Seven Tears into the Sea (13 page)

“You remembered,” he paused to see me nod. “And you were nice. Then you changed.” He drew a deep breath and looked confused, as if the change in me was his fault. “What happened?”

“Maybe I don't like being spied on,” I said.

He thought for a minute. “That's fair. So what should I have done instead?”

This had to be a first. A guy was asking flirting advice from me. And really, raw clams aside, he was the handsomest guy I'd ever met.

“You could just come up and introduce yourself,” I suggested. “Like a normal person.”

That made him smile again, and I laughed.

“But I guess our first meeting wasn't exactly normal, so what could I expect?”

Grinning, he lay full-length in the sand, head propped on one palm, as if I were so amusing he wanted me to keep talking.

“Sure,” I went on. “Just say, ‘hi, I'm the guy who fished you out of the waves when you were a kid, and I've come back to set the record straight.'”

“I don't understand that part,” he said.

Setting the record straight
was probably a phrase that only existed in English. Where was he from, anyway?

“When you didn't stay around—” I broke off. Even by starlight I could see his grin fade into a vulnerable expression. “I don't blame you a bit. One minute you're skinny dipping alone, next you're rescuing some little kid from drowning, and then the beach is crawling with people. I don't blame you,” I repeated, “but people assumed I'd either imagined you, or you were a bad guy.”

His head moved as if he were starting to speak but couldn't come up with the right words.

“Of course, some of the old timers actually thought you were a selkie,” I joked.

“And did you believe that?” He sat up suddenly. He might not know every twist and turn of English, but he seemed to know the selkie story.

“No,” I said resolutely. “I think those stories were
made up by lonely women whose husbands were out fishing all the time. They put in the part where you could keep a man around by ‘hiding his skin' because they wanted their own men to stay home.”

It didn't feel right, mocking that myth. I thought of the Fisherman's Daughter story, of the dark, mysterious gentleman on the beach. If she'd hidden his skin, she could have kept him with her.

But that would have made a lousy story, I guess.

My story, my seven-year mystery, had ended. I'd accomplished my summer goal in just a couple of days. So why did I feel so frustrated?

I doused the fire, stood, slung my backpack straps over each shoulder and kept hold of them. He stood slowly, staying entirely too close.

“Why are you going?” he asked. “Let's do something.”

I hesitated for a second. I shouldn't ask, but I couldn't resist.

“What do you want to do?” I asked.

“I don't care.” He shifted from foot to foot. “I just want to be with you.”

There it was again.
Jesse,
I thought,
you're weird
.

His childish eagerness made him unlike any adult I'd ever met. And he was an adult. Every inch of his muscular frame told me so and warned that an adult male with a boy's impatience would be unpredictable.

“Jesse,” I said, heartily. “It's been nice talking with you.”

“You don't sleepwalk any more.” He tossed out the words like a lure.

That almost worked. Then I remembered I had only myself to depend upon.

In the waves this afternoon, I'd had to fight to keep my head above water.

Right now, I was sinking fast. I couldn't allow his charm to lap over me until I gave in.

“I got over sleepwalking,” I admitted, making my tone quick and brittle. “Thanks again for not letting me drown.” I hoisted my backpack straps higher.

“If it
was
you,” I added under my breath. I mean, how dumb was I? How desperate for answers?

It was equally possible he'd just heard the story! Gossip that good died hard. I stormed away from him, fuming.

Of course! Jesse hung out with Zack. The guys had been shooting the bull about me, after the alley encounter.

What a close call. Wouldn't that have been perfect? The rumors would've gone on forever, if I'd let myself get tricked into believing Jesse—

The dunes reared before me. With all the sea grass waving, I miscalculated, and my ankle wobbled as I tried to stomp uphill.

I gritted my teeth against the pain. It didn't hurt that much, and I had to get the heck out of here. My cottage was a five minute walk away, and then I'd turn the dead
bolt, latch the windows, and be done with this madness.

Wind was tossing the sand around and whistling through my hair. I don't know how I heard him.

“It was me. I don't lie.”

I turned to face him and he was right there. Again he'd moved within touching distance, and I didn't know how. Through windswept black hair, his eyes held mine.

A long sigh deflated my anger. Despite logic, I believed him.

“I know,” I said.

Few people realize I've never had a serious boyfriend. I try not to act like a total innocent. But the truth is, I've only had a few dates, and only one guy has ever given me a “real kiss.” I hated it. When he shoved his fat sausage tongue in my mouth, I did not go mad with desire.

But right here, right now, facing Jesse, I felt a magnetism that convinced me we were going to kiss, and it might just be amazing.

I was so right.

His hands rested on my shoulders. I was leaning toward him when he met me halfway. It was a nice, soft, not at all spitty, kiss. I steadied myself with one hand on his waist. I was so spellbound that if my dad had suddenly appeared and reminded me serial killers were all this charismatic, I would have asked him who cared.

Suddenly the warmth that was Jesse disappeared.

He took a step back and gasped, “I would never kill you!”

“Did I say that?” I put both hands over my mouth. But I couldn't have. My lips had been closed by his.

“I'd protect you with my life!” His arms lifted skyward as if he were taking a vow.

“Wait just a minute.”

My hands waved in front of me as if I were erasing this moment. I didn't want to, but I had to orient myself.

Mirage Point. Little Beach. Cook's Cottage just over the dunes.

I've known this guy for a grand total of—being generous and including that night seven years ago—fifteen minutes, tops. And PS, I don't even know Jesse's last name.

