Heat Wave (11 page)

“‘Purple Rain,’” he says without hesitation.

“Prince?”

“Do you know anyone else with the song ‘Purple Rain?’”

“No,” I admit. I guess I never pegged him as a Prince fan. “Must have been a tough year for you.”

“Well I’m a Bowie fan too, so yeah. Bloody awful.” He pauses and I feel him adjust the board, his arm brushing higher against the back of my legs. “Was a fan of your sister too, so the last couple of years have been pretty shitty when it comes to people I love dying.”

Holy fuck. That was pretty much the last thing I expected him to say.

“So what’s your favorite song,” he goes on, like nothing has happened.

I lick my lips, trying to think. They taste like salt. “Uh. Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir.’”

It was the first thing that popped into my head. My brain is still trying to reel over what he said about Juliet. He
loved
her. How could I even take that as truth?

Logan eyes me with a hint of approval. “Really? All right. Fine. Good choice. Now, start singing it.”

“Excuse me?” I have the worst singing voice in the world. I don’t even sing in the shower, since all it does is just amplify my horribleness.

“Start singing ‘Kashmir.’ Not in your head. Out loud.”

“You are so fucking with me,” I say, glaring at him over my shoulder. His face gives me nothing. “It’s an eight-minute song! How long is this wave?”

“I promise it will help you surf.”

“How? I’ll be trying to remember the lyrics.”

“If it’s your favorite song, it will come automatically. And when it comes automatically, your mind is free to latch onto something else. Surfing. You’ll relax, you’ll stop overthinking. Not to mention there’s a natural rhythm to the ocean and I promise you it will match up with the song.”

That all sounds like complete bullshit.

“Are you ready?”

“What? No.” I look behind me again to see the swells approaching.

“You’re catching this next one,” he says calmly. “I’m going to push you forward to give you momentum. Start paddling and start signing. Now!”

“At the intro of the song or—?”

“
Oh let the sun beat down upon my face
,” Logan starts singing loudly and hell, can this man sing. His impression of Robert Plant is eerily accurate. “Your turn!” he yells and I feel him start to push me through the water.

“Um, um,” I say, paddling before I find the strength in my chest and croak out, “
Stars will fill my dreams
.”

“Feel the song, keep singing,” he yells and let’s go of the board. “Get to your feet when you’re keeping time with the wave.”

“
I am a travel of both time and space
,” I sing, horribly, and the board starts picking up more and more speed. “
Be where I have been
.”

By the time I get to
elders of a gentle race
, I can feel it’s time to ride. I’m not sure if it’s the song or instinct but I can just tell. I push up off my hands and toes, get to my knees.

Here’s the scary part. I’m slicing through the water, riding this fucking wave and feeling I’m on top of the world. I could just ride the whole wave to shore on my knees and it would be fun and thrilling all on its own.

It’s that next step that scares me. It’s the risk of standing up. Of giving up what’s easy and trying something hard. It’s where I’ve failed every time before.

“Don’t be comfortable!” Logan’s voice is small, disappearing behind me. “You’re doing this!”

I’ve lost my place in the song. It doesn’t matter. “
Ooooh, I’ve been flying, ain’t no denying
,” I sing, “
no denying
.”

And I don’t deny. I fly.

I get up onto my feet, inch by inch, but I make it.

My legs are shaking, I can feel the ocean rushing beneath my feet.

And just like that, I’m surfing. I really am a traveler of both time and space.

I’m powerful, unstoppable.

Free.

It’s just me and the ocean, an ever-deepening connection to some part of nature, some part of me, that I’ve never felt before.

And then, it’s over.

The wave gently places me on the shore, like I’m being carried in the ocean’s hand.

The board skids along the sand for a few feet and then stops. I hop off.

I did it!

A let out a little yelp, throwing my hands into the air and doing a little dance. My smile is so wide, it’s hurting my cheeks and the pain is absolutely beautiful.

“Look at you,” Logan calls out to me, as he walks out of the surf. I feel so high, my adrenaline firing through my veins, that it doesn’t even bother me that I’m ogling his body once more. If you saw his hulking mass of muscles walk out of the ocean, dripping wet, his hair slicked back, you would do the same.

“I did it!” I cry out. “Yay me!”

He walks right over to me and stops a couple feet away. Close enough for me to see the tick of his pulse along his throat, the drops of water caught in his scruffy beard. Close enough for my already fired-up body to start overreacting, my heart picking up the pace even more.

“You did good,” he says, peering down at me with an intensity I feel burning in my gut. His voice is rough and low, like he’s telling me a secret. “I knew you would.”

I smile up at him, my lips feeling stiff now. I’m happy, so happy, that I finally was able to catch a wave. But it was because of Logan. I owe him now and I’m not sure I like that.

And there’s too much of his manly masculinity standing in close proximity to me.

“Well, I’m sorry you had to hear me sing,” I say quietly, looking away.

“Are you kidding me?” he says. “That was the best part. I had no idea you were that horrible at it. Suspected, but never knew.”

I snap my head back to him and playfully hit him across the chest. “Hey!” I admonish him, trying to ignore how hard his chest had felt under my hand. “Why don’t you get on the damn board and sing me some ‘Purple Rain?’”

“Maybe some other time, Freckles,” he says. We stare at each other for a few moments. It’s like he’s actually trying to count the freckles on my nose. I’m not even sure I’m breathing, I’m kind of lost in the space between us.

Then he clears his throat. Loudly. “I’ll see you,” he says. His voice is stiff, as if he’s been caught thinking about something he shouldn’t.

