing momentarily behind his black glasses. It was the most overt display of surprise I’d seen from him yet. “No, Ms. Cullen. He’s requested an early morning hike to watch the sunrise over the property. Do pack appropriate footwear.”

Kat’s lips twitched with poorly concealed amusement.

“Hey, I want to go too!” Quinn protested. “I’m the one who found this project!”

Spencer’s expression remained perfectly diplomatic. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The initial site visits require a… certain level of discretion.”

Quinn crossed her arms, looking mutinous. “Then what am I even doing here?”

“You need a job,” I teased. “Like Chief Anarchist or something.”

Quinn’s glare could have melted steel.

“Actually,” Spencer interjected, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against his laptop, “I could use an assistant. There are rather a lot of balls to keep in the air.”

“I don’t know nothing about hacking,” Quinn protested.

“You can type, yes? I’ll get you properly equipped. A laptop of your own, to begin with.”

Quinn’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly, reminding me of a goldfish.

“I believe that’s all for now,” Spencer nodded to Kat and me. “Quinn, if you’ll stay behind, we can get you set up.” He glanced back at me. “Your car will be ready at eight-thirty on Tuesday, Jane. Do ensure you’re packed by then.”

I fought the urge to salute as we left his office. So much for being in charge.

Chapter 14

The Gate City

The SUV dropped me off at the private aviation terminal, where the Embraer sat on the tarmac like an exotic bird, its sleek white fuselage gleaming in the afternoon sun. The sight still made my heart skip. Not just because it was beautiful—which it was—but because it represented a world I was still struggling to believe I belonged in.

Climbing aboard, I came face-to-face with Captain Hazel.

“Morning, Jane!” She grinned. “Ready to fly to New Hampshire?”

I hesitated, grateful Spencer had mentioned which twin I’d be flying with. “Hi Hazel! And yes, definitely ready.”

“Let me guess—you weren’t sure if I was Sam,” she said with a knowing smile. “Here’s the secret.” She pointed to a prominent freckle on her sternum. “Dead giveaway.”

I laughed, relieved. “Thanks, I’ll remember that next time. So where is Sam, anyway?”

“It’s just me today. Small plane, short hop.” Her blue eyes sparkled. “Wanna ride shotgun?”

“You mean in the cockpit?” I glanced through the open door at the array of instruments. “Is that allowed?”

“Perfectly legal,” Hazel assured me. “Though if anyone asks, you’re studying advanced aviation meteorology. Sounds better than ‘watching the scenery.’” She gestured toward the co-pilot’s seat. “Come on, best view in the house. And I promise not to quiz you on cloud formations.”

The cockpit looked both more and less complicated than I’d imagined. Screens and dials everywhere, but arranged with a logic I could almost grasp. Almost.

I slipped out of my dress and settled into the co-pilot’s seat, surprised by how plush it was. But what really took my breath away was the view. Even just sitting on the tarmac, the windshield swept around us like an IMAX screen, offering a panoramic vista of the runway, distant trees, and endless sky.

“Mind if I review some notes while you do your pre-flight stuff?” I asked, reaching for my backpack.

“Go ahead,” Hazel said, her fingers moving efficiently over switches and dials. “We’ve got a few minutes before takeoff. Just wait till we’re at cruising altitude before getting too absorbed.”

I pulled out my laptop. “What’s the WiFi password?”

“scuttlebutt,” Hazel said with a grin.

Spencer’s “complete project scope” turned out to be surprisingly brief—a photo of Ashley Capaldi, a woman in her thirties looking very professional, a few shots of the community building (which looked about as inspiring as a DMV office), and some basic parameters he’d already told me about. So much for my planned in-flight reading.

I tucked the laptop away just as Hazel began getting us ready for takeoff, her voice a steady murmur mixing with the hum of systems coming online. Soon we were taxiing, the slight vibration coming up through my seat. Then came the surge of power as we lined up on the runway, engines roaring to a crescendo. The acceleration pressed me back gently, and suddenly there was that magical feeling of lightness as the wheels left the earth.

Below us, the landscape tilted and shrank with astonishing speed. Houses became toy blocks, cars tiny beetles crawling along grey ribbons. Lake Cayuga stretched out like a vast mirror, reflecting the deepening colors of the sky.

“Wow,” I breathed, leaning slightly toward the window. “It’s… even more incredible from up here.”

Hazel banked the plane gently, heading east. “Isn’t it? Never gets old.” She gestured ahead. “Quick flight today—straight shot across New York, clip the bottom of Vermont, then start our descent once we hit New Hampshire. Less than an hour to Boire Field in Nashua.” She reached for the radio and spoke a bunch of words that sounded like gibberish to me.

“Do you ever just… feel disconnected?” I asked, watching a layer of clouds form below us, like a fluffy white sea hiding the world. “From everything down there?”

Hazel took a moment before answering, adjusting something on the autopilot. “Disconnected? Sometimes. But mostly… it’s perspective. You see the big picture up here. Literally.” She chuckled softly. “You see the weather patterns forming, the way rivers carve through the land, how small the cities really look from thirty thousand feet. Makes the day-to-day stuff seem… well, littler.”

“I could use some of that perspective right now,” I admitted, thinking about how much had changed in just the past few weeks. It felt like I’d been living in a series of intense close-ups. This view felt like a necessary wide shot.

“Well, you’re in luck,” Hazel said. “I hear we’ve got quite a few flights ahead of us. Including Kentucky later today, if Spencer’s schedule is right.” She glanced at me with a smile. “Plenty of time to practice your advanced aviation meteorology.”

The Escalade pulled up to One Court Street—a squat concrete affair that had probably been considered modern architecture back when disco was still cool.

Waiting by the entrance stood Ashley Capaldi in a tailored navy pantsuit, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Even from here, I could tell from her rigid posture and the set of her jaw that she didn’t look happy. Maybe I was late?

“Thank you,” I said to the driver as I grabbed my backpack and stepped out into the humid September air. It hit me like a wall, the kind of late summer heat that makes you instantly regret wearing anything at all.

She watched my approach with the enthusiasm of someone waiting for a root canal. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, not a strand out of place.

“Hi! Jane Cullen,” I said, extending my hand with what I hoped was a winning smile. “Sorry if I’m late.”

Her handshake was brief and perfunctory. “You’re not. I’m Ashley Capaldi.”

“I love your suit,” I offered, trying again. “The tailoring is fantastic.”

“Thanks.” Her tone was flat enough to level a pool table.

“One downside of being a nudist—I don’t really go clothes shopping much anymore,” I said with a small laugh.

“That must be hard.”

Okay then. This was going great…

She turned without another word and pushed open the heavy door. “Follow me.”

The interior was somehow even less impressive than the outside—bare concrete floors, peeling paint, and the unmistakable smell of a building long abandoned. Sweat immediately beaded on my forehead.

“Wow, it’s hot in here,” I said, fanning myself with my hand.

Ashley gave me a look that made me feel like I’d just commented that water was wet. “Yeah, there’s no electricity, so no AC.”

Right. Obviously.

She began walking, her heels echoing in the empty space. “The building is approximately 24,000 square feet, constructed in 1962 as a municipal records office. It was abandoned in 2017 when the city consolidated operations. The foundation is solid, but as you can see, the interior needs some cleanup.”

As we moved through the building, Ashley continued her monotone litany of facts and figures—ceiling heights, load-bearing walls, plumbing assessments—all delivered with the enthusiasm of someone reading nutritional information off a cereal box.

“Of course,” she concluded as we reached what appeared to be an old office space, “you probably already knew all this.”

The room contained a metal desk and two plastic chairs that had seen better days. Ashley placed her sleek leather purse on one of the chairs and gestured vaguely around the space.

“This could serve as the administrative office, I suppose.”

I nodded and walked around to the other side of the desk—I was supposed to be conducting an interview, after all—and set down my backpack.

The heat was becoming unbearable. Without thinking, I reached for the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Ashley’s shout echoed off the bare walls. “God, I knew I should have cancelled!” She snatched up her purse and bolted.

“Wait! I’m sorry!” I grabbed my dress by instinct and hurried naked after her.

She was moving quickly through the empty building, her heels striking the concrete like angry exclamation points.

“Ashley, please!” I called after her, dress clutched in one hand. “I thought you’d be okay with nudity—this is a nudist project, after all!”

Ashley stopped just short of the entrance, her hand on the push bar. For a long moment, she stood there facing the door, shoulders tense. Then she took a deep breath and slowly shook her head.

When she finally turned around, her expression had transformed from anger to something more complex—something I couldn’t quite read.

“Have you googled yourself lately?” she asked in a low, neutral tone.

The question was so unexpected it took me a moment to process. “What?”

“You should probably sit down for this.” Her voice had lost its edge entirely.

Confused but curious, I followed her back to the office. Once seated, I pulled up a search on my phone. My stomach dropped as I scrolled through page after page of vicious comments and posts. “What the fuck is this shit?!”

“They’re saying you and Bill…” Ashley trailed off.

“No! God no!” The phone nearly slipped from my shaking hands. “Bill’s been nothing but professional. He gave me the job because I worked hard and showed initiative, not because—” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. The very thought made my skin crawl.

“And those Titch Bits photos⁠—”

I buried my face in my hands. “They asked me to pose. It was artistic! There was nothing sexual about it.” My voice came out muffled. “I can’t believe someone would twist that into… into…”

“I’m so sorry,” Ashley said quietly. “I should have known better than to believe any of it. I let my emotions get the better of me.” She paused. “And I wasn’t actually upset about you getting undressed. Of course I’m comfortable with nudity, or I wouldn’t have agreed to this project in the first place.”

I barely heard her, still reeling from how quickly my life had unraveled. Everything I’d worked for, everything I’d built—all of it being twisted into something ugly and cheap.

“You understand we can’t proceed with the project under these circumstances,” Ashley said gently.

“Huh?” I looked up, momentarily confused. “Oh. Right. The project.”

My dress lay forgotten in my lap as I tried to process how my life had imploded in the span of a single Google search.

Ashley watched me for a long moment, then straightened in her chair. “No,” she said, so suddenly I jumped a little. “No, this is wrong.”

“What?”

“We can’t proceed with the project under these circumstances?” She made air quotes with her fingers. “What kind of corporate coward garbage is that? I was a world-class asshole to you because I let some internet trolls manipulate me. And now I’m going to let them win? Fuck that noise.”

I blinked at her sudden intensity. “But they’re making me sound like some kind of whore.”

“Yes, but think about it,” she cut in, leaning forward. “Someone’s spending serious money and effort to destroy your reputation. They’ve got bot networks, coordinated messaging—this isn’t some random trolling. This is a calculated attack.” Her voice took on an edge of excitement. “They wouldn’t bother if they didn’t think you could actually change things.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. “But the project⁠—”

“The project is exactly why they’re scared.” Ashley leaned forward. “You and Evelyn want to take nudism mainstream, make it accessible to regular families. That threatens someone’s bottom line. Maybe the luxury resorts, maybe the porn industry—someone who profits from keeping nudity either exclusive or sleazy.”

Despite everything, I felt a small smile tugging at my lips. “Or maybe somebody just hates me.”

“Could be… You got any enemies?” she said with a smile. But before I could answer, she stood up and started pacing. “Look, we have two options. We can shut down the project, which is exactly what they want. Or—” She turned to face me, “we can make this community center so successful that it proves everything they’re saying is bullshit.”

“You’d still want to work with me? Even with all this drama?”

“Drama?” Ashley snorted. “Please. I once had to negotiate with the zoning board. Now that was drama.” She picked up my dress from my lap and handed it to me. “Come on, put this back on. I know a place two blocks from here with decent air conditioning and great lattes. If we stay here any longer I’m liable to strip down with you!”

Chapter 15

Above It All

The Embraer waited on the tarmac like an escape pod, its sleek lines gleaming under the afternoon sun. The sight should have felt comforting—familiar, even—but after the day’s chaos, it just made my chest tighten. I trudged up the steps, my mind churning with fragments of vicious comments and Ashley’s unexpected defense. My skin felt dirty somehow, as if the online attacks had left a physical residue. Inside the cool, quiet cabin, I found Hazel lounging in one of the plush seats, flipping through a glossy aviation magazine.

She looked up, her face breaking into a grin. “So? How’d it go?”

I dropped into the seat across from her, exhaling hard. “Honestly? Total clusterfuck.” I shook my head, catching myself. “God, look at me, swearing like a sailor now.”

Hazel’s smile vanished. “What happened?”

“Someone’s trying to destroy me. They’re saying I slept my way to the top. They turned my nudist pics into something… pornographic.”

“Holy shit.” Hazel set down her magazine. “Who would⁠—”

“I don’t know.” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars. “But they’ve got a whole botnet smearing me night and day. Posts, comments, fake screenshots—a whole goddamn narrative.”

Hazel’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on her armrest. “Did you tell Spencer?”

“Texted him from the car.” I leaned back, suddenly exhausted. “He said he’d look into it.”

“That’s good. Spencer will figure it out.”

I made a noncommittal sound. The adrenaline that had carried me through the last hour was ebbing, leaving a hollowed-out sensation in its wake.

“Should we delay the Kentucky trip?” Hazel asked, her voice gentle. “I could tell Spencer you need a day to⁠—”

“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Sorry. It’s just… I need to keep moving. If I stop, I’ll just spiral.”

She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. “Well, it’s just us again for the Kentucky leg. Two hours and change to Fleming-Mason in Flemingsburg.” She gestured to the cockpit. “Shotgun’s yours if you want it.”

“Please,” I said, feeling pathetically grateful for the simple kindness. “I need the distraction.”

Hazel began her pre-flight routine, her movements practiced and precise. I watched her hands dance across switches and dials, envying the certainty of each action. What I wouldn’t give for that kind of clarity right now.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said, not looking up from the control panel, “but I’m here if you want to.”

“Thanks,” I managed. “But I don’t even know what to say. Twelve hours ago I was worried about impressing Ashley. Now I’m watching my reputation go up in flames.”

She didn’t push, just continued her preparations, occasionally murmuring into her headset. The normalcy of her routine was oddly comforting.

Soon the engines growled to life, their vibration humming through the seat and into my bones. We taxied, then accelerated down the runway, the sudden pressure pushing me back as we broke free from the earth.

Once we reached cruising altitude, the tension in my shoulders began to uncoil. The sky stretched endlessly around us, a vast, indifferent blue. Below, the world was reduced to patches of green and gray, the mess of human drama too small to see.

I pulled out my laptop and opened the briefing for the Kentucky project. The file was sparse—just a name, a few lines of bio, and a map of the land.

“Joseph T. Harrington,” I read aloud. “Widower, retired firefighter, selling a thousand acres in rural Kentucky. Cheap.”

Hazel side-eyed me. “That’s it? That’s your entire briefing?”

I shrugged. “Guess the point of this trip is to gather more intel…”

“Ah.” She smirked. “So it’s a ‘fly down and hope he’s not an ax murderer’ kind of mission.”

“Optimistically? Maybe he’s just a nice old man who wants to leave a legacy.”

“Pessimistically?”

“He’s an ax murderer who also wants to leave a legacy.”

Hazel laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve got a twisted sense of humor, you know that?”

“It’s a gift.” I leaned back, watching the clouds drift past.

Hazel’s expression sobered. “You think this is tied to the other stuff? The online mess?”

“Dunno. But if someone’s trying to scare me off, they’re gonna be disappointed.” I tapped the screen. “A thousand acres for a nudist park? That’s not just a project. That’s a statement.”

Hazel nodded, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Then here’s to making it.” She adjusted our heading slightly, the plane slicing through the golden haze of sunset. “And to ax-free negotiations.”

The farmhouse was nothing like I’d expected.

I’d pictured something weathered and sagging, with a porch swing creaking in the wind and maybe a suspiciously friendly golden retriever. Instead, Joseph T. Harrington’s place was a modern, sprawling ranch with a wraparound deck, solar panels gleaming on the roof, and a perfectly manicured wildflower garden out front.

Wearing nothing except my sandals, I knocked, adjusting the strap of my laptop bag. The door swung open before my knuckles even left the wood.

And there he stood.

Oh.

Mr. Harrington was not an octogenarian.

He was, in fact, a completely bare solid six-foot-two specimen with broad shoulders, silver-streaked dark hair, and the kind of laugh lines that suggested he spent more time grinning than scowling.

“Jane Cullen?” His voice was warm, roughened just enough to hint at years of shouting over fires. “Come on in.”

“Yep! That’s me.” I said, a little too enthusiastically. I stepped inside, desperately trying not to stare at the fact that this man was built like a retired superhero.

“Thanks for meeting me on such short notice.” He gestured toward the open living space. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Henry’s cabin flashed through my mind—the bleary eyes, the amber liquid sloshing in his glass at four in the morning. My cheeks burned at the memory of that damned strawberry milk.

“Sure, whiskey’s fine,” I said with forced casualness, like I ordered hard liquor all the time.

He blinked, then laughed. “Ah, sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, Jane. I don’t drink. I meant like water. Or—” He nodded toward the kitchen, where a blender sat on the counter. “I was about to make a smoothie.”

“Smoothie’s great,” I squeaked.

He grinned, unfazed. “Blueberry-banana okay?”

I nodded, and the blender roared to life, drowning out any chance of small talk. I took the moment to study his kitchen—all clean lines and stainless steel, nothing like the rustic interior I’d anticipated. When the noise died down, he poured two tall glasses, the purple-blue mixture looking almost too perfect to drink.

“Thank you, Mr. Harrington,” I said, accepting the glass.

“Please, call me Joe.” He smiled, and those laugh lines deepened. “We’re all friends here.”

“Joe,” I repeated, as if testing the word. It suited him—warm and unpretentious, like the man himself.

He nodded toward the sliding glass doors. “Got a fire going out back. Better view than in here.”

