Bump: A Palmetto Predators Novel

By Thio Isobel Moss

Chapter 2:  Force of Nature

August 27th

Bean set a glass of peach tea in the pantry-office, retrieved her favorite pen, and was about to get to work when she spotted Natalie Dwight, slim and elegant at five-ten, beautifully styled in cream trousers, graphite tee, and a camel-colored jacket, on the sidewalk through her war room windows. Nat saw her, too.

Feeling smug, Bean grinned and waved. Nat, seizing every opportunity to display what a happy, snug, little community they were on Millicent Loop, grinned widely and waved back. Anyone watching closely would likely have noticed the malevolent red glow emanating from her pretty green eyes, though.

Bean snickered at her vivid imagination. She’d gotten the boost she needed, and now it was time to work.

Jayne was afraid.

Carlos was late.

The darkness pressed in on her, and the tree limbs, creaking and moaning against each other, whispered an eerie song. She held still, holding the gunshot wound in her side and trying to breathe as softly as she could through her mouth.

Carlos was never late. They must have gotten to him.

Her heart twisted, but there wasn’t any time to waste, or there would be two new corpses on Ferris Island. She had to get out of the woods. If she headed for the road, they’d find her. It was too cold to swim to the mainland—and they’d be scouting the water.

The doorbell sounded and, for a moment, Bean wondered why there was a doorbell in the woods. Shaking her head, she surfaced and clumsily got up.

Beyond the door’s sidelight, Natalie Dwight was scowling on her porch.

Taking a deep breath, Bean opened the door. She should have kept her vainglorious show of satisfaction to herself that morning. Too late now.

“Natalie, dahling! To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“It was you, wasn't it?” Madame President mourned with false patience. “Bean, this is beneath you. The Palmetto Estates Homeowner's Association recognizes and honors your antisocial desire to remain aloof from the neighborhood, but turning new residents against us? Really?”

“You mean warning Mr. Tessay that you and your minions bully folks into paying for your cool kid's club to boss them around, telling them what they can and can't do with their own property when the south side isn't a part of the Palmetto Estates development? Yeah, I totally did that.”

“We advise. We do not bully anyone.”

Bean cocked an eyebrow.

“History says otherwise. Nick and Stephanie Barone got a restraining order against Gloria Wiggs. Kyle and Lark Jenkins painted their house purple!”

Involuntarily, both women looked west to the violet monument. It wasn't a bold, vivid purple, but it was still very much a purple. To Natalie and her crew, it was an eyesore. To the Southsiders, it was a celebrated landmark.

“The HOA has faced off against us twelve times and lost, Nat. Give it a rest. There are legal consequences attached to harassment. After a few years—after you’ve demonstrated that you’re not another Wiggs—folks might have a little more interest, but it’s too soon.”

For a moment, she thought she might have made an impact, then Natalie demanded, “Do you really want our entire neighborhood looking like that? It drives everyone’s property value down, and Jerry Miller is hoping to sell his house and move closer to his kids in the next six months. There are flamingos in the flower beds!”

Indeed, there were.

Lark Jenkins remembered how Bean, Blue, and Beau had flamingo-ed their mother’s yard in celebration of her last birthday and asked if she could borrow them. All fifty-four pink lawn ornaments had proudly grazed among the Vinca Minor ever since.

“I don't want our neighborhood looking like that,” Bean retorted, pointing to the far side of the street where cookie-cutter villas crowded each other. The small, manicured lawns and uninspired shrubs felt claustrophobic. “I recognize and honor your authoritarian desire to make your home look like it was mass-produced and acknowledge your horror of individualism. It’s a free country—meaning all of us are free to choose for ourselves.”

“What's wrong with Palmetto Estates?” her nemesis asked, sincerely surprised. “Our homes are well-maintained and tasteful. You don't go in for manatee mailboxes, TV satellites, or garish paint.” She stepped back and surveyed my yard. “In fact, I don't see any violations of the bylaws.”

Just wait for Halloween, Bean thought. She had big plans involving four twelve-foot skeletons and a brand-new lighting system to test out!

“It's more than the monotonous aesthetic. You're shaking down people who intentionally avoided buying a home in an HOA, and for what? A shared swimming pool?”

“For what? Oliver Morley hasn't mowed the grass on 312 since his last tenant moved out three months ago! We look trashy! The HOA prevents that kind of thing from continuing.”

Oliver Morley had asked his southside neighbors how they felt about wildflower meadows. The Southsiders adored them and placed great value on protecting the native wildlife!

“And we provide more than a swimming pool—there’s the clubhouse, the fitness center, the sauna, playgrounds, picnic tables, school bus shelters for the children, and landscaping services. Do you think Mrs. Pinkman should have to mow her own lawn?”

