Skyward (27 page)

“Wine?” he asked incredulously.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It wouldn’t be a picnic without some reinforcements. We may have to work against the current to get back, but at least we’ll be smiling.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever told you boating and alcohol don’t mix?” he asked, reaching in and pulling out the bottle of wine.

“Oh, Harris. Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.”

“A what?”

“You heard me. Sometimes I think you need to loosen up a bit.”

“
Me
loosen up? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

“What? You think I’m a stuffed shirt?”

“You stuff your shirt quite nicely, Miss Majors, but those buttons can be a little tight.”

She sputtered with indignation, then seeing the tease sparkling in his eyes, erupted into a laugh. He joined her and, with a shrug, put the bottle of wine back into the picnic.

“Only for medicinal purposes,” she declared.

“How about a bite of that ham sandwich now?”

“Oh, no, you don’t. We have to earn it.”

“You New Englanders with your work ethic. Well, fasten up that life preserver and hop in. It’s time to start earning your lunch.”

She fastened the preserver and, gripping the sides, climbed into the front of the tippy canoe. Once she was settled, Harris nudged the canoe from the shore onto the water. Her heart quickened along with the current, and, before long, they fell into the rhythm of the river. At first the canoe was wobbly, but between laughs and grunts they managed to get their paddling in sync. Harris steered in the rear of the canoe with long, strong strokes. Over and over her paddle broke the dark surface at a steady pace with Harris’s and she found that this repetitive, rhythmic motion bonded them in a subtle yet powerful way.

They meandered along the winding waterway at the river’s pace, slowing from time to time for conversation. She’d purposefully left her wristwatch at home, deciding that for at least today, she would not be its slave. They were on river time. The air was that soft and sultry kind that melted your bones. Birdsong filled the air. Occasionally she’d hear the plop of some amphibian—lizard, frog, alligator—as it broke the water’s surface. She’d swing her head over to look, but every time she only caught the telltale rippling of the water.

Everywhere she looked was new and mysterious. Flowering dogwood peeked between majestic bald cypress trees more than one thousand years old and gnarled, twisting live oaks that lined the riverbanks. The long, drooping branches dripped lacy fronds of Spanish moss that skimmed the water’s surface like a woman’s sleeve when her long fingers dipped into the cool water.

Life slows down on the river, she thought. All that mattered was what was around the next bend. While she paddled, Ella enjoyed the sound of Harris’s voice behind her, rich and melodious, as he pointed out the history of the area. It was as rich and complex as the landscape they slowly journeyed through.

He told her how the Spanish had come in their mighty ships in 1526, and how over the next hundred years, the English and French joined them to establish outposts in the New World. By 1729 Charleston was already a busy, wealthy seaport, which made some men wealthy and others eager to steal that wealth away. Famous pirates like Blackbeard and Caesar came to stake a claim. Harris regaled her with their stories, and those of the legendary “Swamp Fox,” Francis Marion, and Christopher Gasden, a local planter who designed a flag that would inspire the colonists to battle with the slogan, Don’t Tread on Me.

From time to time, Harris would interrupt his stories to call out, “Look there!” She’d turn her head to see what had caught his attention, smiling to herself at how much like his daughter he really was. Once it was a trio of fishing lines hanging from a tree, each marked with a different colored tape. Harris told her someone was going to have spot tail or catfish or maybe some wide-mouth bass for dinner. He pointed out rickety deer blinds nestled way up in the trees. What pleased her most, however, was when he tapped her shoulder and pointed up. Then she looked skyward to see a cluster of rare wood storks, white and majestic in the stark gray branches of a dead oak. She turned her head and smiled, pleased that she could identify these birds now.

As the sun reached its highest point, they pushed back their long sleeves, feeling the rays kissing their skin despite the in creasing gray clouds. Suntan lotion changed hands, as well as repellant. The river had a brisk current and they were moving along at a good pace, yet as time passed, the sky darkened ominously. They should stop for lunch soon, she thought. Maybe even turn back. She debated whether or not to ask, but refrained, hoping against hope that the weather would hold and not cut even a moment of this time alone with Harris.

Her hopes were dashed when the first fat drops of rain splattered onto her forehead and landed in the water with rude, heartbreaking, plopping noises.

“Uh-oh,” she said, stilling her paddle to look over her shoulder with a worried expression.

He grimaced and turned his face up to gauge the rain. “I was hoping we’d stop for lunch and be headed back before we got the first drops,” he replied. “That’s a pretty big cloud mass. We’d better head back. We don’t want to get caught.”