I followed him out, the September air clinging to that perfect balance between summer’s cling and autumn’s promise. The fire pit crackled in the gathering dusk, its glow painting Joe’s profile in gold. He settled onto a wide log bench, stretching his legs out with the easy confidence of someone who could strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere.

I perched beside him, careful not to spill my drink (or my dignity). The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably. Firelight danced over the gardens, and beyond it, the shadowed hills rolled into the horizon.

“So,” he said, stretching his long legs out in front of him, “I imagine you’ve got questions about the property.”

“About a thousand of them,” I admitted. “Though I have to say, this place is nothing like what I expected.”

“Tell you what,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “I can show you maps and surveys all night, but nothing beats seeing it firsthand. What do you say to a pre-dawn hike up to Eagle’s Ridge tomorrow? It’ll give you a real feel for the land, and from up there…” He gestured toward the darkening horizon. “—you have an incredible view of the Ohio River. On clear mornings, the sunrise makes the water look like liquid gold.”

I swallowed the last drops of my smoothie. “Sounds perfect.”

The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling into the twilight. Somewhere in the trees, a whippoorwill called.

The phone buzzed in my bag, shattering the peaceful moment. It was a text from Henry. I shook my head, slowly, and read the short text out loud: “New management has decided to convert Paradise Cove to a textile resort.” The fire blurred as tears filled my eyes. I tried to speak again, but my throat had closed up tight.

I pushed myself up from the bench, needing to move, to do something. Joe rose too, concern evident in his expression.

I’d barely taken a step when the world suddenly shifted. For one frozen instant, I wasn’t looking at the fire anymore—I was seeing through Kat’s eyes. Spencer stood before the manor staff, all lined up against the mahogany-paneled wall. His hand was half-raised, caught mid-gesture, his face twisted with the burden of delivering unthinkable news. EJ’s fingers were pressed against his mouth, tears already streaming down his weathered cheeks. Beth’s face was a mask of raw devastation. In that single captured moment, their collective grief told me everything.

“Jane, are you alright?” Joe was right in front of me now, concern painted all over his face.

My legs gave out and I crashed against him, my fingers dug into his back as if he were the only solid thing left in a world that was quickly spinning apart. “She’s gone,” I choked out, the words muffled against his chest. “Evelyn’s gone.”

He wrapped his arms around me, steady and warm. “Oh Jane, I’m so sorry.”

The numbness spread through me, replacing the initial shock. I pulled back slightly from Joe’s chest but couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“Why don’t we go back inside?” His voice was gentle.

I nodded, feeling wrung out, empty. As I grabbed my bag, another text—this one from Spencer, repeating what I already knew.

I lay in the unfamiliar bed of the guest room, my still-damp hair spread across an unfamiliar pillow, staring at the ceiling  I could barely see.

The shower had helped, sort of. Hot water sluicing over my skin, washing away the day’s grime, though not the hollow ache in my chest.

My mind turned to my bag. I don’t even know why I was fighting it. With a sigh of defeat, I pushed back the covers and padded across the room.

My fingers found the silk blindfold immediately – and then, as if moving of their own accord, closed around the cool metal of the handcuffs and their tiny key. I set them on the nightstand before climbing back into bed.

The word “Whore” kept flashing through my mind. There it was, all over the Internet. All my friends were going to see it. My teachers. My parents. Everybody. And maybe they were right—I had slept with Kat shortly after we met…

I picked up the handcuffs again and laid them across my belly. Slowly, I traced my fingertips along the metal curves, each stroke against my skin sending a familiar tingle through my body. The need built slowly, inexorably, like a wave I couldn’t outrun. With trembling hands, I tightened my grip on the cool steel.

The cuffs clicked shut around my wrists with practiced certainty. The blindfold pressed against my eyes, and I tried to pretend this was normal, that everyone had their own special recipe for sleep.

But in the quiet darkness, my mind wandered. I ached for Kat’s touch, her voice, her control. I felt the wetness between my legs and started awkwardly fingering myself, desperate for relief.

Unbidden thoughts of Joseph crept into my thoughts. What if he heard something and came to check on me? What if he opened that door right now and found me like this? My pulse quickened at the thought, shame and excitement mingling in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut behind the blindfold, as if that could block out the images my traitorous mind kept painting.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

My heart stopped. I fumbled desperately for the key with trembling, cuffed hands. My fingers grazed it, sending it skittering off the nightstand.

The soft tink as it hit the hardwood floor might as well have been a gunshot.

You’re fine. This is fine. Just get up and feel around for it.

But I couldn’t move. The darkness behind the blindfold seemed to thicken, pressing against my face like wet cotton. My chest tightened. Each breath came shorter than the last, as if the air itself was being squeezed from the room.

He’s going to come in. He’s going to see me like this.

The thought spiraled through my mind, growing larger with each rotation until it was all I could hear, drowning out even my heartbeat. My skin began to crawl, like thousands of insects marching across my body. The handcuffs, which had felt so safe moments ago, now bit into my wrists as I reflexively pulled against them.

My throat closed up as if invisible hands were squeezing it. Everything was too close, too tight, too dark, too much.

A shriek pierced the air, and it took me a moment to realize it was my voice. The sound was foreign, animal, torn from some deep place I hadn’t known existed inside me.

A gentle knock on the door. “Jane? I’m coming in.”

I couldn’t answer. My chest heaved with ragged breaths, hands trembling.

The mattress dipped as he sat beside me.

“You’re having a panic attack,” he said, gently taking my wrists to steady them. “I’m going to help you through this. First, let’s get these cuffs off you.”

Once he’d liberated my wrists and eyes, I could make out his silhouette in the dim room, solid and reassuring.

“Focus on my voice,” he said. “Match your breathing to mine. In through the nose…” He took an exaggerated breath. “Out through the mouth.”

I tried to follow his lead, but my lungs wouldn’t cooperate. “I dropped the key⁠—”

“I know, Jane. I have the key. Don’t worry about the key. Right now, we’re just breathing.”

“I’m sorry,” I gasped between breaths. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Sometimes the world gets too heavy to carry alone. Trust me, I’ve seen stronger people than you brought to their knees. It’s not weakness, Jane. It’s being human.”

The panic was still there, but his presence made it less overwhelming, like a storm viewed from shelter. Gradually, my breathing began to sync with his, the room stopped spinning, and the invisible weight on my chest started to lift. But the thought of being alone in this room, with its unfamiliar shadows and the echo of my own screams, made my chest tighten again.

“Joseph?” My voice sounded small. “Could I…” I swallowed hard. “I don’t want to be alone. Would it be okay if I slept with you tonight?”

He squeezed my hand gently. “Of course, Jane. And here—here’s your key.”

I slipped under the covers beside Joseph. The bed was large enough that we could keep our distance, but I was acutely aware of his presence—the subtle shift of the mattress as he moved, the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

“Comfortable?” His voice was soft in the darkness.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then Joseph cleared his throat. “So can I ask you something?”

“Um, sure—what’s on your mind?”

“Earlier, how did you know about Evelyn?”

I let out a long breath. “I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

The mattress shifted as Joseph turned toward me in the darkness. “You know, when I was Fire Captain, I became a strong believer in radical candor,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Have you heard of it?”

“Isn’t that a book about always telling the truth?”

“Yes, but it’s more nuanced than just truth-telling,” he replied softly. “It’s about having the courage to say what needs to be said, directly, but doing it from a place of genuine respect and care for the person you’re talking to. It means building enough trust that you can hear difficult things, or maybe… unbelievable things.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “It’s about creating a space for honesty, even when it’s hard.”

I stared into the darkness, gathering my thoughts. “A friend of mine—Adam—he’s like a real-life mad scientist. Long story short: He made a contraption named Project Juno that creates a connection between two people who love each other. Sometimes… sometimes I see through my girlfriend’s eyes. Through Kat’s eyes. Like a psychic Polaroid. That’s how I knew about Evelyn—I saw the moment the staff found out.”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it.

“What a beautiful love story,” he said finally, his voice gentle.

I turned my head to look at his silhouette. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“Jane,” he said, “I’ve seen enough impossible things to know that love has its own kind of magic.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, “for believing me.”

“Get some sleep, Jane.” His voice was a warm rumble in the darkness. “Tomorrow will be… well, difficult.”

“I know.” I turned onto my side, facing away from him.

As his breathing deepened toward sleep, I found my own eyelids growing heavy. For the first time in a long time, I fell asleep without being tied down.

Chapter 16

Safe Harbor

Joseph’s flashlight beam danced ahead of me on the path, carving out a tunnel of visibility in the darkness. The September air felt pleasantly cool against my exposed skin, not yet chilled by autumn but offering relief from summer’s lingering heat.

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythm of our breathing and footfalls creating a natural soundtrack. Occasionally, he would point out interesting features—a particular tree that produced exceptional nuts in the fall, a small clearing where deer often gathered, the remnants of a stone wall built by settlers a century ago.

The path began to wind upward, gradually at first and then with more purpose. Small beads of sweat formed on my back despite the pleasant temperature. Joseph moved with practiced ease ahead of me, his bare body a study in natural movement against the landscape he cherished.

“You doing alright?” he asked, pausing to let me catch up.

“Perfect,” I replied, and meant it. Despite the early hour and the exertion, there was something undeniably freeing about free hiking—nothing between my body and the world around it.

“Glad to hear it. We’re almost there—just around this last bend and up a small rise.” He gestured with his flashlight. “We’re right on schedule.”

The forest around us had begun to stir with life—the occasional rustle in the underbrush, the first tentative bird calls overhead. As we climbed the final stretch, the canopy thinned, revealing patches of sky where the deepest night blue was slowly yielding to something lighter.

Joseph reached the crest before me and extended his hand, his palm warm and solid as he helped me up the last few feet.

I clicked my flashlight off and stood still, waiting. Gradually, the darkness receded enough to reveal we were standing on an outcropping that commanded a view of the valley below. The land rolled away from us in gentle waves, and through it all, I could make out the distinctive curve of the Ohio River, a deeper shadow against the lightening landscape.

As we continued to watch, the horizon line gained definition, then began to glow with the palest amber light. Colors emerged from the monochrome world—the deep greens of the forest, the varied grays and browns of the soil and rock beneath our feet.

When the sun finally broke over the distant hills, its first rays struck the winding Ohio. The effect was instantaneous and breathtaking—the river transformed from a dark ribbon to a brilliant, meandering stream of gold cutting through the landscape.

“It’s beautiful,” I said quietly. The valley stretched out below us like a living painting, mist still clinging to the lowest places.

Joseph smiled and gestured to a worn wooden bench tucked against the rock face. As we settled in, the rising sun warmed our skin, chasing away the last of the predawn chill.

“Used to come up here with my Tilly at least once a week,” he said after a while, his voice soft with memory. “Spring through fall, rain or shine. She loved watching the seasons change from this spot.” He smiled, gaze fixed on the glowing river below. “We’d bring thermoses of coffee, watch the fog lift off the valley. Some mornings we’d just sit here in silence, other times we’d talk for hours.”

I waited, sensing he wanted to share more.

“She had this thing about the deer,” he continued, smile deepening. “Gave them all names, kept track of them like old friends. There was this one buck, had a crooked antler—she called him Ferdinand.” He shook his head, fondness warming his voice. “Swore he recognized her. Maybe he did.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“She was,” he nodded. “She taught third grade for almost twenty years. She had this special way with kids – could get through to even the most troubled ones. They’d come back years later just to visit her classroom.”

“But, we lost her to ALS two years ago now. It was quick – just fourteen months from diagnosis to…” He paused, his voice growing quiet. “Gone. I miss her every day.”

“I’m so sorry, Joe.” The words felt inadequate against the weight of his loss, but I offered them anyway, letting the silence that followed hold all the things that couldn’t be said. I rested my head on his shoulder.

He squeezed my hand gently. For a while, we just sat there, watching light spill across the valley. Then he turned slightly toward me.

“Remember our talk about radical candor last night?”

“Of course.”

“Well, along those lines, there’s something I want to discuss. About this property.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Well, Tilly and I didn’t just hike up here.” He let the words settle in the morning air.

“You made love out here,” I finished quietly.

“Exactly.” His voice was soft but certain. “There’s something magical about making love in nature. Something primal and pure about it.”

My heart skipped a beat. Was this conversation heading where I thought it was? I mean, we were alone on a mountaintop at sunrise, it really was a romantic setting but⁠—

“So what I’m trying to say, Jane, is that when we open this park to the public, I don’t want to kill that magic.”

Oh. Right. Of course that’s what he meant. I felt my cheeks flush slightly and was grateful for the dim dawn light.

“So how would that work? People would just have sex all over the place?”

Joe chuckled. “No, not exactly. But look around—” he gestured at the surrounding forest. “This land has countless private nooks and hidden spots. Natural alcoves, secluded groves. With the right membership system and clear guidelines, couples could have their intimate moments without disturbing anyone else.”

“That… might actually work.” My mind wandered to thoughts of Kat and me, tangled together beneath a star-filled sky. “A sort of Naturism 2.0, huh?”

“No, let’s not call it that,” he said carefully. “Naturists are emphatic about non-sexual nudity, and I respect that. I don’t want to muddy those waters. What I’m envisioning is something different—I’m calling it ‘Holistic Freedom.’ It’s more of a neo-pagan philosophy, integrating sexuality with our connection to nature. But with clear boundaries and complete discretion expected from all participants.”

“Holistic Freedom,” I repeated, testing the words. “It’s beautiful, Joe. And brave. Not everyone will understand it, but… let’s do it!”

After breakfast, I commandeered a corner of Joseph’s home office, propping my laptop on the antique wooden desk. The FaceTime ring had barely finished its first chime when Spencer’s face appeared on screen.

“Good morning, Jane. How may I help you?”

“Spencer, we need to change my flight.” The words tumbled out before I could properly greet him. “Instead of New York, I need to go to Florida. Paradise Cove. The new management… They’re planning to turn it into a textile resort!”

He frowned slightly before glancing down. “I’m afraid we have a scheduling conflict today—I’m heading to Chicago this afternoon for an important meeting.” He paused. “But I could set everything up for tomorrow morning. Would staying another night with Mr. Harrington be an issue”

“No,” I said, feeling my cheeks warm. “Not an issue at all.”

“Right then. I’ll arrange for a car to collect you at 9 AM tomorrow morning. You’ll fly into Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport, which is only a short drive to Paradise Cove.” He paused, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “Should I book your return for after the meeting?”

I nodded, suddenly aware of how impulsive this all sounded. Flying all that way for what could probably be handled with a phone call. But the thought of Paradise Cove being stripped of its soul—my chest tightened. I had to get down there.

“Yes, please. Thank you, Spencer.”

He gave me a small nod, his expression neutral but his eyes carrying a hint of concern I pretended not to notice. The screen went dark, and I was left staring at my own reflection in the laptop, wondering if I looked as unraveled as I felt.

I lay beside Joseph in the darkness, both of us staring upward in comfortable silence. After spending most of the day hunched over property maps with Joe and his lawyer, my brain felt like it had been put through a blender. I’d learned more about easements, land-use regulations, and liability clauses than I ever thought possible. Words like ‘covenant’ and ‘indemnification’ swam behind my closed eyelids as I finally collapsed into bed.

The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its soft whirring matching the rhythm of our breathing. Despite my mental exhaustion, or maybe because of it, my thoughts kept circling back to our conversation at sunrise, to the trust he’d shown in sharing both his grief and his vision.

“You know,” I said finally, “I’ve been thinking about what you said about radical candor.”

“Mmm?” The mattress shifted slightly as he turned his head toward me.

“It sounds simple in theory, but sometimes my thoughts feel… tangled. Like I can’t find the right thread to pull to unravel them into words.”

Joseph’s laugh was soft, a gentle rumble in the quiet room. “That’s the hardest part, isn’t it? Finding the words. What’s got you tangled tonight?”

I swallowed, suddenly aware of my heartbeat. “It’s just…” I paused, searching for courage. “I feel safe with you, Joseph. And I know this might sound strange, but I’d really like to just… be closer to you right now. Not in a—I mean, I don’t want you to think⁠—”

“Jane,” he interrupted gently. “Come here.”

He lifted his arm in invitation, and I hesitated only briefly before sliding across the space between us. His arm settled around my shoulders as I rested my head against his bare chest.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my ear.

“This isn’t complicated,” he said softly. “Two people finding comfort in a difficult time. Nothing more.”

The warmth of his presence and the certainty in his voice wrapped around me like a blanket. I felt my muscles relax, one by one.

“About last night,” I said after a while, my voice barely above a whisper. “The handcuffs…”

“Go on Jane. There’s no judgement here.”

“Sometimes, I just need to feel restrained, blindfolded. It makes me feel secure, somehow.”

“Jane, I don’t think you need to be a psychologist to understand that when you’re tied up, you’re relinquishing control. At least, you feel like you are, even though nothing around you has actually changed.”

I was quiet for a long moment, gathering my courage. His heartbeat remained steady under my ear, a metronome of patience.

“That’s… that’s not all of it,” I finally whispered. My fingers traced absently across his chest hair. “When I’m tied up like that, my mind goes places. Dark places. Taboo fantasies.” I swallowed hard. “Thoughts about being… discovered. Watched. Humiliated. Things happening that I can’t control or stop.” My voice trembled. “And the worst part is, some sick part of me gets excited by those thoughts, even while I’m terrified by them. What kind of person does that make me?”

“Jane,” he said quietly, “fantasies are just that—fantasies. The mind is a storyteller, especially when we give it darkness to fill.”

His hand found mine, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“When I was a firefighter, I learned something important about fear. The things that terrify us most often hold a strange fascination too. It’s why people slow down to look at accidents on the highway.”

He shifted slightly, his breath warm against my hair. “Those thoughts don’t make you sick or wrong. They’re just your mind exploring possibilities from the safety of knowing they aren’t real.”

“But why would I even think about…”

“Because the blindfold gives you permission. It creates a space where you’re allowed to feel without immediately judging yourself.” His voice grew thoughtful. “Have you noticed how you’re both excited and frightened by these thoughts? That contradiction is telling you something important.”