“Mrs. Pinkman chose a house on the north side. She chose to pay for those amenities. The Southsiders chose not to. We don't want your rules, your fees, your violation notices, your fines, your liens, your threats, or your vendor discount. We’ll cut our own grass or hire someone to do it ourselves.”

Nat’s eyebrows shot up, and she crossed her arms.

“You don’t want the vendor discount? Be reasonable, Sabine; not everyone lives next door to their daddy, who cuts their grass for them, or has time to find quality vendors. Some of us have real jobs.”

Bean’s laugh was harsh.

“You call bullying Season’s Best’s customer service representatives off short-term disability and out of an earned week of paid vacation a real job? Nat, ‘human resources’ is synonymous with ‘paid thug’.”

Her friend paled.

“Yeah... Maybe I should give writing a go.”

The change in tone caught Bean off guard. Nat was rightfully proud of her job. She’d gone from a stay-at-home mom and the driving force behind every school fundraiser to divorced and working full-time in a three-month span several years back. Blue had told Bean all about it and how Brad Shirley was a cheating bastard. His new girlfriend had been six months pregnant two months after his wife had given birth.

Natalie hadn’t bothered feeling humiliated. She pulverized adversity, mixed it with water, kneaded until it attained a clay-like texture, and built success out of it. She didn’t quit, she didn’t mope, and she’d never personally experienced depression. It wasn’t in her vocabulary.

Except...

“That guy you mentioned at the last playdate...,” Bean began, fizzling out when Nat’s eyes widened, suspiciously moist at the corners.

“Redundant.”

They sighed in stereo.

So that was it: guilt. Nat was proud of her job...up to a point. She was a passionate advocate for Season’s Best until it came to finding reasons to fire honest, hardworking people. She still did her job, but with considerably less gusto.

“Write something—anything. I’ll read it, offer suggestions, and show it to my agent.”

Madame President snorted and drew her head up.

“I might do that. Thanks,” she said, brushing her emotions away like crumbs. “So...Monday? You’re meeting the kids at the bus stop? Snacks for the playdate?”

“I’m on it. And you’re coming to the barbecue, right?”

“We wouldn’t miss Beau’s send-off; he was a fantastic babysitter. Tory was a lucky find, but the kids are going to miss Beau. I’m making a frozen strawberry trifle.”

The sound of boots on concrete stymied further comment, and they turned to watch Mr. Motorcycle’s long legs make short work of the path. A widening of his eyes and a slight hitch in his giddy-up suggested he felt a mite hunted under their appreciative gaze, but he bravely persevered. He even managed to scrounge up a smirk.

“Sorry to interrupt. Ms. Dwight.” He nodded politely. “Sabine, do you have a flathead screwdriver by any chance?”

It suddenly occurred to Bean that Nat was divorced. And attractive. So was Ava Reddy. Her bestie, Kelly, was single, too. Even with sweat stains on his tee—haphazardly refashioned into a tank, Gabe Tessay was fascinating. Maybe there was hope even if Gaia wasn't his girlfriend.

She scrunched her eyes, debating who might be the best fit for him.

“Sabine,” Gabe repeated, his eyebrows arching, at the same moment Nat elbowed her on the sly, knocking her out of scheming mode.

“Sorry, floated away for a second,” she apologized. “Yes, I have a flathead screwdriver. Come on in. Nat, I’ll see you Sunday.”

Nat’s mouth coiled in a knowing smirk, and she winked at Bean before bidding them adieu.

She was waylaid by Harriet, Barbara Markham’s overweight Vizsla, who was out for her morning constitutional. Bean watched for a moment, reassured when Nat paused, making much of the dog and giving her a belly rub.

Her friend would be all right.

Bean stepped aside, noting how her guest surveyed the layout of her home with some consideration. It was fairly basic: foyer and living room beyond the door, kitchen and dining on the right, hallway on the left. She led him down the hall to the laundry room, thanking her lucky stars that the house was tidy and that her bras had been removed from the drying rack.

“I don't...uh...actually need a screwdriver,” he confessed as she opened a closet and reached for a flower-covered toolbox. His smile was playful and bracketed by a series of adorable creases—not quite dimples, but in the family. “I noticed Ms. Dwight headed for your door. I thought she might have overstayed her welcome.”

Bean held a hand against her forehead and swooned.

“My hero! I appreciate the save, truly, but Nat’s okay, if you get her to talk about anything other than the HOA. Her kids are friends with my nephew and nieces, so we’ve learned to accept our differences. Now back in high school...that was different.”

