Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (21 page)

As he drank, Sax felt the nagging little guilt he’d been feeling since Kara told him about the pregnancy drift away.

“
Semper Fi
, Jare.”

That said, Sax finally left the last of the past behind him and walked back through the iron gate toward his future with the incredible woman he loved.

Since the local video store hadn’t carried the DVD, J.T. hadn’t been able to watch
Lady of the Lake
, the first movie Mary had appeared in, but viewing it while sitting next to her in the Orcas Theater, he could see the beauty she would grow up to be.

Her expressive eyes had looked huge in her much thinner Irish milkmaid’s face. Although she hadn’t seemed as comfortable with her body as she was now, she was as graceful as a ballerina and there was a sweet, small-town innocence about her that reminded J.T. a bit of Kara, when his brother’s fiancée had been sixteen.

It was no wonder she’d become a star. Her face was heartbreakingly expressive, the camera flat-out loved her, and although J.T. remembered that the teenage girl had appeared on only a few pages, having read the book years ago, he realized why either the director or writer, or more likely both, would’ve decided to expand her part.

J.T. also knew that if he’d grown up in Castlelough, or she in Shelter Bay, he would have fallen in love with Mary Joyce.

The movie was longer than most, running a full two and a half hours, but as much as he’d dreaded this duty, he wasn’t finding sitting next to her in the darkened theater any hardship.

When the heroine, Shannon McGuire, played by Laura Gideon, one of the hottest actresses on the planet ten years ago, pulled a tarp over the baby sea creature, hiding it from the team of ruthless hunters determined to trap it for scientific examination, Mary unconsciously reached out for his hand. Her skin was soft as silk and brought up unbidden thoughts, yet again, of what that delicate, long-fingered hand would feel like on his body.

He heard her sniffle a bit as the heroine began rowing toward the island of Inisfree, determined to save the small green infant its brave mother, the mythical Lady of the Lake, had died protecting.

When the lights came back on again, she reclaimed her hand, reached into her bag, took out a tissue, and dabbed at her moist eyes.

“It’s foolish,” she murmured. “I know that story by heart, but every time I see the film, it makes me cry.”

“It’s not foolish. It’s an emotional story. There’s no shame in being affected by it.”

“Still, I’m supposed to be the professional.”

“You wouldn’t be such a good actress if you didn’t absorb the feelings of the characters. Sort of like a sin-eater.”

The theater professor, whose name J.T. hadn’t bothered to try to remember, was now up on the stage going into a long-winded introduction, which began, unsurprisingly, with his own biography. Because, hey, this festival was all about him, right?

But neither J.T. nor Mary was paying that much attention. Instead, she’d cocked that dark head again, and was giving J.T. another of those long silent perusals.

“I suppose it is a bit like that,” she agreed.

Then, as she heard her name called, she stood up. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it. But…” He gave her a thumbs-up. And touched his fingers to the back of her hand in a way that had those expressive eyes widening. Revealing that she’d felt that spark, too.

She went up on the stage, sitting alone on the stool, answering questions from the audience, many of whom turned out to be theater students at the local community college.

“Do you have any regrets about this film going down in your filmology as your acting debut?” one young man with a goatee asked.

“Regrets?” She looked puzzled. “
Lady of the Lake
is a beautiful story, its script written with a deft and talented hand, and filmed with the most talented cast, all of whom were so helpful to a neophyte actress. Both the tale of the lady and the cinematography were also obvious love letters to my home country. Indeed, my own town—which would be a sister city to this one—where the lady is reputed to dwell.”

Another earnest young woman dressed all in black popped out of her seat. “Surely you don’t believe that? About the lady?”

“Surely I do,” Mary said mildly. And turned back to the man who’d been interrupted. “Why would you believe I’d have any regrets?”

“Well, it’s a horror movie.” The scorn in his voice
was obvious even to J.T., who knew nothing about the movie business.

“Millions of people are entertained by being frightened. Just as others prefer comedies or thrillers or stories about children growing up in a boarding school for witches. That’s the lovely thing about films. There’s something for everyone.”