I nodded against his chest.

“Instead of condemning yourself, what if you asked what these thoughts are trying to tell you? Not about what you want to happen—because clearly you don’t want these scenarios in reality—but about what you might need that you’re not getting.”

His words hung in the air between us as I considered them.

“The guilt you feel,” he continued gently, “that comes from measuring yourself against rules you didn’t write. But thoughts alone aren’t actions, Jane. And exploring who you are in the privacy of your own mind is how we come to know ourselves.”

“I…” My voice caught as something clicked into place. “It’s not even really about sex, is it?” I said quietly, almost to myself.

I sat up slightly, Joseph’s arm still around me. “All my life, I’ve been so focused on being perfect. The perfect daughter, the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend. Even as a nudist, I had to be the perfect representation of body positivity.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “God, the irony—I’ll pose naked for a magazine cover but have a panic attack at the thought of someone finding out I have sexual fantasies.”

I took a shaky breath. “When that smear campaign started, calling me all those names… it wasn’t just that they were lying. It was that in some twisted way, I was terrified they might be right. That underneath the perfect facade, I’m… flawed. Human.”

“Perfection,” Joseph said softly, “is the heaviest burden anyone can carry. And the cruelest part is that it’s entirely self-imposed.”

His fingers threaded gently through my hair.

“One thing I’ve learned is that we’re all just doing our best with the messy, beautiful lives we’ve been given. The people who seemed most at peace weren’t the ones who never made mistakes—they were the ones who’d accepted that making mistakes is part of being human.”

He shifted slightly, his voice growing gentle but firm. “You don’t have to perform perfection to be worthy of love, Jane. Not for Kat, not for your parents, not for the world, and certainly not for me.”

The silence that followed felt different—lighter somehow, as if something I’d been carrying had finally been set down.

“Try to get some sleep,” he murmured. “And maybe tomorrow, you can practice the radical act of being exactly who you are.”

I squeezed his hand, feeling tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I love you, Joseph,” I whispered, the words surprising me even as they left my lips. But they were true in that deep, essential way that transcends romance or family—the recognition of one soul seeing another.

His arm tightened around me slightly. “I love you too, Jane. Now get some sleep.”

And for the second night in a row, I fell asleep unbound.

Chapter 17

East of Eden

The Paradise Cove fingerprint reader chirped its approval—at least they hadn’t purged me from the system yet.

I grabbed a golf cart and made a beeline for the administrative building. As I rounded the corner, my stomach clenched. The vibrant mural Kat had been creating—her masterpiece in progress—had been painted over in institutional white. The two-story concrete block looked more sterile than ever.

The receptionist’s eyes widened as I walked in, clutching my dress. “Miss, you can’t just⁠—”

I was already past her desk, pushing through the door with its fresh nameplate: “Reginald Bickerton, General Manager.”

A balding man in a cheap suit looked up from his laptop. The entire room had been painted in the same drab white color as the outside.

“Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Jane Cullen, and I ran this nudist resort until your company fired me. And now you’re going to turn it into a textile resort? That’s crazy!”

Reginald crossed his arms, nonplussed. “There’s no reason to get agitated, Ms. Cullen. Our accountants ran the numbers and determined the property would be more profitable as a traditional resort. It’s just business.”

“BULLSHIT!”

“Please watch your language, miss.”

“Listen—this isn’t just about money!” I jabbed my finger toward him. “Paradise Cove is a sanctuary. People come here to be free, to be themselves! You can’t just⁠—”

“Ms. Cullen,” he interrupted, checking his watch, “the decision has been made. The policy goes into effect next month.”

“Wait!” My mind raced. “What if I bought it? I have access to significant capital now. Name your price.”

That got his attention, but not in the way I’d hoped. He looked at me like I was a child offering Monopoly money for the Taj Mahal.

“I’ll give you ten million,” I said, the number falling from my lips before I could think it through. “Cash!”

Reginald’s patronizing smile made my blood boil. “Security?” he called out calmly.

Two uniformed men appeared, each built like a refrigerator. They grabbed my arms, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

“You don’t understand what you’re destroying!” I thrashed against their grip. “This is people’s home! Their community! You can’t just convert it into another soulless tourist trap for people afraid of their own bodies!”

They dragged me through the makerspace, my feet barely touching the ground. “The naturist movement is about freedom! About authenticity! About⁠—”

My tirade ended with an ungraceful thump as they literally tossed me out on my ass. My dress followed, landing on my head like the final punchline to this humiliating joke.

“Put some clothes on and get the fuck out,” the larger guard growled. “And don’t come back.”

Chapter 18

Ship of Theseus

The jolt of the jet’s wheels touching tarmac yanked me from a sleep so deep it felt like a minor death. I found myself sprawled across the Embraer’s leather seats, a decorative throw pillow clutched to my chest like a life preserver.

The engines whined down, a settling silence gradually taking over the cabin. My head swam, too fuzzy to process anything more than the urge to close my eyes again. I must have succumbed, because the next sensation was Hazel’s voice, quiet and close.

“We’re home,” Hazel said softly. The sympathy in her voice made me want to crawl under the seat.

Every movement sent fresh complaints from my bruised coccyx as I struggled upright. The evening sun slanted through the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the tarmac.

Hazel helped me up and guided me to the waiting SUV. It was all I could do not to fall asleep again on the short drive to the manor.

Once there, I just wanted to see Kat. I’d only been gone for a few days but it felt like a lifetime. I fumbled for my phone, muscle memory taking me to the Evie app’s map before I was fully aware of what I was doing. The blue dot representing Kat pulsed in the garage.

The walk there felt surreal, like moving through water. My sandals scuffed against the pavement with each tired step. The September heat pressed down, but I barely registered it.

When I finally pushed through the garage’s side door, the blast of air conditioning hit me like a wake-up call. Quinn was there, leaning against a support beam with her arms crossed, looking annoyingly blasé.  Kat’s bare legs stuck out from underneath The Duchess. To my surprise, the van stood completely rust-free, as if it had been scrubbed by a giant Magic Eraser.

“No work today?”

Quinn didn’t shift her stance. “I’m finished with all my tasks.”

“Where’s Spencer?”

“He had some big meeting in Chicago.”

“Oh right…” I rubbed my forehead. “I knew that…”

My eyes drifted back to the van. “You’ve got a real ship of Theseus here.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s an ancient Greek paradox. If you replace every part of a ship, piece by piece, is it still the same ship? Or at what point does it become something entirely new?”

“Okay nerd,” Quinn muttered, but her attention had shifted to the wall-mounted monitor that had suddenly flickered to life.

A video started playing—a video of my entrance into Paradise Cove’s admin building. I watched myself storm in, gesturing wildly, my mouth moving in what I knew was an increasingly unhinged tirade. Then came the guards, lifting me like a rag doll, and—thump. I rubbed my still-tender buttcheek reflexively.

“So what, you guys just record video from my phone everywhere I go?!” The accusation came out sharper than I’d intended.

Her eyes went wide. “What?! Are you daft! Clearly that’s security camera footage!”

The video looped again, and of course Quinn was right. The overhead angle, the timestamp in the corner—it was obvious. Spencer must have pulled this from Paradise Cove’s security system. And instead of just texting it to me, he made sure I’d see it here, larger than life.

Thanks, Spencer. Message received.

I watched myself burst through those doors like some kind of avenging angel. Except there was nothing righteous about it. Just a teenager throwing a naked tantrum. The kind of scene that probably already had a dozen smartphone recordings making their way across social media.

Brilliant, Jane. Really brilliant.

My recorded self was gesturing now, jabbing her finger like she had any right to make demands. Like she could just casually offer ten million dollars—ten million dollars!—as if buying an island resort was like picking up milk at the corner store.

Another loop. I could practically hear Spencer’s voice in my head, that precise British tone cutting through my delusions. All those hours he had spent, all those resources dedicated to containing the botnet attack on my reputation, and here I was, serving up fresh ammunition.

Would you like me to compose a list of all the procedures and protocols you ignored, or shall we just skip to the part where you commandeered a luxury jet to throw a hissy fit?

The security guards appeared on screen again. Even watching it now, knowing what was coming, I couldn’t stop myself from flinching as my body hit the ground.

Turning away, I walked out and let the heavy door slam behind me. The humidity felt like judgment against my skin, but at least out here, no one could see me crumble.

My legs carried me only as far as the stone bench near the rose garden before giving out. My body protested as I lowered myself onto the sun-warmed surface, but physical discomfort felt appropriate right now. Around me, late summer flowers bobbed in the evening breeze, their sweet perfume mingling with the earthy scent of freshly cut grass. The world felt impossibly beautiful for how broken everything else seemed.

“This seat taken?”

I patted the space beside me without looking up, and Kat settled onto the bench with her usual fluid grace. For a long while, we just sat there, watching the butterflies flit between roses as the light painted everything in amber and gold. A gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of autumn’s first whispers.

“I need to talk to you about Joseph—” I started, the words feeling clumsy on my tongue.

“I already know about Joseph.” Her voice was soft, gentle in a way that made my eyes sting with fresh tears.

“Because of Project Juno?” I asked, suddenly desperate to understand. “Did you see us that night?”

Kat turned to face me, and something in her expression made my breath catch. “No,” she said simply. “It doesn’t work for me. It never has.”

I turned to face her, startled. “Then how⁠—”

She met my gaze, and the world seemed to slow down. As I met her gaze, something shifted—like a curtain being drawn back, revealing depths I’d only glimpsed before.

Her eyes held mine, and suddenly I felt it—that inexplicable connection that had drawn us together from the very beginning. It was deeper than words, more intimate than touch. In that moment, I understood that she knew everything—not just about Joseph, but about all of it. My fears, my struggles, my desperate need to be perfect. And she loved me not in spite of these things, but because of them.

The butterflies continued their dance around us as Kat leaned in. When she kissed me, it felt like coming home. Like every star in the universe had aligned just to bring us to this moment. My hands found her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones as I kissed her back with everything I had.

When we finally parted, the butterflies had moved on, but the magic lingered.

Kat stood up and held out her hand. Even this simple gesture carried an authority that made my heart skip. As she led me back toward the manor, I felt the last of my defenses melt away.

The next morning, I found Spencer typing away as always. The room smelled of Earl Grey and focus, if focus had a smell. I hovered in the doorway until he acknowledged me with the slightest tilt of his head.

“I just wanted to say, I know I was seriously out of line yesterday… flying all the way to Florida and… well, you know the rest… It was extremely unprofessional of me, and a reckless waste of resources, and⁠—”

“Jane.”

The quiet firmness in his voice stopped my nervous babbling cold. I forced myself to meet his gaze, trying not to fidget under his steady eyes.

His expression softened, just barely. “I understand.”

Two words. That’s all it took for the tension to drain from my shoulders. “Thank you, Spencer.”

He was already turning back to his screens, but the subtle upward tick of his mouth told me everything I needed to know. I moved toward the door, feeling about ten pounds lighter.

“Actually, Jane—there’s something else I’d like to discuss.”

I paused mid-step and came back to take a seat. He removed his glasses and polished them meticulously with a microfiber cloth.

“While you were having your…” he paused, searching for the diplomatic word, “…adventure in Florida, I was in Chicago.” He replaced his glasses with precision. “On a business trip of my own.”

I waited, confused.

“I’ve been offered an opportunity to head up a security startup.” His tone was measured, as if reading from an internal script he’d rehearsed. “I’ve accepted.”

The words hung in the air between us. Spencer – leaving? My right-hand man, my technical anchor, my… whatever else he might have been becoming.

“It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he continued. “I’ll be working with the best minds in the industry.”

“When?” was all I could manage.

“I’ll stay on for a few weeks. Ensure everything’s properly transitioned.” His fingers tapped once on the desk. “As for the technical aspects, I recommend Quinn take over my responsibilities.”

“Quinn?” I blurted. “But she just started…”

Spencer’s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile on anyone else. “Some people just have a knack for it. She’s got rather a lot to learn, obviously, but she has a feel for it. She groks the command line.”

I was pretty sure that was Spencer’s way of saying, “She’s gifted when it comes to technology.”

“Right. Well. Congratulations,” I said, rising on slightly unsteady legs.

“Jane, one more thing.”

I sank back into the chair, wondering what else the morning could possibly bring.

“You remember the art gallery agreement Ms. Reynolds signed with Paradise Cove?”

“Of course.” A bittersweet smile tugged at my lips as I remembered that late-evening, smoke-filled back room. “That was the day I met her. It was like meeting a celebrity.”

Spencer’s expression hardened ever so slightly. “Our lawyers reached out to the new management. They claim they have no record of any such agreement.”

“What?” My hands tightened on the armrests.

“They took the $5 million but won’t build the gallery? Can they do that?”

“Our lawyers certainly don’t think so.” His voice held that familiar note of quiet certainty. “We’re filing suit next week.”

Part Three

The Winding Road

Chapter 19

Second Chances

“Isee the Eiffel Tower!” Quinn pressed her face against the Phenom’s window like an excited puppy, her breath fogging the glass. “Holy shit, we’re actually in Paris!”

Kat reached across me to get a better look, her artistic eye drinking in the view. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined,” she whispered, and I couldn’t help but squeeze her hand.

The descent into Le Bourget was smooth, and as we taxied toward the terminal, I spotted them immediately—Bill and Marguerite leaning against his ‘spunky’ Kia Soul on the tarmac.

Bill’s face split into that familiar grin—some things never change—and he caught Quinn in a hug that lifted her clean off the ground. “There’s my punk rock princess!”

I hung back, letting them have their moment, but I couldn’t stop staring. Henry hadn’t been exaggerating. Bill looked incredible. Sun-bronzed, fit, wearing linen pants and a crisp white shirt that actually fit properly. 

“Jane!” Bill released Quinn and pulled me into a hug that smelled of cedar and citrus. “Look at you! Twenty years old and running an empire!”

“Hardly an empire,” I laughed, extricating myself. “More like organized chaos with a business plan.”

“And this must be the famous Kat.” Bill turned his megawatt charm on my girlfriend, who actually blushed. “Jane’s told me all about your artistic genius.”

“She exaggerates,” Kat said softly, but she was smiling.

“Nonsense! And speaking of genius…” Bill gestured to the woman beside him with obvious pride. “Allow me to introduce Marguerite Dubois. Marguerite, these are the brilliant young women I’ve been telling you about.”

Marguerite stepped forward with the kind of effortless grace that made me acutely aware I’d been wearing the same jeans for an eight-hour flight. She was stunning—late 20s, I’d guess—with dark hair swept into an elegant chignon and eyes that sparkled with life.

“Enchanté,” she said, kissing both my cheeks in the French fashion. “I’m so pleased to meet you at last.” Her English was perfect, with just enough of an accent to be charming.

“Come, come!” Bill clapped his hands together. “The car’s just outside. We have dinner reservations, and I cannot wait to show you Paris!”

We piled in—Bill behind the wheel, Marguerite in the passenger seat, and the rest of us squeezed into the back like teenagers. 

“So,” Bill said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror, “tell me everything. Start with the birthday girl—twenty is a big one!”

I laughed. “Infinitely better than nineteen, when I spent it eating takeout alone in my apartment, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life.”

“And now?”

“Now I have a driver’s license, a magical girlfriend, and somehow I ended up running a venture fund for nudist ventures. Life’s weird like that.”

“Life’s got a sense of humor, that’s for sure. But talk to me about these nudist ventures—what kind of projects are you working on?”

“Well, we’ve got two main projects right now. The first is in southern New Hampshire, not terribly far from Boston.” I paused for a moment, watching Paris unfold outside my window in a blur of limestone and wrought iron, café awnings and impossibly small cars darting through impossible gaps. “We just call it the Nashua project, but basically it’s our prototype community center that’s part YMCA, part social club, and part safe space for nudist families.”

“The idea is to create accessible spaces,” Quinn added. “Not everyone can afford resort fees or to travel to far off places. Sometimes you just want to swim without a suit after work, you know?”

“That’s brilliant,” Marguerite said, turning to look at us. “In France, we have many municipal naturist spaces. It should be normal, no?”

“Absolutely!” I leaned forward. “And then we have our Kentucky project, over a thousand acres of pristine forest for hiking and camping. Tents only, back to basics.”

“Sounds wonderful.” Bill’s tone shifted slightly. “What’s the latest on Paradise Cove?”

I let the silence stretch for a long moment before answering. “Textile. Clothing not optional. They’re marketing it as a ‘family resort’ now, like that wasn’t what it always was.”

Bill’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I heard. Also heard Pine Acres might be next—last nudist resort in Mississippi.”

The silence stretched for a moment, heavy with shared understanding of what was being lost.

“Oh, look!” Quinn pointed out the window at a magnificent boat. “Are we actually going on that?”

Bill followed her gaze to where a sleek glass-canopied vessel waited at the stone quay along the water. “That’s us,” he said, his voice regaining some warmth. “Vedettes du Pont Neuf—dinner cruise on the river. Best way to see the city on your first night.”

The elegant boat glided through the darkening waters of the Seine like something from a dream. Golden hour was settling over Paris, turning the limestone facades to honey and casting long shadows across the water. Notre-Dame drifted past in all her restored glory.

“My first trip to Paris, she was covered in scaffolding,” I said softly as Bill settled beside me. “All those metal supports and safety netting after the fire. I remember thinking she looked like she was in bandages, healing.” I picked up my glass and took a sip. “Now she’s beautiful. Stronger than before.”

“Resilience,” Marguerite said from across the table, where she was helping Quinn identify landmarks. “Very Parisian trait.”

The waiter appeared with our meals, and I had to admit—the ratatouille was a work of art. Perfectly diced vegetables arranged in concentric circles, the colors vibrant against the white plate, fragrant with herbs that made my mouth water. Very different from the cafeteria slop I’d grown up calling ratatouille.