“How different?’

“Natalie and I went to school together from third grade at Mason Willis right through to our senior year at Garner Creed. I was your typical artsy, angsty loner while she was cheer captain, prom queen, student council president, and most likely to succeed. There's a lot of vulnerability wrapped up in those years. We were never enemies or frenemies back then, but we weren’t friends, either.”

Gabe leaned against the wall, settling in for a chat.

“And now?”

Bean boosted herself up onto the folding counter and arranged her thoughts.

“We’re in the same circle. A few years ago, before I moved back, she went through an awful divorce. Brad Shirley, her ex, is complete scum. Nat... You’ve spoken with her. She’s...a powerhouse—a general. The Queen of Cookie Drives. She needs control in the worst way and, so, was the natural choice to fill in the HOA vacuum. That doesn’t mean folks take it easy on her, despite having known her forever. Doesn’t mean she can’t make a nuisance of herself, either, but it’s a rare occasion when she shows her fangs.”

Gabe started, and Bean reminded herself that she was supposed to be laying the foundation to push him toward Nat.

“She’s a survivor—loyal, kind, and strong. A brilliant, if militant, mother.”

Well, there was no point in lying about that. Some things were obvious.

After watching a murder of crows coast on a warm rise outside the window, Bean added, “The good thing about our neighborhood disagreement is that we all know each others’ names and affiliation—and the block parties are epic.”

Gabe nodded slowly, digesting the complexity of his new environment.

“How's the move going?”

He rolled his shoulders.

“It's going. The truck's unloaded, and we returned it early this morning. It'll be a while yet before everything settles into place. But I'll be able to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

She nodded, rubbing at a dull ache near her heart. There were more than a few boxes in the basement that she still hadn't unpacked from when she moved back to Fairhope. And less than a fifty-fifty chance that she ever would.

“Where are my manners?” she scolded herself, hopping down from her perch. “Would you care for some peach tea or pineapple juice?”

“Thanks, but I should head back...before Jake and Taylor find creative uses for my possessions,” Gabe replied with a grimace.

“Is that likely?” Bean asked, heading for the foyer.

“Very.”

She laughed at his vehemence.

“You had better get back, in that case. And thanks ag-”

Bean froze, staring out the sidelight, fear snaking down her spine like a funnel cloud.

“What?” her neighbor demanded sharply, peering over her shoulder.

A beautiful woman in her mid-fifties, lightly tanned, with thick pearl-gray and white locks cascading down her back, wearing a cream-colored crocheted halter top and a periwinkle maxi skirt, floated up the walk. An oversized tote featuring brilliantly decorated llamas hung from one shoulder, a birthstone necklace with seven stones graced her neck, a charm bracelet heavy with charms dangled from one wrist, and a handful of anklets and toe-rings ornamented her sandaled feet.

“My mother!”

Petite as she was, Bean still managed to shove Gabe into her war room.

“Do me a huge favor and hide in there. Please!” Bean’s voice came out breathy and hoarse.

“Why? What's wrong?” he asked, a scowl etched on his face as he tried to comprehend the danger.

“Please!”

After a long second, he nodded and stepped behind the wall.

She took a breath to compose herself.

The doorbell sang, and she took a second, deeper breath, tempted to sneak down the hall and ignore her mother altogether...but that would be even more humiliating.

Bean opened the door.

“Mom? What's going on? Why didn't you call?”

Juliette Stuckey never called. She liked to fly through life by the seat of her periwinkle pants. It was nearly impossible to get her to commit to any definite plan unless it involved her grandchildren or her craft circle—and then, only if sangria or a mint julep were on offer.

“Meribelle! Sweetie, how are you?” she cooed, sweeping her daughter into a bear hug and kissing both cheeks. “I was just visiting our new neighbors! You know how stressful moving is! So, I thought I'd bring over my famous enchiladas blancas for their dinner. Such delightful boys—and Gaia, too! Lovely girl! Although I seemed to have missed the homeowner. Jonathan had the notion that I would find him over here!”

She peered around in twinkling anticipation—as if all her dreams were coming true and a parade of shiny, brand-new grandbabies would be forthcoming any second.

“Found it,” called Gabe, holding up a list of electricians Bean had written down two weeks ago when her new lights were being installed.

“Oh...good,” she wheezed.

“Oh...my,” gasped her mother, fluffing her hair and openly ogling every inch of the tall man.

“Where was it?” Bean wheezed.

“Buried under the binder castle.”

“That must have been Otto’s doing—my grandson, Meri’s nephew. Meri is so determinedly organized,” she trilled. “I'm Jules Stuckey—Meribelle's mother. And you must be Gabe! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Stuckey,” he replied, shaking her hand and angling to get past her.