“Okay,” I manage to say as he walks away toward the hotel, clouds of sand kicking up behind him, beads of water still snaking their way down his back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“And that’s all you have to tell me?” my mother’s voice crackles over the phone.

“Pretty much,” I tell her.

“What? I can’t hear you.”

I sigh and take my cell out onto the balcony hoping to get better reception, though to be honest I was done with this phone call ten minutes ago and a dropped call would be a great way to get out of it.

“I’m saying yes,” I tell her, not even bothering to hide the exasperation in my voice. “That’s all there is to report on.”

The line goes silent for a moment and I think maybe I did lose her after all but she sighs. “I’m just checking up on you. If you don’t want to tell me anything, that’s fine. It’s not like I’ve talked to you more than once over the last three weeks.”

Here comes the passive aggressiveness. “Look, I like it here. People are nice. I like my job. I’m busy, and that’s a good thing. There’s nothing much else to talk about.”

“And Logan?” she asks. “You’ve barely mentioned him.”

“I have too,” I tell her. “He’s fine. He’s been a fair boss. He’s very busy too. It’s not easy to run this place by himself.”

She scoffs. “That’s because poor Juliet was doing all of it for him. My poor baby.” She sighs. “My biggest regret in life was letting her marry that, that…beast.”

Beast? That’s a new one. Caveman? Yes. I’m not sure what to say to that except, “You couldn’t have stopped her mom, she fell in love.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “He tricked her.”

“Tricked her?” I repeat.

“He came when she was most vulnerable. After she broke up with William, when she was getting tired of the politics. Your father and I knew we should have done more to get her back on her feet, back in the scene. And then this schmuck shows up with his irritating accent and promises of a hotel in the tropics. He duped her into thinking that was the life she wanted. He stole her from us, Veronica, don’t you forget that.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “And so if that’s how you feel, how come you have no problem with me being here?”

She sighs again, louder this time. “You couldn’t live at home with us. The fact that you’re my daughter and couldn’t get another job was rather telling, don’t you think?”

“Telling of what?”

“You’re twenty-seven years old, Veronica. What does that say about me, about my role in Chicago, my role in the government, among the people, that my adult daughter is a complete failure?”

Stunned. I’m stunned. I’m used to low blows delivered by my mother but this one takes the cake. And the fact that she’s saying it in her politician voice, cold and factual, just adds to the injury.

“Mom,” I say, trying to hide the hurt in my voice.

“Oh, toughen up honey,” she goes on. “You know what I mean.”

“You just called me a failure!”

“I’m not saying you’re a failure, I’m saying that’s what it looks like. People will think there’s something wrong if you can’t get a job, and I wasn’t about to have you moping around at home and coasting your way through life. You’re
my
daughter, Rose Locke’s daughter, and you’re the only one I have left. I don’t have Juliet anymore and neither do you, so I’m sorry if you can’t be the black sheep anymore. There’s no room for it. You have a reputation to uphold here.”

My heart is thudding in my brain so hard I can barely hear her. “I wasn’t the black sheep,” I say even though I know it’s true. I was always lesser compared to Juliet, and now my mother hates me for it.

“All I wanted was for both my daughters to follow in my footsteps. Juliet would have made an excellent politician, she was caring, kind, beautiful, smart. She could charm anyone into doing anything. She could have carried on the legacy of strong women in male-dominated roles.”

“I’m a fucking cook, mom!” I’m nearly yelling. The couple on the nearest balcony are looking at me curiously. I lower my voice, “I fought to be in the position I’m in right now, I’ve been fighting my whole life in a male-dominated work force.”

“And see what good that did you.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what you did at your last job, but I know you got fired, Veronica, and I know you screwed up.”

My lips clamp shut. How could she know?

“And it doesn’t matter,” she goes on. “We all make mistakes and you’re there fixing yours. Stay a year, get some new experience you can put on your resume, and then get out and come home.”

Home? I know I haven’t been here long, but this already starting to feel like home. And it’s one place where I don’t have to deal with the likes of my mother except for the occasional phone call. She may have wanted me to come out here in an effort to hide me but I’m not so eager to go back anytime soon.

“Maybe I’ll stay here forever,” I tell her. “It’s not a bad life.”

“Suit yourself,” she says, “if you want to be on a sinking ship.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t forget that your father and I own that hotel as much as Logan does. The thing isn’t making money, not like it was with Juliet. The moment it looks like it’s going under, we’re pulling out.”

Good lord. My parents really do hate him that much.

As if she can hear my thoughts, she adds, “He made fools of us, a fool of Juliet. He’s not family. He’s nothing. Just an opportunity for the time being.”

Then the phone crackles and like magic the call is mercifully dropped.

I’m left reeling. I quickly turn the power off my phone in case she calls back, and place it on the table, my hands braced on the edge. Even the sweet breeze coming off the ocean and the birdsong from the trees is doing nothing to shake some sense into me.

Normally I would have agreed with my mother on all of that, would have been fueled by the same indignation against Logan. After all, I felt the exact same when I landed here.

But something has changed in me since I’ve become a part of Moonwater. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s not just the surfing lesson last week, it’s the strange sense of ease I feel now being around him. We’re interacting more and even though it’s usually brief, there’s some kind of unspoken understanding between us, a simmering connection that’s getting harder to ignore.

And sometimes I wonder if it’s a little more than that. I’ll catch myself staring at him some days, my eyes lingering on the rugged lines of his face, the breadth of his shoulders. It’s not a conscious decision, I’m not waxing on in my head about how gorgeous he can be. But I’m still drawn to him in ways that I really shouldn’t be. There are a million valid reasons to never think of Logan that way, but the more I tell myself he’s off-limits, the more I shame myself, the more I want to do it.