“This is incredible,” Kat murmured, taking her first bite. She’d been quiet most of the evening, overwhelmed in the best way by the city unfolding around us.

“So,” I said once we’d settled into the rhythm of dinner and sightseeing, “I have to know—how did you two meet?”

Bill and Marguerite exchanged the kind of look that made my heart squeeze—the kind Kat and I probably gave each other without realizing it.

“It was at the Louvre, actually,” Marguerite began, her accent making even the mundane sound romantic. “I was there for work, evaluating a piece for a client. And this American…” She gestured at Bill with fond exasperation. “He was standing in front of the Venus de Milo, lecturing a group of tourists.”

“I wasn’t lecturing!” Bill protested, nearly choking on his wine. “I was sharing interesting facts!”

“You were telling them about nudism in ancient Greece,” Marguerite said dryly. “Very loudly. In English. The security guard was about to intervene.”

Quinn buried her face in her hands. “Dad, no.”

“So I swooped in,” Marguerite continued, clearly enjoying Bill’s embarrassment, “and pretended to be his guide. Switched to French, told the guard he was a harmless professor researching classical sculpture. One thing led to another…”

“She saved me from getting kicked out of the Louvre,” Bill said, reaching for her hand across the table. “Then bought me coffee to lecture me about appropriate museum behavior. I was smitten.”

“You were ridiculous,” Marguerite corrected, but she was smiling. “Still are.”

The Eiffel Tower appeared around a bend in the river, already beginning to twinkle in the deepening dusk. Quinn let out a little gasp of delight, and even Kat pulled out her phone to capture the moment. The wine—a crisp Sancerre that went down dangerously easy—had loosened everyone’s tongues, and conversation flowed as smoothly as the Seine beneath us.

“What about you two?” Marguerite asked, gesturing between Kat and me as the tower’s lights reflected off our glasses.

Kat spoke up, her quiet voice carrying surprising warmth. “Jane commissioned me to paint a mural at Paradise Cove. I’d barely started when…” She trailed off, glancing at Bill.

“When we got the boot,” I finished, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “But hey, I got a wonderful girlfriend out of the deal, so I’m calling it a win.”

“No shit?” Bill leaned forward, wine making him even more animated than usual. “You know, we’ve been talking about getting a mural for the new place. Marguerite has this property in Provence, about an hour from the coast. We’re turning it into a small naturist retreat—nothing like Paradise Cove, just a dozen rooms or so. But the main house has this massive blank wall facing the gardens…”

Kat’s eyes went wide, her fork suspended halfway to her mouth. “You’re serious?”

“Completely. And let me tell you—the light in Provence is incredible. Cézanne, Van Gogh, Picasso—artists have been painting there for centuries. There’s something magical about it.”

“I…” Kat looked at me, then back at Bill, her cheeks flushed with wine and possibility. “I would love that. I mean, if Jane doesn’t mind me staying a few extra weeks.”

“Are you kidding? This is your dream!” I squeezed her hand under the table, feeling a surge of pure joy for her. “Stay as long as you want!”

The boat swung around another bend, and suddenly we were gliding past the illuminated facade of the Louvre, its glass pyramid glowing like a beacon. Bill raised his glass.

“To second chances,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “To new beginnings, old friends, and the people who save us from ourselves.”

The wine had made everyone drowsy and content. Kat leaned against my shoulder in the back seat while Quinn dozed against the window. Even Bill seemed more relaxed, one hand on the wheel, the other finding Marguerite’s as they navigated the glittering streets back to the hotel.

When we pulled up to the Four Seasons George V, even I had to whistle.

“My assistant Jordan made the booking,” I said, suddenly embarrassed by the opulence. “She said if we’re going to have money, we might as well enjoy it occasionally.”

“Your assistant has excellent taste,” Marguerite approved. “I cannot thank you enough for getting us a room here!”

We said our goodnights with promises to meet for breakfast—more hugs, more cheek kisses. Bill held Quinn extra long, whispering something that made her punch his shoulder affectionately.

Our suite was… excessive. Marble everything, a view of the Eiffel Tower sparkling against the night sky, a bathroom larger than my old cabin in the woods.

Kat stood naked on the balcony, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Hey,” I said, wrapping my arms around her from behind. “You okay?”

“I used to dream about this,” she whispered. “When I was a kid in New Mexico, painting on cardboard because we couldn’t afford canvas. I’d imagine standing on a balcony in Paris, being an artist. A real artist.”

“You are a real artist,” I said firmly. “With or without Paris.”

“I know. But…” She turned in my arms, eyes shining. “Thank you. For this. For everything.”

We kissed with the City of Lights spread out below us, and the world felt infinite with possibility.

Despite the wine and jet lag, I just couldn’t sleep. After several hours of tossing and turning, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Kat, and made my way down to the hotel bar.

I wasn’t surprised to find Bill there, sipping something from a tall glass.

“Whatcha drinking?” I asked, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

“Tom Collins. You want one?”

I took a sip—crisp and bright, with just enough sweetness to balance the gin’s bite. “Ooh, that’s good.”

Bill signaled the bartender. “Un autre Tom Collins, s’il vous plaît.”

“Couldn’t sleep either?” I asked.

“I get terrible bouts of insomnia,” he said with a shrug.

We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the bartender work. The hotel felt different at this hour—hushed, almost sacred.

“This year has been surreal,” I said finally. “You know, I still don’t understand why Evelyn put me in charge of her fortune.”

Bill chuckled. “Same reason I did, I imagine. She trusted you. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders and a big heart. She knew you’d do the right thing, just like I did.”

“And how’d that work out for you? You got bought out. Paradise Cove is a freaking textile resort. I failed you.”

“Hey.” Bill’s voice turned serious. “None of that was your fault. I ran Paradise Cove into the ground. Me. Not the economy, not changing times, not you. Me.”

I watched him swirl the ice in his glass, absorbing his confession.

“I never wanted it,” he continued, staring into his drink. “Growing up, everyone just assumed—Billy will take over the family business. Keep Granddad’s dream alive. But nobody ever asked if it was my dream.” He took a long sip. “Don’t get me wrong. I love that place. But loving something and wanting to run it? Different things entirely.”

“So what did you want?”

“This.” He gestured around us. “Adventure. Romance. Art galleries and cooking classes and waking up without checking occupancy rates.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Took a heart attack to figure that out.”

“Bill…”

“You did me a favor, Jane. You gave me permission to let go. To do what I wanted for once in my life. And look—” His voice softened. “I found Marguerite. I’m learning French. I can see my abs for the first time since college. Sometimes losing everything is the only way to find yourself.”

My phone buzzed, harsh against the quiet intimacy of the bar. The screen flashed: Jordan Diaz.

“Why the hell is my assistant calling me in the middle of the night?”

Bill glanced at his watch, calculating. “Keep in mind that with the time zones, it’s only around 5:30 PM back home.”

I answered. Jordan’s usually calm voice was tight with stress. “Jane? I’m sorry to call so late, but we have a situation. Someone firebombed the Nashua center.”

“What?! Is everyone⁠—”

“Everyone’s fine. Morgan grabbed a fire extinguisher, got it under control before it could spread. But Jane…” Her voice cracked. “The kids’ swimming class had just ended. If it hadn’t been for her quick thinking…”

I couldn’t finish the thought. The implications hung in the air like smoke.

“Okay. Thank you for calling. I’ll… I’ll figure out the flights.”

“Already done. The Phenom will be ready by 10 AM your time.”

“Thanks, Jordan.” I hung up, my hands trembling slightly.

“What happened?” Bill’s face had gone pale.

“Someone attacked our community center. Threw a Molotov cocktail or something.” I drained my glass, the gin burning. “Everyone’s okay, but…” I shook my head. “There were kids, Bill. Families just trying to swim in peace, and someone…”

“Hey.” Bill’s hand covered mine, warm and steady. “This isn’t your fault either. There are terrible people in the world. Always have been, always will be.”

He signaled for the check. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

The George V’s dining room was all crystal chandeliers and cream-colored elegance, the kind of place where even the butter came with its own silver knife. I’d barely slept, but the sight of fresh croissants and the rich scent of French coffee helped ease the knot in my stomach.

“The pain au chocolat here is legendary,” Marguerite said, sliding a flaky pastry onto my plate. “When Bill first brought me here, I ate three before he could order his eggs.”

“Only three?” Quinn grinned, already on her second. “Rookie numbers.”

Kat was cutting into her crêpe aux fraises, strawberry juice pooling pink on the white porcelain. “This is almost too beautiful to eat. Almost.”

“So Jane, how’s Art-Thor doing?” Bill asked, buttering his croissant. “I mean, Arthur.”

“Dad’s okay, I guess. He kind of went back to his old ways after you left.” I shrugged. “Less gaming, more… accounting.”

Bill’s face lit up. “Man, I miss playing Fortnite with that guy. This one time—oh, you have to hear this—we’re in duos, final circle, and Art-Thor’s got like 12 health left, right? So I’m telling him ‘Don’t push that team, they’re cracked,’ but does he listen? No way. He goes full W-key into this 1v2 situation.”

“W-key means rushing in aggressively,” I translated for the confused faces around the table.

“So he’s getting absolutely beamed⁠—”

“Shot at repeatedly,” I added.

“—and I’m thinking ‘GG, we’re chalked,’ but then this absolute madman pulls out the clutch of a lifetime. He boxes up⁠—”

“Built walls around himself for protection.”

“—hits a 200-pump on the first guy⁠—”

“Shotgun headshot for maximum damage.”

“—then no-scopes the second dude for the Victory Royale!”

“Killed him without using the scope, won the match,” I finished, as Bill beamed with pride.

Marguerite stared at me, impressed. “Jane, you’re fluent in Gamer. Do you play?”

“Nope,” I laughed. “But I heard those two yammer on about it day and night. Picked it up by osmosis.”

“That’s how I learned French!” Bill exclaimed, then turned to signal our waiter. “Excusez-moi, pourriez-nous avoir plus de café, s’il vous plaît?”

“Show off,” Quinn muttered, but she was smiling.

The conversation gradually died down, replaced by the gentle clink of silverware and the soft murmur of other hotel guests. I pushed the last bit of croissant around my plate, my appetite finally deserting me.

“I have to tell you all something,” I said, setting down my coffee cup.

The table went quiet.

“Someone firebombed our community center in Nashua last night.”

“Mon dieu,” Marguerite whispered. Quinn’s face went pale.

I recounted the call from Jordan, watching their faces grow more serious as I described how close we’d come to tragedy, how Morgan’s heroics had prevented disaster.

“It’s the visibility,” Marguerite said after a moment of heavy silence. “You’re succeeding. Making naturism normal, accessible. Some people… they fear that.”

“Let them fear it,” Quinn said fiercely. “We’re not stopping.”

“No,” I agreed. “We’re not.”

The goodbye at Le Bourget was harder than I’d expected. Quinn promised to monitor our security systems from France. Kat kissed me like she was trying to memorize the taste. And Bill…

Bill hugged me like a father.

“You’ve got this,” he said quietly. “And if you need anything—anything at all—you call me.”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Jane. We’re family. All of us. Family shows up.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Then I climbed the stairs to the jet, settling into the leather seat as Sam and Hazel ran through pre-flight checks.

As we lifted off, I watched Paris shrink below us, the Eiffel Tower becoming a toy, the Seine a silver ribbon.

Au revoir mes amis…

Chapter 20

New Foundations

Istood on the sidewalk looking up at the old building. The sign by the entrance read “Nashua Naturist Center” in clean, modern lettering, with “An RNV Project” spelled out in smaller text beneath.

My eyes drifted to the fresh plywood, still pale and unweathered, that covered what had been one of the large windows facing the street. I lingered, taking it all in. What kind of person bombs a building full of kids? I looked around, wondering for a moment if whoever did this was watching me right now.

Finally I climbed the concrete steps and pulled open the heavy glass door, stepping into the tiny lobby’s fluorescent brightness.

Behind the reception desk sat a young woman with curly red hair pulled back in a messy bun, completely nude except for a cheerful name tag stuck to her clavicle that read “Hi! I’m KYLIE!” She looked up from her phone with a bright smile.

“Hi there! Welcome to the Nashua Naturist Center! Are you here for the aqua aerobics class? Because I think that’s not until—oh wait, are you a reporter? Because I’m supposed to tell all reporters that they need to talk to the police first.”

“I’m Jane Cullen,” I said, setting my bag down.

Kylie blinked at me expectantly, her smile never wavering.

“I’m the head of RNV,” I tried again.

More blinking. I could practically see the gears turning.

“You know, RNV—it’s literally on the sign on the front of the building?”

“Oh! You’re from Reynolds Naturist Ventures!” Kylie’s face lit up with understanding. “Great, but Ashley’s not in right now.”

“That’s fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “I still need to come in.”

“Oh, okay!” Kylie brightened, apparently satisfied with this reasoning. “And just so you know, we’re textile-optional in the lobby area, but once you get past the changing rooms it’s clothing-free only.”

“Yes, I’m familiar, thanks.”

She reached under the desk and pressed a button. A loud buzzer sounded, followed by the click of a lock disengaging.

I quickly made my way to the locker room and procured a locker with my thumb. I really had to talk to Ashley about bypassing this whole front desk routine.

A naked young woman was helping a boy who looked to be about seven or eight get his sneakers off. He was chattering away, completely unselfconscious in the way only kids can be.

“—and then Marcus did a cannonball and it splashed ALL the way to the ceiling, well not really the ceiling but really really high, and the lifeguard said no more cannonballs but Marcus didn’t get in trouble because—oh hi!” He looked up at me with bright, curious eyes. “Are you new? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Sort of,” I said, setting my bag down on the bench. “I don’t get to visit very often.”

“Oh, you should come more! It’s the BEST place ever. I can swim without my stupid bathing suit that always gets all bunchy and weird, and nobody cares if I flap my hands when I get excited, and the water feels so much better on my skin and⁠—”

“Noah, breathe,” his mom said gently, but she was smiling. She looked up at me apologetically. “Sorry, he gets really enthusiastic about this place. He’s on the spectrum and has major sensory issues with clothing. This is honestly the only place he can just… be himself.”

“I think this is a special place, too, Noah,” I said, sitting down on the bench to be closer to his level. “Everyone deserves somewhere they can feel completely comfortable being themselves.”

Noah spotted another kid through the doorway and immediately perked up. “Oh! There’s Marcus! Mom, can I go say hi?”

“Of course, sweetie. Just stay where I can see you.”

He bounded off, leaving his mother and me in the sudden quiet of the locker room. She smiled apologetically again.

“I’m Hannah, by the way. And thank you for being so sweet with him. Not everyone… gets it, you know?”

“I’m Jane,” I said, then took a breath. “Jane Cullen. And actually, I should probably mention—I’m the one behind this project. RNV, the funding, all of it.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, really? I had no idea.” She looked almost embarrassed. “Here I was just chatting away like⁠—”

“No, please, that was perfect. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

She sat down on the bench across from me. “You know, I’ll be honest—I brought Noah here purely for his sensory issues. I thought it would just be about swimming without a bathing suit. But this place…” She gestured around us. “It’s changed our whole family. The way people treat each other here, the respect for everyone’s body, the emphasis on being active and eating well. Noah’s learned to be kinder to himself, and honestly, so have I.”

She paused, looking thoughtful. “It’s like everyone here has internalized this idea that if you respect yourself, you naturally respect others too. And there’s something about being in nature, being authentic, that just makes people… better.”

I felt a warmth spread through my chest. “That’s exactly what we hoped for.”

“We drive up from Burlington, Mass. to get here, but it’s so worth it,” Hannah continued.

I leaned forward slightly. “Can I tell you a secret? This place, it’s just the beginning. We’re hoping to build naturist centers like this all over the country. Places where families like yours can feel completely at home.”

“Oh, that’s great news!” Hannah beamed. “Having more places like this would be such a gift.” She tilted her head toward Noah’s distant chatter. “Speaking of which, I should probably go make sure he’s not talking some poor soul’s ear off about cannonballs.”

With all my belongings secure in the locker, I shut it with a soft click and made my way to the nearby pool area.

The sound hit me before I even opened the glass doors—a symphony of splashing water, shrieking laughter, and voices that bounced off every tiled surface in joyous cacophony. Families filled every corner of the space: toddlers with round bellies paddling in the shallow end, teenagers attempting underwater handstands, grandparents absorbed in paperbacks from their lounge chairs. Near the diving board, a father patiently coached his daughter through proper form while she executed one spectacular belly flop after another, each impact sending up geysers that made nearby swimmers squeal with delight.

I spotted Noah and Marcus in the deep end, locked in what appeared to be an underwater face-making contest, surfacing with gasps and giggles before plunging back down for another round. A cluster of mothers had commandeered the hot tub, deep in animated conversation punctuated by occasional shouts of encouragement to their children. The entire facility hummed with that distinctive brand of controlled chaos that emerges when you combine chlorine, kids, and summer vacation energy—pure, infectious joy ricocheting off the walls.

From there, I made my way to Morgan’s office. Through the glass partition, I could see her hunched over her laptop, fingers moving across the keys. When she glanced up and spotted me, she immediately pushed back from her desk and crossed the room.

We embraced—one of those brief, weighted hugs that acknowledges everything without requiring words.

“Morgan, I can’t even begin to thank you. If you hadn’t been there⁠—”

She cut me off with a wave, though I caught the flush of pride beneath her obvious exhaustion. “It’s what anyone would’ve done.”

“No, it’s not.” I sank into one of the molded plastic conference chairs, suddenly feeling every hour of the transatlantic flight settling into my bones like lead. “Not everyone would’ve known what to do, or moved that quickly.”

“National Guard training,” she said, offering a slight shrug. “Emergency response, fire suppression—in a crisis, you act fast or people die. Simple as that.”

Ashley materialized in the doorway, her expression equal parts relief and concern. “Jane, thank God you’re here.”

“What’s the latest?” I asked, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair.