Juliette didn’t take the hint.

“Oh, call me Jules, please! Where are you moving from, Gabe?”

“The Kansas City area—Missouri side.”

He took another step toward the door.

“For work, I expect. Or your wife's career, perhaps?”

She was not subtle. Her pale blue eyes opened wide, innocent, and terrifying.

Gabe’s cute creases flashed, and his grin was everything charming and malevolent. He'd identified why Bean hadn't been keen for him to meet her mother inside her house...and it amused him.

“No, I'm not married—or dating anyone; just a sad, lonely bachelor. An opening in my company popped up, and I decided to trade snowy winters and tornadoes for humidity and hurricanes.”

“Oh, you young people, dragging your feet on building your families! Meribelle is just like you—career-oriented, fiercely independent. When she meets the right man, though... What kind of business are you in, Gabe?”

“Mom, Gabe is in the middle of moving. I think your interrogation should wait until he's had a chance to settle in.”

And learned not to bait Juliette Stuckey. Inevitably, he’d figure out that if he tried to juggle hissing dynamite, it would blow up in his face.

“Did you warn him about the HOA?” her mother demanded, her cheerful demeanor flattening into something far darker.

“Meribelle gave me a heads up before Ms. Dwight visited this morning,” Gabe assured her, stressing Bean’s given name. “Along with her devil binder.”

She prayed for deliverance from handsome men who thought her birth name and mother were laughing matters.

“That's all right, then. We're creative types in our family; we don’t do well with a prescribed lifestyle. I'm an artist; my youngest daughter, Indigo, is a graphic designer, and Meribelle is an author. Quite successful, too,” she gushed, beaming up at him. “She’s lived all over the world—London, Casablanca, Budapest, Manila. I thought she’d never come home, but just over a year ago, she called out of the blue and told us she’d bought this house! So, you’re both new to the neighborhood! So much in common!”

A high-pitched sound escaped Bean before she could slap a hand over her mouth.

“I’ve noticed. We hit it off immediately,” Gabe replied earnestly.

Her eyes bugged out, and she turned in a full circle, searching for a viable means of escape.

She took it back! He wasn’t good enough for her friends! As soon as he left, she was calling Gloria Wiggs and informing her that her hot new neighbor said any woman who knew her way around real estate laws and could dish out enough violation notices to make a grown man cry was someone he’d like to know!

“Isn’t that nice! Well, I won't keep you. I just dropped by to remind Meri about the barbecue this Sunday. My grandkids will be heading back to school, and my youngest, Beau, will be returning to college. You must drop by and meet everyone! Oh, and Meri has a pool, so we'll likely be swimming! Now you kids get to know each other! There’s Duke Morgan. I need a word with him. Ta!”

And like the whirlwind she was, Juliette Stuckey breezed out the door.

There was a moment of silence as they both recovered.

“So...what’s with the crates of tomatoes in the dining room? And the bananas? And the calendars, dry-erase boards, neighborhood maps—”

Bean opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

“I don’t know how to explain without sounding like a lunatic... They’re for...a cultural event!”

“Right. Are the participants in this event willing or ambushed, because it looks like you’re planning the Battle of the Bulge in there?”

“Of course, they’re willing. We don’t go around assaulting innocent people with tomatoes!”

Gabe nodded slowly.

“Just checking...Meribelle.”

Damn him.

Bean covered her face with her hands and collapsed against the wall.

“Meribelle Sabine Stuckey. My mother spent one summer on the farm of a great-uncle up in Nebraska. She positively loathed farm life but fell head over heels for a calf named Merry Bell,” she explained, her voice dull. “When I came along, Mom and Dad had already decided to call me Lyra Sabine, but apparently...I had very thick hair. It reminded Mom of that black roan calf, and I ended up being named after livestock!”

Her mouth pursed as if she’d tasted something sour.

So close! She’d been so close to having a decent name! But she wasn’t bitter. She just relished a good steak from time to time.

“Ah. That...uh...that would explain it,” Gabe murmured, suspiciously clearing his throat.

She peeked over her fingertips.

“Are you laughing!”

“No.”

“You are!”

“I'm not.”

“I’d smack you, but I pity you too much. You have no idea what you've unleashed. Mom already has three grandchildren and more macaroni art than she knows what to do with, but that just gave her the bug. She needs more! And now you've made her think you’re genuinely interested in me! Her favorite movies are Pride and Prejudice and The Parent Trap! She will never leave you alone! Never!”

Gabe squatted until he was on her eye level and winked. “Let her do her worst!”