“You would not protect me with your life,” I said, kindly. “You don't even know me.”

“But it's true. And I don't lie.”

“So you said.”

He recoiled. I really had hurt his feelings this time.

“But even if you like me,” I whispered, “you're sort of skipping about five million steps of courtship.”

Courtship? Had I said
courtship
? What did I think, that this was Jane freakin' Eyre?

“I don't know what that is,” he said, letting me off the hook.

“We're supposed to walk on the beach, holding hands,
and”—I looked around as if there'd be clues to what I should say next—“and go to movies, or go bowling. You know, listen to music together until we have our song. A pledge to—” My hands moved around each other like the blades of a lawn mower. I could tell I'd confused him even more. “—to protect each other with our lives …” My voice trailed off. “Jesse, that comes a lot later.”

This time his voice was a growl. His hug knocked the backpack off my shoulders.

“I would do it.” He talked against the side of my neck.

“No—” I said. His arms didn't hurt me, and I wasn't scared, but he wouldn't let me break away.

I closed my eyes. In the darkness, I still heard every word.

“We were meant to be together.”

S
TRAWBERRY
T
REE
(Arbutus unedo Compacta)

A
s much a mainstay of the coastal garden as the summer romance, Arbutus unedo Compacta is a handsome shrub with dripping white flowers. It thrives in rocky places and puts on a show of red bark and strawberry-shaped fruits. Although these bright fruits attract birds, they are not sweet. Despite this subterfuge, in the language of flowers a strawberry tree conveys esteem and love from the giver. The strawberry tree should be planted in one place and left there, for once it is established, it cannot be moved.

We were meant to be together.

Six words could make the difference between a mad-woman and a sane one. I chose sane.

“This is crazy,” I said and wrenched sideways out of his arms. Even though he let me go, I gave him a double-armed shove for good measure. “You're not going to turn a good deed—a
seven-year-old
good deed—into …” I groped for a less dramatic word than the one that kept popping up. “Oh, I give up! You can't turn chance into destiny.”

His silence gave me time to notice cheekbones that slanted in a way I'd never seen before. He was exotic looking, no question, and he was having trouble understanding my babbling.

“Now, I'm going back to my cottage, and I don't want you to follow me.”

“As if I were a dog, to follow at your heels.” He sounded insulted, but that was better than hurt.

I kept walking.

Not until I reached the highest dune did I stop and look back. I saw his silhouette, all squared shoulders and blowing hair against the night.

“We'll speak of this later,” he shouted, just in case I thought I was winning.

We turned away from each other at the same instant, staying even.

He didn't give up easily. I had to give him that. My sandals bogged down in the sand, but I smiled.

Jesse wasn't the first cute guy to try to play a girl. Trying didn't make him evil. If he went away because I'd confronted him, I wouldn't die. If he stuck around and tried to act ordinary—

I took a long breath and held it. I didn't know what I'd do.

Just ahead, Cook's Cottage showed its peaked roof. One loose shingle flapped a wave. I felt more grounded. Everything was normal. Except for that kiss …

My stomach was still doing flips when I woke the next morning. Maybe it was the clams. All I knew for sure was that I was about to be late for work.

I surveyed my bedroom, looking for something to wear. There was quite a selection on the floor, but the clean stuff was downstairs in my old room.

Once I got down there, I noticed the bike again. I leaned past my suitcases and squeezed the front tire. It felt full of air. Could Thelma have taken care of that, too?

Clothes, I reminded myself.

Even in my suitcase there wasn't much left. At the rate I was going, I'd be out of work clothes tomorrow.

I packed everything into a drawstring laundry bag, deciding to take them to Nana's and start a load of wash before breakfast.

I was feeling mature and responsible as I pulled on skirt and blouse before I fed Gumbo.

Moving fast, I slipped into the bathroom and pulled open the drawer in which I stowed my makeup. I guess I jerked too hard, because the entire drawer came out.

Moaning, I knelt to gather the little pots and cases, but I saw something that didn't belong. Amid the sparkly powder of shattered eye shadow, sat a rusty razor. Little bits of whisker clung to its blades. It sure wasn't mine.

“Ugh,” I told Gumbo as she came to investigate. “I don't think this could be Dad's. I doubt he'd leave it behind, and I know it would be cleaner than this.”

Shaking my head, I picked up the thing with a tissue, then threw it in the trash. Then I grabbed up the
garden sign I'd lettered last night and raced to Sea Horse Inn.

I ran with crossed fingers, hoping no new guests had arrived last night. If they had, breakfast would start in about ten minutes.

In spite of my hurry, the twinge in my ankle didn't bother me. I arrived at Nana's with arms and legs pumping, laundry bag bouncing on my back.

“Gwennie!” Nana shouted my name before I zigged off the path to the kitchen's back door.

I screeched to a stop, like a cartoon car. I really felt good. I didn't care that I was being romanced by a crazy guy. Or a guy who thought I was crazy. I was still being romanced.

“We're on the terrace,” Nana shouted.

I slowed to a quick, panting walk and checked to make sure the newly lettered sign I'd rolled and slipped into the bag hadn't smeared or crumpled.

Nana and Thelma were dressed in jeans, sitting on chaise lounges and dawdling over a meal of maple syrup-drenched French toast.

“Ta da,” I said, displaying the new sign.

While Nana and Thelma read it, I collapsed on a step near them, wishing I weren't too lazy to detour to the kitchen for my own breakfast.

“That's for you,” Nana said absently, indicating a covered plate they'd brought out just for me.