“The police have been through all the security footage.” Ashley’s tone carried a note of frustration. “Unfortunately, it’s not promising. The cameras are as ancient as the building itself—black and white, grainy as hell. You can make out a masked figure, average height, dark clothing, but beyond that…” She spread her hands in a gesture of defeat. “Could be literally anyone.”

“Let’s get a modern security system installed immediately,” I said. “Motion sensors, high-definition cameras, better lighting in the parking lot. Everything.”

“Already working on it,” Ashley replied without missing a beat.

Rain began drumming against the windows with increasing intensity. I stood and walked over to watch the droplets streak down the glass, my reflection pale and ghostlike in the dim afternoon light. The exhaustion was finally catching up with me—I’d barely slept in days, and I felt dangerously close to simply collapsing where I stood.

“Jane?” Ashley’s voice seemed to drift from somewhere very far away.

I pressed my fingertips against my temples, trying to push through the fog of fatigue and focus on what needed to happen next.

“As horrible as this incident was, I’m confident we’ll find whoever’s responsible,” I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. “But in the meantime, we need to think about moving forward.”

Both Morgan and Ashley leaned forward slightly, waiting to hear what I had in mind.

“This experiment has exceeded every expectation we had. I think it’s time we moved to the next phase.” I straightened my shoulders, feeling some of my familiar determination returning like muscle memory. “Ashley, I’d like to offer you a new position—Regional Development Director. You’d oversee the expansion of naturist centers like this one across the country, working directly with our team at RNV.”

Ashley’s eyebrows rose. “That’s… wow. It would definitely be a challenge I’d welcome.” She glanced toward Morgan, then back to me. “But what happens to this place?”

“Morgan,” I said, turning to face her directly, “I’d like you to transition into Ashley’s current role and take over management of the center.”

“I would be honored,” Morgan said, her voice quiet but certain.

“Excellent.” I turned back to Ashley. “For the next location, I’d like you to consider Burlington, Massachusetts.”

Ashley nodded, already looking like she was mentally mapping out possibilities. “I’ll start researching the area immediately.”

“Oh, one more thing…” I paused, remembering my earlier encounter. “You know how we have those thumbprint readers for the lockers? Let’s install something similar for the front entrance. I never want to deal with that receptionist again!”

Morgan grinned. “I’ll take care of it, boss. Consider it the first task of my new role!”

Chapter 21

Plum Crazy

We drove past a large sign that read “Pine Acres Nudist Resort” in faded letters that might have once been green, before coming to a stop in front of what looked like a wooden fortress wall, complete with a rusty intercom box mounted on a post. My driver rolled down his window and pressed the button.

“Reservation for Jane Cullen,” he announced into the metal grid.

A moment later, a crackly voice responded with something unintelligible, and the massive wooden gate began to slide open with a grinding sound that suggested regular maintenance wasn’t a high priority here.

Here was Tishomingo County, Mississippi. After some much-needed R&R back in Ithaca, Jordan had arranged this scouting trip based on Bill’s intel.

The Escalade crept forward along a narrow dirt road that wound through dense pine forest. When we finally emerged into a clearing, I found myself staring at what could only be the main office—a squat, concrete building that looked like it had been designed by someone whose architectural inspiration came from Soviet-era bomb shelters.

I stepped out into the humid summer air, wearing only my sandals, and retrieved my carry-on from the trunk. Slinging my purse over my bare shoulder, I wheeled my luggage across the sun-bleached parking lot, the wheels catching occasionally on cracked pavement that sprouted weeds through its fissures.

The Escalade drove off just as I stepped inside. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, illuminating walls decorated with posters that looked older than me. The building doubled as a sort of nudist 7-Eleven. One aisle offered up all the essentials: sunglasses, sunscreen, sunburn cream. Another featured all manner of merch—beach towels, hats, water bottles—all emblazoned with the resort’s little pine tree logo.

A white-haired man was standing at the counter, his frustration evident in every gesture as he tried to communicate with the elderly woman behind the large wooden desk. He was naked except for a loose white undershirt and flip-flops.

“But the website said you had Wi-Fi!” he insisted.

“We do,” the woman replied with grandmother-like patience, her wire-rimmed glasses and oversized red sweatshirt with a black and white panda bear completing the image. “It’s just a mite finicky. Sometimes you just need to give it a rest and try again. Have you tried turning your computer off and on again?”

I waited until the man finally gave up and wandered away, muttering something about smoke signals being more reliable. Approaching the counter, I offered my most professional smile. “Hi, I have a reservation under Cullen.”

The woman—whose name tag read ‘Ruth’—peered at me over her glasses. “Did you bring your printout, sweetie?”

“My… printout?” I blinked, then reached for my phone. “I have the confirmation email right here.”

“Oh, let me see that phone of yours,” she said, holding out her hand with the casual authority of someone who clearly did this regularly. I watched as she carried my phone to the other end of the desk where she started hunt-and-peck typing on a beige PC with a peeling Gateway 2000 sticker on the side. The last time I’d seen a CRT monitor like that was when I visited the Computer History Museum. Each deliberate keystroke produced a sharp clack that echoed through the office reminiscent of a typewriter.

I found myself counting the water stains on the ceiling tiles while Ruth finished her data entry. She turned to me with a satisfied smile and handed me my phone. I felt a surge of relief—until suddenly the high-pitched whine and staccato chattering of a dot matrix printer filled the small room as it laboriously produced the details of my reservation, one line at a time.

With a practiced motion, Ruth tore off the printout along its perforated edges and moved to a slightly less ancient machine—this one sporting a flat-screen monitor that might have been cutting-edge at the peak of MySpace’s popularity.

“Um, what exactly are you doing?” I asked, trying to keep the dread out of my voice.

Ruth looked up, slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Well dear, I’m copying your information from the reservation computer to our check-in computer.”

I wondered if there was a third computer for billing, or if that was handled by an actual abacus. But before I could ask, the phone rang. Without missing a beat, she produced a stack of paperwork from beneath the counter. “We just need to go through our rules and regulations, and a few questions,” she said before answering the phone. “Pine Acres Nudist Resort, this is Ruth speaking. How may I help you?”

I flipped through pages of questions: Have you ever been to a nudist resort before? Do you have any memberships? Are you a veteran? Do you have any medical conditions we should know about? Allergies to the sun, plants, insects? Have you ever fainted at the sight of a naked body? Okay, I made that last one up, but it wouldn’t have seemed out of place among the rest.

As I worked my way through the questionnaire I couldn’t help overhearing Ruth’s side of the conversation as she rummaged for a notepad. “Yes, we do have availability next month,” she said, uncapping a pen with her teeth. “The rates? Well, it depends. We have four different room configurations…” She began scribbling furiously. “The Pinecone Suite is our most popular. Are you coming as a single, couple, throuple? How many children?”

I was somewhere between ‘Have you ever been convicted of a felony?’ and ‘Do you have any communicable diseases?’ when Ruth’s voice rose an octave. “Are you a first-time visitor? If you’re staying more than a week, every eighth day is free. Do you need Wi-Fi? Because there’s a daily surcharge…”

After a pause, Ruth’s expression fell. “Oh, I see. Well, thank you for your interest.” She hung up and shrugged. “They changed their mind. Now, where were you with those questions, dear?” Before I could answer, she whisked the papers from my hands. “That’s plenty, sweetie—thank you.”

I stared at the half-completed questionnaire disappearing into a drawer, wondering if anyone would ever read my carefully considered responses about sun allergies.

Ruth produced a drab gray wristband made of what might have been rubber in a previous life. “This is your room key and resort charge card,” she explained, sliding it across the counter. “You’ll be Villa 1177, Building 4, second floor.”

“Um, can’t I just use my fingerprint?” I asked. “Or my watch?”

Ruth stared at me as if I’d just suggested we could teleport to the moon. I glanced over my shoulder at the growing line of guests—some clothed, some not—and decided this wasn’t a battle worth fighting.

“Right. Thanks.” I slipped the band onto my right wrist, gathered my luggage, and headed for Building 4.

The “Luxury Pine Villa” turned out to be a testament to creative marketing. Someone had apparently raided every estate sale within a fifty-mile radius to furnish the place, resulting in a decor scheme I could only describe as “Grandma’s Attic Meets Yard Sale Chic.” A watercolor of what might have been either a sunset or a forest fire hung crooked on the wall, its frame sporting enough dust to qualify as an archaeological find.

“At least there’s a bed,” I muttered, dropping my carry-on beside a particleboard dresser that listed slightly to the left. I let myself fall backward onto the mattress—a mistake I immediately regretted as several springs staged an uprising against my spine. The mattress had clearly been around long enough to remember the Carter administration.

The ceiling fan wobbled overhead in a hypnotic pattern, and I found myself wondering if the gentle swaying was a feature or a warning sign.

Standing up (carefully, to avoid another spring assault), I crossed to the room’s single window. Through the slightly grimy glass, all I could see was an identical building across the way—same brown paint, same everything.

After applying a generous layer of sunscreen—the one modern amenity I’d brought myself—I headed out to explore the grounds.

The pool area was eerily quiet for a summer afternoon. A handful of guests lounged on plastic chairs, some in various states of dress despite the “clothing prohibited” sign prominently displayed. An elderly man dozed behind his newspaper while two other men in T-shirts played chess in the shade. The pool itself sat empty, its surface unbroken except for the occasional leaf drifting across.

I followed a narrow path that wound through a cluster of pines, grateful for the patches of shade. The trail opened suddenly onto a view that stopped me in my tracks—a lake stretched out before me, its surface gleaming in the morning sun. A faded green paddle boat rested on the narrow strip of beach, calling to me like some kind of escape vessel.

“It’s broken,” a voice called out, more matter-of-fact than apologetic.

I turned to find a thin man watching me from the shade of a massive oak. He was probably in his sixties, with the deeply tanned skin of someone who’d made outdoor living a lifestyle choice rather than a hobby. Laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, and his silver hair caught the sunlight filtering through the leaves.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I replied, glancing back at the boat. “Does anything here actually work?”

He chuckled, moving closer with an easy, unhurried gait. “Some things. The lake works pretty well—been here longer than any of us.” He gestured at the weathered bench beside him. “Care to sit?”

I joined him, and we watched a pair of dragonflies dance across the water’s surface.

“Place has seen better days,” he admitted. “Nudism had its heyday back in the seventies and eighties. Lots of young families then, looking to get back to nature.” He shook his head. “Now the facilities are aging about as fast as our regulars.”

“I’m Jane,” I offered. “Jane Cullen.”

“Tom Hollingdale,” he replied, extending his hand. “Resort manager. Been keeping this place running—more or less—for the past twenty-five years.”

“Wait—you run this place?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “So why don’t you just… fix it up?”

Tom’s laugh held more resignation than humor. “Fix it up? With what?” He gestured toward the lake. “Last month I had to choose between replacing the paddle boat and fixing the AC in Building 5. AC won.” He paused, studying me with a hint of amusement. “I’m guessing you’ve never had to decide which emergency gets the last of the maintenance budget?”

I looked down at my feet, watching as I traced a pattern in the sand with my toe. When I glanced back up, I tried to sound helpful. “What about a bridge loan?”

This time his laugh was genuine. “Oh, we have loans alright.” He leaned back on the bench. “But a couple of years ago, when our sewer main broke, things went from bad to catastrophic in a heartbeat. We defaulted on a couple of loans and wrecked our credit. So—” he spread his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture, “no more loans for us.”

“The pool was pretty quiet when I passed by,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Is it always like that?”

Tom sighed, running a hand through his windswept hair. “You noticed that, huh? Used to be different. Kids splashing, families laughing, newcomers being welcomed like old friends.” He gazed out at the lake. “Now? The regulars stick to their routines. Young folks like yourself take one look around and never come back.”

We sat in comfortable silence. I found myself studying the lake’s surface, watching ripples spread from where a fish had jumped. Twenty-five years he’d been keeping this place alive, watching it slowly fade like an old photograph left in the sun.

I stood, brushing sand from my legs. “My organization—we could buy this place, turn it around. Bring it back to what it used to be.” I paused, meeting Tom’s eyes. “But it’s not really our mandate. Our goal is to fund new, innovative naturist ventures, not prop up the status quo.”

Tom nodded slowly. “I understand. You’re looking for the next big thing, not trying to resurrect the last one.”

“Something like that.”

He was quiet for a moment, then pushed himself up from the bench. “Well, since you’re here anyway, would you like to meet the owner? Roy’s the original founder. Might be worth hearing his story before you head back to whatever innovative venture you find next.”

I checked my watch—still plenty of daylight left. “Sure. That sounds lovely.”

The house sat apart from the main buildings, connected by a stone tile path lined with wildflowers that had clearly seeded themselves. Tom knocked twice before letting himself in, calling out a greeting as we entered.

The living room felt frozen in time—wood paneling, a massive console television, and family photos covering every available surface. Roy himself was exactly what I’d pictured: a man pushing ninety, wrapped in a faded afghan despite the summer heat, watching what appeared to be a nature documentary with the volume turned up loud enough to wake the dead.

“This is Jane Cullen,” Tom said, raising his voice slightly. “She’s a prospective buyer.”

Roy studied me with the frank assessment of someone who’d long ago stopped worrying about social niceties. “You don’t look like you have that kind of money.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“Hmm.” He muted the television with a brick-like remote. “Tom tell you about all our problems?”

“Most of them, I think.”

“Good. Hate when people waste my time pretending things are better than they are.” He shifted in his chair, wincing slightly. “Been thinking about selling for years now. Place needs someone with energy. And money. Lots of money.”

We talked for a few minutes about the property, the financials, the challenges of keeping any resort running in the current environment. Roy was sharper than his age suggested, asking pointed questions about my background and intentions.

Finally, he pushed himself up from the recliner with visible effort. “Got something that might help you make up your mind. Follow me…”

Tom and I exchanged glances, but we followed Roy as he shuffled slowly through the house. He led us out through a side door to a detached garage.

“Haven’t shown this to anyone in years,” he said, fumbling with a set of keys. The garage door opened with a screech of protest. The sunlight spilled into the small space, and I actually gasped.

“1970 Dodge Challenger R/T,” Roy said, his voice full of pride. “440 Six Pack, four-speed. Plum Crazy Purple—that’s the factory color name, believe it or not.”

The car was the color of ripe plums, so deep and rich it seemed to absorb light. Every curve flowed into the next with mechanical poetry, from the hood’s subtle bulge to the way the rear quarters flared over massive tires. Chrome bumpers caught the sunlight like diamonds, and even sitting still, the thing looked ready to leap forward.

I found myself moving closer without conscious thought. The paint was flawless, mirror-bright, and when I peered through the driver’s window I could see black leather seats that looked like they’d been installed yesterday.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered, and meant it. I’d never been a car person—transportation was just transportation. But this… this was something else entirely. Art on wheels.

Roy was watching me with obvious satisfaction. “Bought her new in 1970. Been my pride and joy ever since. Three hundred and ninety horsepower, zero to sixty in under six seconds when that meant something.”

“Does she still purr like she used to?” I asked.

“Still runs like she did the day I drove her off the lot. Can’t drive anymore,” Roy continued, his voice growing softer. “Reflexes aren’t what they used to be, and my legs…” He trailed off, then looked at me directly. “She’s yours if you buy the resort. But I need your word that this place stays a nudist resort for at least the next twenty years. In writing.”

I looked up at him, seeing something fierce and protective in his weathered face. This wasn’t just about money—it was about legacy, about keeping something alive that mattered to him.

“Twenty years,” I repeated.

I walked around the Challenger one more time, taking in every detail. When I came back to where Roy stood, I extended my hand.

“Deal,” I said.

Roy’s grip was surprisingly firm. He pressed the keys into my palm, and I felt their weight like a promise.

Chapter 22

Americana

The 440 V8 rumbled beneath the hood like controlled thunder as I guided her around a sweeping curve. Rolling hills stretched endlessly on both sides of US-641, dotted with weathered barns and grazing cattle that barely lifted their heads as the car roared past. The Tennessee countryside blurred by in shades of green and gold, fence posts ticking by like a metronome.

I adjusted my new sunglasses and let my left arm hang out the window, fingers dancing in the wind. After months of climate-controlled jets and giant SUVs, this felt like breathing again. No phone calls, no one asking me to sign anything. Just the open road and the satisfying growl of American engineering from an era when cars had souls.

A flash of movement ahead caught my eye—a lanky college-aged kid with a backpack standing beside a hand-painted sign that read “Anywhere” in black letters. His thumb was out, but his posture suggested he wasn’t entirely confident about the whole enterprise.

I downshifted and pulled over, gravel crunching under wide tires. He approached cautiously, taking in the shiny muscle car first, then me and my lack of attire. His eyes went wide behind wire-rimmed glasses, and he froze mid-step.

“Where you headed?” I called over the engine’s idle.

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Literally anywhere is fine. I just need to get out of this town.”

“Well I’m going up to Kentucky if you’re interested.”

He hesitated, hand on the door handle. “Um, do I need to take my clothes off?”

I grinned. “No, you can keep them on if you want. But fair warning—Bathsheba here doesn’t have air conditioning.”

He tossed the cardboard sign into the back seat and slid into the passenger seat with the careful movements of someone trying very hard not to stare. I could practically see the gears turning in his head as he processed the situation.

“I’m Jane,” I said, pulling back onto the road. The sun was getting lower now, casting everything in that golden hour light that made even Tennessee’s modest hills look like a movie backdrop.

“Connor.” He placed his backpack carefully at his feet. “And thanks for stopping. I’ve never done this before…”

“Hey, it’s no problem at all. I’ve been taking the back roads and enjoying the scenery. Plus, I could use the company.”

An awkward silence settled between us, filled only by the engine’s rumble and the wind rushing past. He kept fidgeting with the zipper on top of his backpack.

“You can look at me,” I said, sliding my sunglasses up onto my head. “It’s just a body. Nothing to be nervous about.”

