down her wisping-every-which-way hair and palm-ironing the damp fabric of her dress. The stakes had her a little tense.
Not to mention that there was the whole recluse thing to consider. Griffin had spent a year embedded with American troops in Afghanistan. He'd seen things, experienced things - hence the memoir - that without a doubt had impacted him. Was he right now sitting alone, staring out to sea, brooding over the nature of God and man? She felt her uneasiness tick up another notch as she imagined that scene, and then herself interrupting his silent solitude.
But you've been given a second chance, Jane, and you can't afford to balk.
With that mantra echoing in her head, she made it to the mat lying outside the front door. It looked like a Jolly Roger, and beneath the skull and crossbones was written: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
Another woman might add that warning to the eleven disregarded phone calls, her jittering nerves, plus the limp state of her clothing and then decide to tackle the author another day. Jane, however, lifted her chin as well as her fist, prepared to rap on the door.
It swung open before her knuckles met wood. A guy in bare feet, yellow board shorts and bleached blond curls stared down at her. From inside came the unmistakable sound of a party. Rap music, raised voices, the shattering of a beer bottle followed by curses worthy of a sailor. Two women passed behind the beach boy, wearing near-identical denim miniskirts and mini bikini tops too, their long highlighted locks straightened to shiny perfection. They clutched tropical-colored drinks complete with umbrellas and didn't spare a glance for Jane with her fuzzy hair and drooping dress. In the distance, she heard a masculine voice say, "I'm drunk. Smashed. Pissed." Another someone yelled, "Hey, Brittany, how 'bout you and me get naked?"
Oh, the man she was after was so not a hermit.
"Griffin?" she said, eyeing the surfer dude.
"Nah, I'm Ted. You want him?"
"Yes." She wasn't sure if she was happy or sad that Beach Boy wasn't the man she was after. "Is he available?" As in, not inebriated and not getting bare with Brittany.
"For you? Sure." He gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. "Inside. Can't miss him."
As she scooted past, the dude yelled, "Hey, Griffin! Guess who the liquor store sent out to deliver the chips and booze? Some little thing from librarian school!"
Ignoring her annoyance at the comment, she took in her surroundings. A party was definitely going on at Griffin's. Twenty or so people milled about a rectangular living room that had a whitewashed brick fireplace on the wall opposite sliding glass doors leading to an ocean-view deck. There, more people were gathered. The rap song gave way to something by Jimmy Buffett as she moved through the crowd, wondering how she "couldn't miss" the reporter. He worked for magazines, so she'd never seen him on television. The black-and-white photo her preliminary research had uncovered depicted a scruffy figure wearing a combat helmet, flak jacket and dusty sunglasses.
The music blasting from the speakers hiccuped, and the Jimmy Buffett song started again from the top just as she reached those rear doors. Her gaze shifted right, drawn to a twirling mobile hanging in the corner that was made from driftwood and worn, mismatched flip-flops suspended with fishing line. Beneath that piece of "art" was where she found him. She didn't know how she knew, but she'd bet a hundred-dollar bill she didn't have to spare that she'd located Griffin Lowell.
In fatigue-green cargo shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, he was tipped back in a distressed-leather recliner, a buxom bikini babe perched on each of its arms. A red bandanna covered his head like a biker's do-rag - or probably a pirate's, because there was a gold earring in one ear and a patch over each eye. A lean, tan hand was curved around a beer bottle resting on his taut belly. He appeared to be sleeping. Perhaps meditating, if buccaneers did such a thing.
She took a breath. "Griffin? Griffin Lowell?"
His free hand slid toward his crotch. She yanked her gaze away, but then realized he was merely reaching for his front pocket. "How much do I owe you?" he rumbled. "You didn't forget the tequila, did you?"
"And the diet cherry cola," one of the bikinis added. "I can't drink tequila without diet cherry cola."
He grimaced but repeated her anyway. "And the diet cherry cola."