“Then you agree that
Lady of the Lake
is a horror film?”

“Some might see it that way,” Mary allowed. “But they’d be wrong. It doesn’t take a degree in cinema to understand that the story about the creature in a fanciful city beneath the water is an allegory about prejudice, the overreach of science, and the paranoia that can run rampant in small isolated villages, such as Castlelough, Ireland. Or, perhaps,” she added with that warm smile he’d come to recognize as her professional one, “even Shelter Bay, Oregon.”

“Yet,” the professor, who apparently felt the need to have the spotlight turn back onto him, pointed out, “you can’t deny that it’s a very dark and negative ending.”

“But I can. Is that how you see it?” she asked, with what sounded like genuine surprise.

“It’s obvious that the scientists, who already killed the baby creature’s mother, are not going to give up.”

“Ah.” She nodded, appearing to give the statement serious consideration. “That would be your view. And you’re not alone in your belief. Especially since Quinn Gallagher, the screenwriter, purposefully left the ending ambiguous.

“But, as an optimist myself, after all the sadness and evil the scientists brought upon the creature and the town, because Shannon McGuire, who was quite
a formidable person in her own right, teamed up with the wee creature, I view the ending as a message of hope.” Her smile confirmed her words.

More hands shot up at that.

For the next hour, Mary answered questions and shared anecdotes, holding the audience in the palm of her hand. And if there’d been any people in the theater who hadn’t been fans when the lights had first gone down, J.T. knew they’d been converted.

Had Bodhi not declared the time allotted for her question-and-answer period over, claiming that they needed to get ready for the showing of the first entry film in an hour, they probably would’ve kept her there forever.

As she left the theater, programs were thrust at her to autograph. J.T. was not surprised when she didn’t refuse a single request.

It was only when they were in the SUV, driving back to the inn, where he’d intended to drop her off to chill out until it was time to leave for yet another party she was scheduled to be the guest of honor at this evening—this one for people who’d sprung for fifty bucks a ticket with funds going to local youth programs—that she leaned her head against the back of the seat and let out a long, deep, and weary-sounding breath.

“Would you do me a favor?” she asked.

“What kind of favor?”

She turned her head and opened her eyes. In her gaze he saw more amusement than frustration. “You’re a cautious one, aren’t you, J.T.?”

“You learn to be if you want to keep yourself, and your men, alive.”

“That makes sense. But I’m not dangerous.”

“Now, there’s where you’re wrong.”

Her full lips curved. Just a little. “I could be offended. But I’m taking that as another compliment. Two in just a few hours.” She nodded and seemed to regain a bit of the energy he’d watched drain away after they’d left the theater. “I’m making progress.”

Which was exactly what he was afraid of.

“What favor?” he asked again.

“Could we go somewhere? Away from everyone, just for a while. And not to the inn,” she said before he could point out that was where they were headed. “Somewhere outside. Where I can clear my head.”

He thought a minute. “How do you feel about sailing?”

She sat up straighter. “You have a sailboat?”

“I don’t. But Sax does.” The only stoplight in town turned red. “We used to sail a lot growing up.”

“You’d think sailing would be one of our most popular sports,” she said. “Considering that Ireland is an island. But it’s not. And I’ve never been.”

It was ironic that just a few days ago he’d been thinking that he should take it up again, and now, because of her, he was.

“Well, then.” Feeling more lighthearted than he had in a very long time, J.T. reached across the console between them and skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “That’s something we’ll have to rectify.”

Boats of all sizes bobbed on the glassy waters of Shelter Bay. The fact that most of the slips were filled demonstrated the town’s inseparable bond with the sea. While Mary might not have any personal experience with sailing, her eyes drank in the rows of gleaming white boats as they rested like pearls on blue satin.

J.T. had taken her hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and surprisingly it felt that way as he led her down the bobbing wooden dock, stopping in front of a boat that, to her unschooled eye, appeared to be about twenty-eight feet long. It certainly wasn’t the largest or fanciest boat in the marina. It was, however, beautiful, with sleek, graceful lines, and a dark blue hull seeming to reflect the water.