He turned to look at me properly for the first time, taking in the whole situation with an almost clinical gaze. After a moment, he pushed his glasses up his nose.

“You actually remind me of the Venus de Milo,” he said. “You know, just… with arms. And a lot more alive.”

I laughed—a genuine one. “That might be the most creative compliment I’ve gotten all year. Thanks!”

Connor shifted in his seat, then said quietly, “I’ve honestly always hated cars—gas guzzlers even more so.” He paused, running his hand along the door panel like he was petting a cat he wasn’t supposed to like. “But man… I’m really loving this.” He turned to look at me and shook his head in defeat. “Well at least it’s not a private jet.”

“Right,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “That would be terrible.”

We passed a weathered farmhouse with a tire swing hanging from an oak tree, kids playing in the yard who waved enthusiastically as the car roared by. I waved back, and after a moment, Connor did too.

“So where’d you get it?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, funny story… I just bought an old nudist resort in Tishomingo County, Mississippi. At first I wasn’t going to buy it, because that really isn’t our mandate⁠—”

“Our mandate?” Connor interrupted, eyebrows raised.

“I’m, uh, the head of a venture capital firm for innovative nudist ventures. And, well, old run-down resorts don’t exactly fit that definition…”

“But…?”

“But they sweetened the deal by throwing in this beauty. At first I thought ‘God, I’m such a fool.’ but then I realized we could use this as a golden opportunity.”

Connor tilted his head. “How so?”

“Well, here’s the thing—many of these nudist resorts opened in the sixties and seventies. They’ve been running on autopilot for decades, and now everything’s starting to break down at once. Septic systems, cabins, pools… the works. A lot of these places are drowning in maintenance costs and debt.”

“Okay…”

“So we’ve been reaching out to resort owners who might be interested in selling. We pay off their debts, handle the modernization, take care of all the unglamorous stuff like landscaping and utilities. It’s not a hostile takeover—we’re positioning ourselves as allies. These people built something special, and we want to help them preserve it.”

Connor nodded slowly. “And you get economies of scale.”

“Exactly. Plus, when someone visits one of our properties, they’ll know what to expect. There’s consistency to the experience no matter where they go.”

Connor was quiet for a moment, then tilted his head. “I see. Like a franchise. You’re like the McDonald’s of the nudist world.”

“Well, I hope we set the bar higher than McDonald’s!” I laughed. “Though I suppose the basic principles are the same.”

We’d been driving for maybe ten minutes when I finally asked what I’d been wondering since I saw him on the roadside. “Connor—what’s got you in such a rush to leave town?”

He reached into his backpack, carefully pulling out a serious-looking camera. “Canon 5D Mark III,” he said, cradling it like something precious. “I want to make documentaries. Real stories, you know? But nothing interesting ever happens in small towns.”

I glanced over at him. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “Come on. Every place has stories. You just have to know where to look.”

Connor was quiet for a long moment, his fingers absently brushing the camera’s controls. “Yeah, well… maybe you’re right about that.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “There was something. I was… I wrote for the school paper, and I found out about some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Our school… they were manipulating transcripts. Grade inflation for certain students, making sure the right kids got into the right colleges.”

I felt my eyebrows rise. “Certain students?”

“Kids whose parents made big donations to the school. Or whose families had connections. Meanwhile, kids who actually earned those grades…” He shrugged bitterly. “The whole thing is just so fucked up.”

“You reported this?”

“Yeah. I posted it anonymously online. Had documents, emails, everything.” His laugh was hollow. “I thought I was being so careful. But somehow they found me.”

“How bad was the fallout?”

“The most powerful families in town want my head. The rest are threatening to sue the school, which somehow is also my fault.” He stared out at the passing farmland. “Even some of my friends won’t talk to me. They think I should have just kept my mouth shut.”

I was quiet for a moment, processing. “You did the right thing.”

“It had to be done.” He gripped the camera tighter. “And I’d do it again tomorrow. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell today.” He stared at the road ahead. “But now, time to find somewhere that actually wants the truth.”

The back roads wound through the darkness, illuminated only by my headlights. In the passenger seat, Connor dozed, his head lolling against the window. I rubbed my eyes, trying to stay alert, when a sudden ding from the dashboard made my heart jump.

I glanced down and groaned. The low fuel light glowed amber in the dimness of the car.

After a few tense minutes, a beacon of hope appeared—the glowing Chevron logo of a small gas station. I pulled in and rolled to a stop next to the pump.

The sudden stillness roused Connor. He blinked and looked around blearily. “Where are we?” he mumbled.

“Middle of nowhere,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Time to fill her up.”

“Wait, you’re not going in there naked are you?”

I grinned. “Hmmm. I wasn’t planning to, but now that you mention it…”

“Jane. You can’t be serious!”

“Tennessee, two in the morning, middle of nowhere? What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Um, let’s see… You could get arrested!”

“We’ll just say I lost a bet.” I grabbed my purse from the center console. “Come on. You said you wanted to record ‘real stories,’ right? Grab your camera out and let’s go.”

The automatic doors announced our arrival with an electronic chime. Inside, a man who looked like he’d seen enough of life to stop being surprised by it, sat behind bulletproof glass. His name tag said “Angel” but his expression said “don’t test me.”

I approached the counter like Lady Godiva without her horse. “Fifty on pump three, please.”

Angel’s eyes flicked up, processed the situation, then returned to whatever video he was watching on his phone. He hit buttons on the register one-handed. “That it?”

“That’s it.”

I was turning to leave when Connor stepped up to the glass. “Uh… excuse me, sir? I’m making a film about American attitudes toward⁠—”

“Toward what?” Angel set his phone down hard enough to make Connor flinch. “Toward people minding their own damn business?”

“I just meant⁠—”

“You meant why am I not making a fuss about her.” Angel stood slowly, revealing arms sleeved in fading blue-black ink. “Let me ask you something, filmmaker. You know how many real problems I see come through that door every night? Tweakers trying to steal beer. Drunks pissing in my parking lot. Kids shoplifting candy bars to feel tough.”

Connor kept filming, wisely staying quiet.

“But you know what makes my blood boil? Politicians. Bunch of overgrown hall pass monitors. This country’s become one big detention center. Can’t collect rainwater without a permit. Can’t sell lemonade without a license. Can’t feed the homeless without the health department crawling up your ass. They got cameras on every corner, tracking every move you make. They know what you buy, where you go, who you talk to. Big Brother is always watching you.”

Angel’s eyes blazed with old anger.

“I did two years because I was growing plants—plants, man—in my own basement. Not bothering nobody. But they kicked down my door at 4 AM like I was some kind of terrorist. You know what real crime is? It’s telling people what they can and can’t do with their own bodies, their own property, their own lives.”

He finally looked directly at me. “Society’s got its priorities ass-backwards. This young woman’s not hurting anybody. Hell, she’s probably the most honest person to walk through that door all week.”

The fluorescents hummed in the silence that followed.

He rang up the sale. “Your change, miss.”

“Keep it.” I headed for the door. “Thanks, Angel.”

“Yeah.” He was already reaching for his phone again. “You folks drive safe now.”

Outside, Connor followed me to the car in stunned silence. As I pulled back onto the road, he finally spoke.

“That was…”

“Educational?”

“I was going to say intense.” He glanced back at the station, its glow already fading behind us. “Were you scared? Going in there like that?”

I considered the question, my hands steady on the wheel. “A little,” I admitted. “The old me would never have done something like that. But becoming a naturist gave me something I didn’t expect—confidence.”

“How does being naked give you confidence?” Connor shifted in his seat to face me better. “That seems… backwards.”

I smiled, remembering the day I met Quinn at Paradise Cove. “Think about it this way. The first time you bare all in front of complete strangers, you’re exposing every flaw, every imperfection you’ve spent years hiding. But then you realize something profound—nobody cares about those flaws the way you do.”

“But why don’t they judge? I mean, people judge clothed bodies all the time.”

“That’s exactly it—clothes are about hierarchy. Why do CEOs wear designer suits? Why do doctors wear white coats, cops wear uniforms? It’s all about signaling power, status, belonging. Even regular clothes—designer jeans, the right sneakers—it’s all code for where you fit in society.” I adjusted my grip on the wheel, warming to the topic. “But when everyone’s naked, all those signals disappear. The investment banker and the grocery clerk are just… human. No power dynamics, no class markers. You can’t tell who drives a Mercedes and who takes the bus.”

“So without the costume, there’s no role to play?”

“Exactly. And without roles, without that social hierarchy, what’s left to judge? You see bodies as they actually are—stretch marks, scars, different shapes and sizes. It all becomes beautifully ordinary. The playing field is completely level.”

Connor was quiet for a moment, processing. “So it’s not sexual at all.”

“Not even close. It’s about freedom. About being comfortable in your own skin—literally. There’s something honest about it that I find… peaceful.” I navigated a gentle curve, the headlights sweeping across pine trees. “Look, I get it—if you’ve never been to a nude beach or naturist resort, the whole thing seems alien. But when you actually go, you realize it’s just people living their lives. Swimming, playing pickleball, hiking, reading books. Just without the textile barrier. It’s quite liberating.”

Connor went quiet after that, staring out at the darkness rushing past. Finally, he shifted in his seat.

“I want to try it.”

“Hmm?” I glanced over, not sure I’d heard right.

“I want to try it. Going in naked.” His words came out in a rush. “You can film it this time, dressed. Document the documentarian, right?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Connor, I don’t need any more gas.”

“So?” He sounded almost offended, like I was missing the obvious. “I’ll buy a bottle of water or something.”

“You sure about this?”

“No.” He laughed, high and nervous. “But that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? You can’t wait until you’re sure. You just have to…”

“Jump?”

“Exactly.”

The next gas station materialized out of the darkness like a mirage—another fluorescent oasis in the endless stretch of darkness. “Alright, Connor. Your moment of truth.”

He was already unbuttoning his shirt with shaky fingers. “Oh God. I can’t believe I’m doing this…”

The parking lot lights hummed against the cricket chorus as we entered. The bell above it gave a pathetic ding that seemed to get swallowed by the emptiness of 3 AM.

“Rolling?” Connor whispered.

“Yeah. Just act natural.”

Behind the counter sat a guy who looked like he’d been marinating in this place for years. Late forties maybe, stubble that had given up trying to be a beard, and eyes that had that thousand-yard stare you see in war documentaries. His name tag read “Hunter” in faded letters.

“Help you?”

Connor grabbed two water bottles while I pretended to browse the chips. Through the viewfinder, I watched Hunter scratch at a stain on his uniform shirt.

“Hey,” Connor said, setting the drinks on the counter. “You work here every night?”

“Five years of midnights. Why?”

“You must get all kinds through here at night?”

That got his attention. His gaze shifted between us, then landed on the camera. “That thing on?”

“We’re just documenting our road trip,” Connor said quickly. “You know, capturing America at night, that kind of thing.”

Hunter snorted. “America at night. Right.” He rang up the drinks with deliberate slowness. “You kids should go home. Nothing good happens at three in the morning.”

“Come on,” I said, lowering the camera slightly. “You can’t say something like that and not elaborate. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen?”

“Lady, when you work the night shift out here, a naked dude doesn’t even make the top ten weird list for today. Druggies, lot lizards, tweakers thinking you can read their mind…” He waved a hand dismissively. “Your friend’s little stunt? That’s nothing. Now you kids run along home to mommy and daddy.”

“Oh, come on,” I pressed. “One story. The absolute weirdest. Please.”

He looked at us for a long moment, then lit a cigarette directly under the “No Smoking” sign.

“You ever seen a ghost?” Connor asked.

“Ghosts? Yawn. Everybody’s got a ghost story.” He took a long drag, eyes going distant. “But if you want a real head-scratcher? This one… this one felt like the universe hiccuped.”

Hunter took another long drag on his cigarette, the ember flaring bright in the dimness. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face as he seemed to deliberate. The neon beer sign behind him buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly glow.

I adjusted my grip on the camera, zooming in on Hunter’s tired face. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant whoosh of a semi passing by.

Finally, he stubbed out the cigarette and leaned forward, forearms on the counter. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, as if he were peering into some other dimension only he could see. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a low, conspiratorial murmur.

He glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure we were truly alone. The gesture sent a tingle down my spine. Whatever he was about to tell us, it was clear he’d never shared it with anyone before.

“Last November, cold as a witch’s… well, it was cold. Real quiet night, not even a trucker for hours. Just me and the wind.

“Around three AM, this guy walks in. Normal looking—jeans, black hoodie, maybe mid-thirties. Comes up to the counter and asks, clear as day, ‘Excuse me, do you know what time the next showing of The Crimson Pirate is?’

“Now, I ain’t heard of no Crimson Pirate movie. Closest theater’s fifty miles out. So I tell him, sorry, pal, this ain’t Nashville…

“He just blinks. Then says it again, exact same tone: ‘Excuse me, do you know what time the next showing of The Crimson Pirate is?’

“I’m thinking this is a prank right? But he does it again. And again. Same words, same tone, looking right at me but like he’s not… processing.

“So I try something different. ‘Hey man, you okay? You need help?’

“He goes quiet. Then nods real slow and says, ‘Thank you. That was very helpful.’ Walks out, drives off. Didn’t even buy a damn thing!”

Connor whistled. “Whoa. Like an NPC glitching out in a video game.”

Hunter lit another cigarette, taking his time. He blew a perfect smoke ring toward the water-stained ceiling tiles.

The story gave me chills, but something was nagging at me. The repetition, the phrasing…

“Wait.” I kept the camera rolling, my mind racing. “It’s like he wasn’t talking to you…”

Connor shifted beside me. “What are you thinking, Jane? Maybe he was on a Bluetooth call or something?”

“Wasn’t nobody else here,” Hunter said flatly. “And no sign of a phone or headphones—nothing in his ears at all.”

I shook my head slowly, the pieces starting to click. “That ‘Excuse me’ part he kept repeating—notice how formal it was? It’s like saying ‘Hey Siri’ or ‘OK Google.’”

Hunter’s cigarette paused halfway to his mouth.

“What if…” I continued, “what if he was testing something? Some kind of wearable tech, or even⁠—”

“Some kind of neural interface?” Connor suggested.

“Maybe? If he was talking to something only he could hear, he wouldn’t even register Hunter’s answers because he was waiting for a response from whatever was in his head.”

“So when he said ‘Thank you, that was very helpful’…” Connor began.

“He was thanking his AI, not Hunter. Hunter just happened to be standing there while this guy troubleshot his brain-cloud connection.”

“In the middle of nowhere,” Hunter said quietly. “In the middle of the night…”

“Gotta test the edge cases, right?” I added.

We all stood there for a moment, letting that sink in.

“Jesus.” Hunter finally stubbed out his cigarette with more force than necessary. “Do you know how much sleep I’ve lost over this?! I thought for sure the guy had glitched here from some other timeline!”

As we drove away, Connor kept glancing at me. “You really think that’s what it was?”

I thought about Project Juno. “I think Hunter’s seen a lot of weird things. But that one? I think we can safely put it in the “solved” category.

“You know what?” Connor said as we passed another Waffle House. “We should do one together. Both of us.”

I glanced at him. “Together?”

“Come on, it’s the perfect ending for the documentary segment. Started with you, then me, now both of us. Rule of threes, right?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re really getting into the spirit of this, huh?”

“It’s… liberating. Like you said.” He spotted a sign. “Look, there’s another station ahead.”

This gas station was newer, brighter, with actual working security cameras. Should have been our first warning.

We pushed through the door together, Connor holding his camera again. Behind the counter sat a woman built like a linebacker, with steel-gray hair and arms that suggested she’d wrestled more than one drunk trucker in her day. Her name tag read “Dolores.”

She looked up from her crossword puzzle. Her eyes went wide. Then narrow.

“Ah HELL no!” She slammed down her pencil and grabbed her phone. “Not in MY store!”

“We lost a bet!” we both blurted out together, but our goofy grins betrayed us.

“I don’t give a DAMN what you lost!” Dolores was already dialing. “You get your naked asses out of my store before I⁠—”

We didn’t wait to hear the rest. Connor grabbed my hand and we bolted, the bell clanging frantically behind us. I’ve never started a car so fast in my life.

“Go go go!” Connor laughed hysterically as I peeled out of the parking lot, gravel spraying.

In the rearview mirror, I could see Dolores in the doorway, still waving her phone like a weapon.

“Well,” Connor gasped, checking the side mirror, “that was⁠—”

“Educational?” I suggested, my heart still racing.

“I was going to say terrifying!”

“Rule of threes,” I muttered. “Should’ve quit while we were ahead.”

Chapter 23

Severance

The Challenger’s engine growled as I pulled into Joseph’s driveway, the sound shattering the peaceful early morning quiet. Over a dozen hours on the road. My shoulders ached, my eyes burned, but none of that mattered now. I was here.

The front door swung open before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt. Joe emerged, squinting against the sunrise, his hair sticking up at odd angles. The sight of him made my chest tight with something I couldn’t quite name.

“Jane?” His voice carried across the driveway, disbelief mixing with delight.

I practically fell out of the car in my rush to reach him. “Surprise!” I managed, before throwing myself into his arms.

He caught me easily, lifting me off my feet in a bear hug that squeezed the remaining highway tension from my bones. “You’re here,” he said into my hair. “You’re actually here.”

“Drove straight through from Mississippi,” I said, my words muffled against his shoulder. “Only stopped for gas and the occasional drive-through. God, I missed you.”

He held me tightly, and then his hands came up to frame my face. Before I could say another word, he kissed me—one of those kisses that makes the world stop spinning, that makes you forget there’s anything else in the universe except this moment, this person, this feeling of finally being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathless.

Behind us, I heard the passenger door open. Connor climbed out, naked like the rest of us. He stretched like a cat and looked around with wide eyes.

“Oh,” I said, pulling back slightly but not letting go of Joseph. “I picked up a hitchhiker. Joseph, meet Connor. Connor, this is Joseph.”