The deck gleamed with a varnished sheen, making her relieved she was wearing rubber-soled shoes instead of the high-heel boots she’d worn for the parade. It would be a crime to mar the perfection Sax Douchett had painstakingly achieved.

“I know little to nothing about boats,” she admitted. “But it’s beautiful.”

“
She.
Boats are always feminine. This sloop especially.”

Which explained the name
KARA
written in white block letters on the back.

“Don’t you want to know why?” he asked.

From the wicked glint in his eyes, she knew she was being put on, but since it felt so good to escape from what had begun to feel like a never-ending day, she played along.

“A writer’s always open to learning new things, since you never know when you’ll need an obscure fact or bit of trivia. So why would boats, your brother’s in particular, be named for females?” she asked.

“Because she’s trim, responds well to a man’s touch, and if the wind is favorable, she’ll give a guy a helluva good ride.”

“You really are terrible.” The laughter in her voice ruined any attempt at a stern tone. “Now, do you intend to stand here for the rest of the day making more sexist jokes, or will you be taking me for that sail you promised?”

“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.” He stepped onto the gleaming deck, then extended a hand to invite her aboard. The boat bobbed lightly on the soft swells of the bay.

Before casting off, he gave her a quick tour. Mary found the boat—sloop, she corrected herself—surprisingly roomy. The living area below the deck was tidy, utilitarian, but not nearly as cramped as she’d imagined it would be.

“This kitchen is larger than the one I had in my first flat in Dublin,” she said.

“Same with me and my first place in California. And it’s a galley.”

“Thank you. I’d best learn that, since I believe my next selkie story is going to partially take place on a boat.” She hadn’t even dared bring that idea up to Aaron Pressler yet, knowing he wouldn’t leap at the premise.

“You’ll have to tell me about it,” he said, as they went back up the short ladder to the outside.

“I don’t usually talk about my work in the thinking stages. But since you’re the only person I know who knows about boats, then perhaps I will pick your brain. If you don’t mind.”

“Sweetheart, the mood I’m in right now, you can have any part of me your heart desires.”

The glint was back in his eyes, making him appear an entirely different man from the one who’d scowled at her just yesterday at the airport. Layers, she thought. This former Marine was turning out to be like a bloody onion. And as changeable as he was proving to be, didn’t that make him even more interesting?

“Oh,” he said, as he prepared to cast off, “another thing you’ll need to know, while we’re dealing with jargon, is sailors never go to the bathroom.”

“Surely that must be very uncomfortable for them.”

He rolled his eyes. “And you accuse me of bad jokes. On a boat, a bathroom is called a head.”

“Why would it be called that? It seems a silly name.”

“Not really. The word is a maritime term meaning toward the bow—front—of the ship. Which is also where the figurehead was. There’d be a special deck below sailors would climb down to. It had a grate over it, so they could, uh, relieve themselves into the sea, which kept the boat clean, and was more sanitary
because the waves hitting the bow would also keep it washed clean.”

“Well, isn’t that one more reason to be glad I didn’t live in olden times? And as interesting as it is, for the story I’m thinking of telling, I won’t be needing it.”

“Even so, you never know when you’re going to be on a quiz show,” he said. “That could well be the one bit of trivia that someday wins you a million dollars.”

“And wouldn’t that be lovely?” Though she imagined she’d win the lottery, which she’d never in her life entered, before she’d be appearing on a quiz show.

“Here.” He handed her a padded life vest.

Although it wasn’t the most flattering piece of clothing she’d ever worn, since she knew that the unique patterns on Aran sweaters were originally designed so people would be able to recognize drowned Irish fishermen, Mary didn’t argue.

She loved watching him move around the deck with a lithe, masculine grace that couldn’t be learned.

“Could I help?”

“Although being the youngest of three brothers put me pretty much on the bottom of the sailing totem pole, this is all about giving you a chance to relax before you have to jump back into public mode tonight,” he reminded her. “So, why don’t you just lean back, enjoy the ride, and tell me about the selkie and the sailor?”