Connor approached, extending his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. I mean—Joseph. Sorry.” He shook his head, flustered. “It’s just—Jane said you were friends, but that was definitely not a ‘just friends’ kiss.”

Joseph took Connor’s hand with an easy smile. “Nice to meet you too, Connor. And you’re right, it’s complicated.”

“But I thought—” Connor turned to me, confusion clear on his face. “You mentioned your girlfriend Kat was in France?”

“She is,” I said, leaning into Joseph’s side. His arm came around me naturally.

Connor’s eyes darted between us, and I could see him doing the math. Joseph must have noticed too.

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m thirty-nine. Old enough to be Jane’s father, but…” Joseph tilted his head. “You read much Heinlein?”

“Stranger in a Strange Land? Sure, I’ve—” He paused, processing. “Oh. Oh. Water brothers. You’re water brothers?”

“Exactly,” Joseph said, clearly pleased. “Though we prefer ‘water siblings’ these days.”

Connor nodded. “That actually makes perfect sense. Wow. That’s—that’s really cool actually.”

Joseph’s attention shifted to the car. His voice dropped low, like he was narrating a nature documentary. “Here we have a pristine Plum Purple Crazy 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T.”

“Her name is Bathsheba,” I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.

He circled the car slowly, reverently. “You know, my buddy Rick’s dad had a ‘72 in Hemi Orange. We used to ‘borrow’ it all the time in high school—scared the hell out of ourselves more than once. Never thought I’d see another one in this condition.”

Connor piped up. “I couldn’t believe it when she pulled over to pick me up. I thought I was hallucinating.”

Joseph looked at me with something approaching awe in his eyes. “Where did you even find this?”

I laughed. “It’s a long story that I’ll happily recount after I’ve gotten a solid night’s sleep.” I glanced past him toward the house. “Your garage door’s open?”

“Yeah, I was planning on changing the oil on the Indian this morning.” He started walking toward the garage, and Connor and I followed. As we got closer, the morning light caught the red paint and chrome.

I turned to Connor. “Joseph taught me how to drive last fall.”

“On a motorcycle?”

“A 1928 Indian Scout 101,” Joseph corrected with obvious pride. “The 45-cubic-inch model. It was my great-grandfather’s.” He looked at me with a mixture of nostalgia and amusement. “She’d never driven anything before. Not even a bicycle.”

“And you started her on an antique motorcycle?” Connor sounded incredulous.

“Hey, I asked him to,” I said. “My dumb ass thought it would be easier than his old truck!”

Joseph chuckled. “Ah well, it all worked out. You’re a quick study.”

A high-pitched whine cut through the morning air, followed by a dark blur overhead.

“What the hell was that?” Connor spun around, craning his neck skyward.

We all looked up, shielding our eyes against the early sun. The sky seemed empty, just wisps of cloud against the brightening blue.

Then another one zipped past—lower this time, maybe thirty feet up. The distinctive quad-rotor silhouette was unmistakable.

“Drones?” I said.

Connor was already moving, jogging back to the Challenger. He yanked open the passenger door and dove into his backpack, emerging with his Canon. He brought it to his eye just as a third drone appeared, this one hovering about fifty feet up, its camera gimbal rotating slowly.

The shutter clicked rapidly. “Got it,” Connor said, lowering the camera to check the LCD screen.

“Joe, you have a shotgun, right?” I said, already starting toward the house. “Let’s just blast these things out of the sky!”

“Whoa there, Annie Oakley,” Joseph said, catching my arm with a chuckle. “Much as I’d love to see you take down surveillance drones with buckshot, shooting into the air in a residential neighborhood is generally frowned upon. Plus, if these things are recording, ‘naked woman brandishing shotgun’ probably isn’t the footage we want floating around the internet.”

More drones buzzed overhead.

Connor kept shooting photos. “Five, six, seven… This isn’t some kid with a Christmas present. This is definitely coordinated.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

Bill’s voice echoed in my head, clear as if he were standing right beside me: “And if you need anything—anything at all—you call me.”

But it wasn’t Bill I needed. Not for this.

“I need to make a call,” I said, already pulling out my phone. My hands shook slightly as I scrolled through my contacts. Paris was six hours ahead—mid-afternoon there. Perfect. I hit the call button and pressed the phone to my ear, counting the rings. One. Two. Three.

“Jane?” Quinn’s voice came through crystal clear despite the ocean between us. “Everything okay?”

“No, we have a problem.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but another drone buzzed overhead and I flinched. “There are drones—a whole swarm of them—flying over Joseph’s property.”

“Can you send me a picture? I want to see exactly what we’re dealing with.”

I turned to Connor. “She needs to see the photos.”

He held up the old camera, frowning. “They’re on the memory card. I don’t have a way to⁠—”

“Wait.” I grabbed my iPhone. “Show me the best shot on the LCD.”

Connor cycled through the images until he found one. I leaned in close, snapping a photo of the camera’s screen with my phone.

“Sending it now, Quinn.”

“Got it. Standby.” I could hear rapid typing. “Running an image search… DJI Phantom 3 Standard. Over ten years old—definitely hackable if I can find the right vulnerability. Get your laptop ready.”

I quickly grabbed my MacBook from the trunk, balancing it on my suitcase as I connected to Joseph’s WiFi. “I’m ready,” I told Quinn. “What do you need me to do?”

The line went quiet except for the rapid-fire clicking of Quinn’s keyboard—punctuated by occasional muttered curses in French—while overhead, the drones continued their methodical surveillance pattern.

“Found it,” Quinn said, triumph creeping into her voice. “There’s an exploit in the control protocol. I’m sending you a script now—check your email.”

My mail refreshed, and there it was: a file from Quinn with a subject line of “RUN THIS!”

I downloaded the attachment—a file called “phantom_override.py”—and opened Terminal. My fingers moved quickly across the keyboard, navigating to the Downloads folder.

“Okay, I’ve got the file,” I said into the phone.

“Good. Now type ‘python3 phantom_override.py’ and hit enter.”

I typed exactly what she said, hoping I got it right. Lines of green text scrolled past too fast to read—something about network scanning and protocol injection—before the terminal settled on a simple message:

Phantom 3 Override Ready

Press ENTER to execute exploit when target is transitioning flight modes

Waiting for command…

The cursor blinked expectantly.

“Ready,” I said.

“The trick is timing. These older Phantoms have a vulnerability when they switch between GPS and ATTI mode. We need to catch one during that transition.” Quinn’s voice carried through the phone speaker. “Connor, I need you to tell Jane the instant one of those drones stops moving and hovers. Then count to three and tell her when it starts moving again. Jane, you’ll run the script right at that transition moment.”

Joseph leaned in. “What happens if we miss?”

“Nothing. The script won’t connect. But if we time it right…” Quinn paused. “Let’s just say those drones will become very expensive paperweights.”

“There!” Connor shouted. “Northwest, about forty feet up. It’s hovering now.”

My finger hovered over the Enter key, heart hammering.

“One Mississippi… Two Mississippi… Three—it’s moving!”

I went to hit Enter, but missed as my vision suddenly filled with an entirely different scene. Red rock formations stretched against an incredible azure sky, the distinctive sandstone cliffs of the Desert Southwest, unmistakable even in the brief flash.

A woman stood in profile against those ancient rocks, nude and heavily pregnant, her skin golden in the sunlight. One hand rested on her swollen belly while the other pushed dark hair back from her face. Beautiful, serene, glowing with that particular radiance of late pregnancy.

And through the connection, I could feel it—the overwhelming wave of love Kat felt looking at her. Deep, protective, fierce love that made my chest tight with its intensity.

“Jane? Jane!” Joseph’s voice was urgent and close.

“Did you run it?” Quinn’s voice from the phone speaker. “Jane, talk to me!”

I blinked hard, the red rocks fading as Joseph’s concerned face swam back into focus. My finger was still poised above the Enter key, but the moment was gone.

“Shit,” Connor said, lowering his camera. “They’re leaving.”

He was right. The drones were rising now, organizing themselves into some kind of formation. One by one, they banked east and accelerated, their whining fading as they disappeared over the tree line.

“I’m sorry,” I managed, my voice shaky. “I had a… I missed it.”

“Jane, what happened?” Quinn’s tone had shifted from tactical to worried.

“Sorry, gotta run.” I sprinted for the garage.

The Indian Scout sat there, gleaming red in the morning light. Keys in the ignition, just like always—one of the perks of living in the country. I swung my leg over, muscle memory from last fall taking over.

The engine roared to life just as Connor appeared beside me.

“What are you⁠—”

He didn’t finish the question, just hopped on behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist in a death grip.

“Hold on!” I shouted, though the warning came a split second after I’d already twisted the throttle.

We shot out of the garage like a bullet, the Indian’s engine screaming. The drones were just visible over the trees, moving fast but not faster than a 1928 Scout with a determined rider.

“Jesus Christ!” Connor yelled in my ear as I leaned into the first turn, gravel spraying.

“Just keep your eyes on the road!” he added. “I’ll be your spotter. They’re bearing northeast—take a right at the mailbox!”

I focused on the road, trusting Connor’s eyes while the old bike thundered beneath us. Naked, on an antique motorcycle, chasing a swarm of drones through rural Kentucky!

“Left at the stop sign!” Connor shouted.

I banked hard, my knee nearly scraping the asphalt. The Indian wasn’t built for this kind of riding, but she was holding her own. Behind me, Connor’s grip tightened as we accelerated out of the turn.

The drones were pulling ahead, their straight-line path mocking our winding route through the hills.

“Still northeast!” Connor called. “They’re maybe a quarter mile ahead—shit!”

An Amazon van materialized around a blind curve, straddling the center line. I yanked the handlebars right, tires screaming as we barely threaded the gap between the van and the ditch. The driver laid on the horn, the sound dopplering behind us.

“That was too close!” Connor’s voice cracked.

“You want to drive?” I shouted back, already leaning into the next curve. These hills were killing us—every rise and dip, every switchback curve let the drones pull further ahead while we were stuck following the ribbon of asphalt.

“They’re descending!” Connor’s arm shot out, pointing. “Take the next right!”

I knew that road—straighter, flatter, following the valley instead of the ridgeline. I downshifted hard, engine braking as we approached the turn, then gunned it coming out. The Indian surged forward, finally able to stretch her legs.

“I can see them landing!” Connor bounced behind me, trying to get a better view. “White van, maybe half a mile. They’re going down fast—someone’s packing them up!”

I twisted the throttle until it wouldn’t go any further. The speedometer needle climbed past anything reasonable for a 97-year-old motorcycle. Wind tore at my eyes, making them water. The engine note had passed “unhappy” and was approaching “catastrophic.”

“There!” Connor pointed again. “That’s ground zero!”

I saw it—a white panel van parked on a dirt turnout, back doors open. A figure in dark clothing was frantically shoving drones into cases, movements quick and efficient.

The Indian’s engine roar echoed off the hills like thunder. The figure’s head snapped up, saw us bearing down, and abandoned the remaining drones. They sprinted around to the driver’s side, tires spinning in the dirt before the door was even closed.

“Should we follow?” Connor asked as the van fishtailed onto the main road.

“Hell yes,” I said, twisting the throttle again. The bike leaped forward, eating up the distance between us and the fleeing van.

We were maybe fifty feet behind when the driver’s window rolled down. An arm emerged, and even in the morning light, there was no mistaking the dark shape of a pistol.

“GUN!” Connor screamed.

I swerved hard right, putting us directly behind the van where the driver couldn’t get an angle. My heart hammered against my ribs. This had escalated way beyond privacy violation.

The driver kept trying to aim backwards, twisting in their seat, the van weaving dangerously across both lanes. They were so focused on us, so intent on getting a clear shot⁠—

“TREE!” Connor and I screamed in unison.

The van jerked left at the last second, but it was too late. The front quarter panel caught the massive oak with a sickening crunch of metal and glass. The van spun sideways, momentum carrying it off the road where it came to rest against a fence post, steam hissing from the crumpled hood.

I hit the brakes hard, the Indian’s rear wheel sliding as we stopped mere feet from the wreck.

“Are they moving?” I asked, already off the bike and running toward the van.

Connor was right behind me. “I can’t tell—the airbag deployed.”

We reached the driver’s door together, yanking it open. The airbag was already deflating, revealing the slumped form behind it.

Blood trickled from a cut on her forehead, and her left eye was already swelling shut behind her designer glasses, but the rage burning in her expression was unmistakable. Around her neck, a strand of pearls caught the light—and suddenly I had a flashback to that fateful Zoom call.

“Becky?!”

“My. Name. Is. REBECCA ALDRICH!” She screamed the last part, and suddenly there was a pistol in her hand, the barrel pointed directly at my head.

The world went sideways. I hit the ground hard, small rocks biting into my skin, my brain still trying to process what had happened. Connor—Connor had shoved me out of the way.

I looked up to see him grab Becky’s wrist with both hands, twisting sharply. She cried out as the gun tumbled free, clattering onto the road. I lunged for it, my fingers closing around the cold metal as Connor hauled her bodily from the van.

He moved with surprising efficiency, getting her face-down on the ground in seconds. His knee pressed between her shoulder blades as he pinned her arms behind her back. She thrashed and cursed, but Connor held firm.

“Jane, you okay?” he asked, not taking his eyes off Becky—Rebecca—whatever she wanted to be called.

“Yeah,” I managed, still clutching the pistol with shaking hands. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Rebecca spat, her face pressed against the asphalt. “Little Jane Cullen, making me look like a fool in front of EVERYONE!”

She struggled against Connor’s hold, managing to turn her head enough to glare at me with her one good eye.

“For twelve years I’ve been the voice of standards in the naturist community! Twelve years of respect! And then you—some nobody filling in—you turned me into a JOKE!”

Blood from her forehead dripped onto the road. “‘Put away the fangs, Becky!’” She mimicked viciously. “They all laughed. Every single one of them. At ME!”

She thrashed harder, voice rising to a shriek. “I was trying to maintain our family values! Trying to keep standards! And you—you made that delinquent into a hero! Rewarding criminal behavior while I became the punchline!”

Connor adjusted his grip as she tried to buck him off. “Lady⁠—”

“They used to listen to me!” Tears mixed with the blood on her face. “My opinion mattered! Then five minutes of your nonsense and suddenly I’m a fucking joke. The harridan. The one everyone snickers about behind my back!”

The sirens were much closer now. Joseph’s truck door slammed.

“You humiliated me,” she hissed. “In front of my peers. My community. People I’ve known for decades. They chose YOU—a freakin’ child—over me. You destroyed my reputation with one stupid story about some horny teenager!”

Her voice cracked. “You ruined EVERYTHING!”

The next few minutes were a blur of flashing lights and official voices. The Kentucky State Police were surprisingly professional about finding a naked woman holding a gun next to a crashed van—apparently rural officers see stranger things than you’d expect.

While Rebecca was loaded into an ambulance under police guard, still ranting about community standards and respect, I found myself wrapped in Joseph’s bear hug.

“Jesus, Jane,” he whispered into my hair. “When I saw you tear out of there on that old motorbike…” He pulled back to look at me, hands on my shoulders. “I thought I was going to lose you too.”

“I’m okay,” I said, meaning it. “But Connor⁠—”

“Connor’s a goddamn hero,” Joseph said firmly, turning to where Connor sat on the Indian’s seat, still looking shell-shocked. “Son, I don’t know how to thank you.”

He grinned sheepishly, running a hand through his hair. “Just instinct, I guess. Years of jiu jitsu finally paid off. Started when I was ten after some bullies cornered me at school.” He shrugged. “Guess all those hours on the mat paid off.”

Three hours later, we were back at the house, drinking kale-spinach-protein smoothies and trying to process everything. Detective Martinez had called with updates—Rebecca’s laptop had been a goldmine. The social media harassment campaign, the fake accounts, even the firebombing in Nashua—it all traced back to her.

Connor looked up from his cup. “So what happens now?”

“Actually,” I said, “I was thinking about taking another road trip. Want to come along?”

Connor’s face lit up. “Where to this time?”

“New Mexico. I have someone I need to see.”

“Road trip to the desert?” Connor grinned. “Hell yes. When do we leave?”

Chapter 24

Crossroads

The camera never stopped rolling.

Connor had it propped against the passenger window, his precious Canon catching the blur of sagebrush and telephone poles as we flew past at seventy miles per hour. I could see myself in the flip-out LCD screen—hair whipping in the wind from the open window, sunglasses reflecting the endless stretch of I-40, hands steady on the Challenger’s wheel.

“Day three,” Connor narrated to his camera, swiveling it toward the dashboard where empty coffee cups nested like Russian dolls. “Approximately…” He squinted at a passing mile marker. “Somewhere past Amarillo. Subject appears to be experiencing what I’d call ‘psychic navigation.’”

“Subject has a name,” I said, not taking my eyes off the road.

“Subject Jane Doe⁠—”

“Really?”

“—continues westward, claiming she’ll ‘know it when she feels it.’” He zoomed in on my profile. “Care to elaborate on these alleged visions for the documentary record?”

“I already told you… I saw her there. Kat. Somewhere in New Mexico.”

“But not where, specifically.”

“Turn that thing off.”

“This is important footage. ‘Young Woman Follows Supernatural GPS to Find Her Lover.’ It’s like the Twilight Zone meets Easy Rider meets⁠—”

“Meets Connor needs to stop talking before he gets left at the next truck stop.”

But I was smiling. He caught it in the frame before swinging the camera out toward the horizon, where the sky stretched so wide it seemed to curve at the edges. The landscape had been changing for hours—Texas flatlands giving way to mesas, red earth starting to peek through the yellowed grass.

“What if you’re wrong?” Connor asked, lowering the camera. “What if it was just a dream? Santa Fe’s huge. Albuquerque’s bigger. What if⁠—”

“Did you try Find My?” Connor straightened up. “I mean, that’s the first thing anyone would⁠—”

“Of course I tried that. First thing I did. It says she’s offline. Has been for days.”

“Offline?” Connor frowned. “That’s weird…”

“Actually, for Kat? That’s not weird at all. Probably has her phone in some drawer while she’s doing naked handstands or whatever.” I reached for the radio dial, static crackling between stations. A fragment of Spanish guitar, a preacher’s voice, then nothing but white noise. I left it there, the sound filling the space between us like television snow. Somewhere in that static, I could almost hear her voice. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “I can feel her, Connor. She’s out there.”

“Waiting for you.”

“Yeah.”

He lifted the camera again, this time focusing on the road ahead—that black ribbon of asphalt cutting through the high desert, shimmering with heat mirages that looked like water but never got any closer. Through his lens, our journey probably looked like every road movie ever made. Except those protagonists usually knew where they were going.

“For the record,” Connor said, camera still rolling, “this is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed, or we’re about to get really lost in the desert.”

“Probably both,” I admitted, and pressed harder on the accelerator.

Three hours later, the sun hung low and angry on the horizon, painting everything in shades of burnt orange and deep purple. The static on the radio had gotten louder, or maybe that was just in my head. Connor had finally put the camera away after the battery died somewhere outside Tucumcari.

I pulled into a dusty gas station—the kind with ancient pumps and a flickering neon sign missing half its letters. Bathsheba’s engine ticked as it cooled, and I sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel.

“Jane?” Connor’s voice was gentle. He knew something had shifted.

The feeling had been building for the last fifty miles—a tightness in my chest, like a compass needle spinning, searching for north. But now, staring at the road signs beyond the station, I felt it snap into place.

Three choices. Three arrows pointing in different directions.

CONTINUE WEST on I-40—toward Albuquerque.

US-285 NORTH—toward Santa Fe.

I-25 SOUTH—toward El Paso, Texas.

“What is it?” Connor asked.

I closed my eyes, trying to recapture that flash of vision—Kat standing somewhere, red rocks behind her, the light strange and ethereal. But which direction? The pull in my chest was strong now, almost painful, but it seemed to tug in multiple directions at once.

“She’s close,” I whispered. “But I—” I pressed my palms against my eyes, frustrated. “It’s like trying to remember a dream. The harder I focus, the more it slips away.”

Connor waited. He was good at that—knowing when to push and when to just be present.

The desert wind picked up, sending an empty plastic bag dancing across the parking lot like a restless ghost. I watched it spiral north, caught in some invisible current, before it disappeared behind the station.

North.

The word dropped into my mind like a stone into still water. Not the logical choice. North would take us away from Tomorrow, which Kat had said was in the southwest corner of the state… But something about it felt right. The same feeling that had gotten us this far.

“North,” I said, opening my eyes. “We need to go north.”

Connor didn’t question it. We quickly gassed up the Challenger and grabbed water bottles that sweated condensation in the desert heat.

Back on the road, I took US-54 North. The pull was stronger now, not painful but insistent—like a current running through my bones. Every mile we drove, it intensified. My hands knew when to turn the wheel before my mind did.

“Everything okay?” Connor asked after I’d taken a seemingly random left onto a smaller highway.

“It’s like…” I searched for words. “You know how birds migrate? How salmon find their way back to the exact stream where they were born?”

“Magnetic navigation.”

“Yeah. Except instead of flying south for winter, I’m being pulled…” I gestured vaguely northwest. “That way.”

The landscape transformed around us. Red rocks erupted from the earth like ancient vertebrae. Mesas stretched flat-topped against the sky. The light was different here—golden and strange, making everything look hyperreal.

Another turn. Another. I wasn’t reading signs anymore, just following that insistent tug. Connor had given up trying to track our route on his phone. We were beyond cell service anyway, deep in the high desert where the modern world felt tissue-thin.

The sun was starting its descent but still high enough to paint the rocks in shades of crimson and coral when I felt it—a shift, like a key sliding into a lock.

“Here,” I breathed, turning onto a dirt road. A wooden sign flashed past—Ghost Ranch—and my whole body was humming now, every cell aligned with this place.

The road curved through impossible rock formations—yellows and purples and reds layered like a geology textbook come to life. Cliffs rose on either side, their faces weathered into shapes that looked almost deliberate, almost alive.

Then the vista opened up.

I hit the brakes, bringing Bathsheba to a dusty stop.

“This is it.” My voice came out as barely a whisper. “This is the place.”

We sat there for a moment, the engine ticking as it cooled, both of us taking in the enormity of what lay before us. The basin stretched out like a vast amphitheater, red and gold cliffs rising on all sides. In the distance, a flat-topped mountain stood sentinel against the sky—Pedernal, though I didn’t know its name yet.

“She’s up there,” I said. The pull in my chest had crystallized into a single direction, drawing me toward that ancient mesa like iron to a magnet.

We grabbed water bottles and started walking, following a faint trail that wound between the red mounds at the base of the cliffs. The silence was profound—no traffic, no machinery, just the whisper of wind through sage and the distant cry of a hawk circling overhead.

The trail climbed steadily, weaving between towering sandstone formations that glowed like embers in the late afternoon light. With each step, the pull grew stronger, more focused. I found myself moving faster, Connor breathing hard behind me as we ascended into the thin air.

“Jane,” he called softly. “Slow down. You’re practically running.”

But I couldn’t slow down. The urgency was building in my chest, electric and undeniable. We were close now. So close.

The trail curved upward, and Connor stopped, leaning against a red boulder to catch his breath. He looked up at me, then at the path ahead, and something shifted in his expression—understanding dawning.

“You should go,” he said quietly. “This last part… this is yours.”

I turned back to him, suddenly torn. “Connor⁠—”

“No, it’s okay.” He smiled, that gentle smile I’d come to rely on over the past three days. “I kept you company. That was my part. This next bit?” He gestured up the trail. “This is between you and her.”

I felt my throat tighten. “Thank you. For everything. For believing me when it made no sense.”

“That’s what friends do.” He settled onto a flat rock, pulling out his water bottle. “I’ll be here. Take your time.”

I squeezed his shoulder, then turned and continued up the trail alone.

The path wound higher, switchbacking between ancient junipers and piñon pines. My breathing grew labored in the thin air, but I pushed on, following that invisible thread that pulled me forward. Ten minutes passed, maybe fifteen—time felt elastic here, stretched thin by altitude and anticipation.

I stopped so suddenly that my boots skidded on the loose gravel.

Nestled in a natural amphitheater of red rock, almost invisible except for the soft flutter of canvas in the breeze, was a tent. A simple canvas tent, the kind artists might use for extended painting expeditions, positioned to catch the morning light but sheltered from the wind.

Beside the tent, an easel held a canvas covered with a cloth, and scattered around were the tools of creation—brushes, tubes of paint, a folding chair positioned to face the vast expanse of the basin below.

The tent flap stirred, and a figure emerged, stepping into the golden light with the fluid grace I’d recognize anywhere.

Kat.

Completely unselfconscious in her nudity, her dark hair catching the sun as she stretched, not yet aware of my presence. For a moment, I just watched her—this woman who had utterly enchanted me, pulled me across the country, made me believe in impossible things…

She turned toward me and her face lit up. “Jane!”

A second figure appeared from the tent—a young woman with warm brown skin and long black hair, her nude body round with late pregnancy. She moved slowly, one hand resting on her swollen belly, the other shading her eyes as she looked at me.

“I’d like you to meet my cousin, Nico,” Kat said, her voice carrying easily across the distance between us.

Nico raised her hand in greeting, a gentle smile on her face.

“Come on up!” Kat called, and there was something in her tone—an undercurrent of emotion that matched my own. “We’ve been expecting you.”

I climbed the rest of the path on shaky legs. The moment I reached the top, Kat was there, wrapping me in her arms. She smelled like sage and paint and ozone, and I buried my face in her neck, feeling her heart beat against mine.

“You found me,” she whispered into my hair.

“You called me,” I whispered back.

We held each other for a long moment, the world narrowing to just this—bare skin and warmth and the feeling of being exactly where I belonged. When we finally pulled apart, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

Nico had settled into a folding chair, watching us with that same gentle smile. Up close, I could see the fullness of her pregnancy.

“So,” I said, still holding Kat’s hand, “tell me everything. When did you leave France? How did you—” I gestured vaguely at the space between us, the impossible journey.

Kat squeezed my hand, her eyes sparkling with barely contained joy. “Jane. Nico is having a girl. We’re calling her Miranda.”

I felt my breath catch. Miranda—like from The Tempest. Of course Kat would choose a name that meant wonder, marvel, the miraculous.

“And,” Nico spoke, her voice warm and sure, “I’m giving her to Kat to raise. I’m not ready to be a mother, but I couldn’t... Well, this feels right. Which means...”

“We’re going to be a family,” Kat said, her words coming out in a rush. “You and me and Joseph. All four of us together.”

The words hung in the air between us, shimmering with possibility. I looked at Kat—at the hope and love shining in her eyes—and suddenly I was back on that beach on that mystical day when we met, hearing her tell the story of the Ocean’s Daughter for the first time. Miranda, born to a fisherman’s family, carrying secret magic within her.

“Miranda,” I whispered, understanding flooding through me. “Like your dream.”

Kat’s eyes filled with tears. “You remember.”

“Of course I remember.” I reached out to touch her face, then looked at Nico’s swollen belly where our daughter grew.

“Still carrying secrets and power,” Kat agreed softly. “Our little Miranda.”

Kat pulled me tight against her, and this time we were both crying—happy tears that felt like release, like coming home. Nico rose from her chair to join us, the three of us forming a circle under the vast New Mexico sky—three women bound by love and choice and the promise of new life.

The red rocks held us like ancient guardians, the setting sun painted everything gold, and somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out as if in blessing.

Epilogue

Six Months Later

The lawsuit ended exactly as Spencer had predicted it would—completely in our favor. The judge’s ruling was scathing: not only did Paradise Cove’s new owners have to repay the entire five million, but legal fees and damages pushed the total north of eight million. They’d gambled on corporate intimidation and lost spectacularly.

By the time the bankruptcy papers were filed, we were ready. We moved fast—within six weeks, Paradise Cove was ours again, and the restoration began immediately. Every tacky “improvement” the brief textile owners had made was stripped away, returning the resort to its natural glory and giving Kat the chance to complete the mural she’d started before the whole mess began.

Now, standing barefoot on the same stretch of sand where this journey had begun, I could hardly believe we were here. The sun hung low over the Atlantic, painting everything in shades of gold and rose—perfect light for a handfasting at Paradise Cove.

“Ready?” Kat squeezed my hand, her dark hair crowned with a wreath of sea grape leaves and tiny white flowers.

“Ready,” I said, adjusting the matching wreath in my own hair. Joseph stood with us, completing our triad, his usual easy grin even wider than normal.

The conch shell sounded—Bill’s idea, naturally—and we began our walk down the beach toward the assembled crowd. No chairs, no formal aisle, just our chosen family gathered in a loose circle on the sand, bare skin glowing in the sunset light.

Quinn stood at the edge of the circle, baby Miranda nestled against her bare chest in a simple wrap. At four months old, Miranda had her birth mother’s warm brown skin and what I swore were Kat’s expressive eyes.

Ray waited in the center of the circle, his weathered form as natural here as the palm trees swaying overhead. Of course we’d asked him to officiate. Who else could weave together the threads of our unconventional family with such gentle wisdom?

As we entered the circle, I caught sight of my parents. Mom, now completely healthy, had become a strong proponent of naturism, while Dad still occasionally reached for phantom pockets. They stood hand in hand, tears already streaming down Mom’s face.

Henry gave me a knowing nod from across the circle, while Eleanor and Sunny flanked him like benevolent guardians. Romeo and Adam had their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, mirror grins on their faces. Marguerite leaned into Bill, both of them radiating the quiet contentment of their own recent marriage.

And scattered throughout were others—friends from the island, artist friends of Kat’s who’d made the journey from New Mexico, even Connor with his camera (finally set aside, at Kat’s insistence).

Ray raised his arms, and the circle grew quiet except for the eternal conversation between waves and shore.

“We gather here, where land meets sea, to witness something both ancient and entirely new. The handfasting we celebrate today is not between two people, but three—a recognition of bonds that transcend conventional understanding. Jane, Kat, and Joseph come before us as water siblings, already family in every way that matters, now choosing to declare that bond before the community that loves them.”

He gestured to the ocean behind him. “Water finds its own level, creates its own channels. It refuses the arbitrary boundaries humans try to impose. So too with love, with family, with the connections that truly sustain us.”

A soft breeze stirred the palms, and somewhere in Quinn’s arms, Miranda made a contented sound that carried across the circle. Several people chuckled softly.

“Who wishes to speak first?”

I stepped forward, surprising myself. “I will.” My voice was steady, though my heart raced. “I promise to nurture what we’ve built—this beautiful, impossible thing that has no name except family. I promise to help raise Miranda with courage and joy, to honor the magic that brought us together, and to always choose us, even when the world doesn’t understand.”

Kat squeezed my hand, then spoke. “I promise to keep creating—not just art, but this life we’re making. To teach our daughter that love multiplies rather than divides. To trust in the everyday magic that pulled us all together, across deserts and doubts and impossible distances.”

Joseph’s voice was warm with emotion. “I promise to be present—as partner, as parent, as witness to the miracle of what we’re becoming. To help Miranda grow up knowing she was chosen, wanted, celebrated. To protect this space we’ve made where love makes its own rules.”

Ray smiled, reaching for the three cords—strands of hemp dyed the colors of sea and sky and earth.

“These represent the elements that sustain us—blue for the water that connects, green for the earth that grounds, gold for the sun that illuminates. As I bind your hands, remember that you bind yourselves.”

We raised our joined hands—mine and Kat’s, Kat’s and Joseph’s, Joseph’s and mine—forming a triangle. Ray began weaving the cords around our wrists with practiced movements, his voice taking on an almost hypnotic rhythm.

“With this first binding, acknowledge the past that brought you together. Every choice, every seeming mistake, every moment of grace.”

The blue cord wrapped around us, soft against our skin.

“With this second binding, be present in this moment. Here, now, surrounded by those who witness and support your choice.”

The green cord followed, intertwining with the blue.

“With this third binding, step forward into the future you’re creating. A future where love makes its own rules, where family transcends blood, where a child will grow knowing she is utterly, completely cherished.”

The gold cord completed the pattern, and Ray tied the final knot.

“By the power vested in me by absolutely no one—” laughter rippled through the crowd, “—and by the infinitely more important power of your choice and this community’s recognition, I declare you handfasted. Water siblings. Family.”

We stood there for a moment, hands bound, eyes locked on each other. Then Kat started laughing—that infectious, full-body laugh of hers—and Joseph and I joined in, and suddenly everyone was cheering and the circle was collapsing inward as people rushed to embrace us.

Quinn appeared at my elbow with Miranda, who was blinking at all the commotion with her big eyes. “I believe this belongs to you,” she said, transferring the baby to my free arm.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I whispered. “Welcome to your extremely weird, absolutely perfect family.”

Bill was suddenly there, wrapping all four of us—five, counting Miranda—in a bear hug that smelled of coconut oil and sandalwood. “About damn time,” he rumbled. “Now can we please eat? Marguerite’s been guarding that food table like a dragon for the past hour.”

“Everyone—to the water!” Romeo called out, and I knew what was coming even before he and Adam started the chant that soon had everyone joining in: “To the water! To the water!”

Still bound by the cords, laughing and stumbling, we made our way to the ocean’s edge. The water was warm around our ankles, then our knees, and then we were diving forward as one, the cords loosening in the salt water as they were meant to, floating free as we surfaced.

Kat pulled me close in the chest-deep water, Joseph’s arm around both of us, Miranda cradled between us in the warm embrace of the sea. She seemed completely at peace, tiny fingers spreading like starfish as wavelets lapped around her. Around us, our friends and family splashed and laughed, the last rays of sun turning the water to liquid gold.

“No regrets?” Kat asked, her wet hair sleek against her head.

“None,” I said. “You?”

“Only that we didn’t do this sooner,” Joseph answered for her, and she splashed him, and then we were all laughing again.

Later, there would be food and dancing and probably too much wine. Connor would break out his camera despite all protests. Ray would share stories that somehow always contained exactly the wisdom someone needed to hear. Miranda would be passed from arm to arm, beloved by all.

But right now, in this moment, we simply floated—three people who had found each other against all odds, in the place where the ocean met the shore, where endings became beginnings, where love refused every boundary placed upon it.

The Ocean’s Daughter slept peacefully against my chest, surrounded by her vast, impossible, perfect family.

About the Author

I’ve been a nudist my whole life—to me, being naked just feels like being free. Growing up this way definitely made me the “weird kid,” but it also taught me to question everything. Like, why do people get so worked up about bodies? I became fascinated by these arbitrary lines we draw—top-freedom, public nudity—where the folks shouting “think of the children!” can never quite explain what the actual harm is.

This led me down rabbit holes of psychology and philosophy, trying to understand why we believe what we believe. And isn’t that what art is about? Poking at those boundaries, making people uncomfortable enough to think? My writing explores these themes, using fiction to imagine worlds where different norms prevail, revealing how much of what we consider “natural” is merely familiar.

I was one of those kids who read everything I could get my hands on. The authors who really scrambled my brain (in the best way) were Carl Jung, Alan Watts, Robert Heinlein, and Robert Anton Wilson—plus the great Douglas Adams, who taught me that the most profound truths often come wrapped in absurdity (and to always carry a towel!) They all shared this knack for making you realize that what you thought was reality was just one option on the menu.

Connect & Stay Updated

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Acknowledgments

My deepest gratitude goes to my beta readers, whose sharp eyes and thoughtful feedback made this novel so much stronger: Gerardo Cisneros, Kelly Cackett, and Lynda Leclerc. Your dedication to catching every typo, inconsistency, and awkward phrase was invaluable. I’m also grateful to several other early readers who generously shared their time and perspectives. Every comment, question, and observation helped make this a better book.