As though the heavens were waiting for him to finish his sentence, the sky opened up in a true Southern downpour, dumping rain in bucketfuls. They paddled hard but, even squinting, she couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of her.

“We have to get off the water and out of the boat,” he shouted over the roar of the rain. “Let’s head for that small bluff to the left!”

The rain came down in torrents, a punishing, stinging rain that streamed down her face, blinding her. Still, she put her back to it, struggling against the current as he guided the canoe into the waves, zigzagging them toward the bluff.

“Harris!” she shouted in alarm. “The water is filling the boat!”

“Keep going, Ella. We’ll make it. Paddle hard!”

Her arms felt like rubber and she was panting with each desperate stroke. Unable to see where they were heading through the downpour, she knew that they’d reached the shore only when the bottom of the canoe scraped sand. They scrambled like river rats from the canoe and dragged it up the muddy shore. Ella slipped, skinning her knee, then picked herself up and tugged some more. At last the canoe, heavy with all the gear, was safe on high ground.

Ella’s arms drooped at her sides as she scanned the area. “There’s nowhere to go!”

“You pull out the gear and I’ll rig something up,” he shouted. “Thank God for the tarp.”

She wanted to weep, she was so exhausted, but she did as she was told, knowing it was critical to keep dry. They worked in double time, slipping in the muddy terrain. Harris pitched the large plastic tarp over the branch of a pine, then anchored the edges with large rocks. It was little bigger than a pup tent. He moved the gear to safety and was spreading a film of plastic on the ground when they heard the first rumblings of thunder.

“Come out of the rain!” he called, waving Ella under cover, away from the metal canoe that she was just finishing flipping upside down. She stumbled under the low tarp just as the first sheet of lightning scarred the dark sky.

In the dim light she saw Harris crouched and leaning against the pile of supplies. He’d wrapped a thin blanket she’d brought for the picnic around his shoulders and opened up his arm to her. She was on her knees in the low tent, shivering and dripping with cold water. She managed to slip off her life preserver with clumsy shakes, then crawled over to him, seeking shelter from the rain that pelted their little makeshift tent with relentless fury. Murmuring reassurances, he gathered her close and wiped the rain from her face with gentle strokes. Ella gathered her knees close and cuddled against him, relishing the feel of his arm around her shoulders as a sanctuary from the storm.

“You’re soaked,” he said.

“And freezing,” she said, shivering. “That rain is icy.”

“These sudden storms usually pass over just as quickly. We’ll be safe waiting it out here.”

Suddenly a fierce bolt of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a tremendous clap of thunder overhead. Ella jumped with a yelp and clutched his shirt with a tight grip.

“It sounds like it’s right on top of us!”

“It’s okay, Ella,” he murmured by her ear. “We’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? What if lightning hits a tree? I’ve treated people with serious injuries from trees exploding or falling down right on top of them.”

He frowned and looked out of the tarp. He couldn’t see anything except bent-over grass and driving rain. “We’re out of range of most of the trees.”

“But what if
we
get hit? I knew a man who wasn’t even hit directly. He was just close enough to get a jolt. It fried his liver and screwed up his electrolytes. He still doesn’t act quite right—and he’s lucky to be alive. If it’s a direct hit, you’re toast.”

“The odds of getting hit by lightning are astronomically slim. But if it will make you feel better, we can take off any belts or metal, just till the storm passes.”

They fumbled in the close space and the metal felt like ice against her fingers as she undid her belt and slid it out from the loops. They set them far away on the pile of life preservers.

Afterward he wrapped his arms around her again, tightening the blanket. “Feel better now? Good,” he said when she nodded against his chest. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ll just ride it out.”

She nestled in the stingy warmth of the blanket. “I hate thunderstorms. I always have.”

“Really? I’ve always loved thunderstorms. When I was a kid I used to lie on my back and count from the moment I saw lightning in the sky till I heard the first rumbling of thunder to find out how far away the storm was.”

“Everybody did that. Except I did it more out of self-protection than fun.”

A low rumbling sounded, growing in crescendo.

Their eyes met and in unspoken agreement they began to count. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand.” A searing bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

“That was close,” she whispered.

He made a face of mock horror.

“My mother and father died in a thunderstorm.”

His smile fell instantly. “I’m sorry, Ella.”

“That’s what caused the accident. The rain was really thick, like this, and the roads were so slick they couldn’t see. I was only five years old but I remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing at the window of my aunts’ house, looking out at the storm and waiting. Waiting for them to come home. I was so scared for them.” Thunder roared again and she clutched him tight. “I
hate
this,” she said in a hoarse voice. “I still have nightmares.”

“Shh…Ella…I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

She tucked her small hands under his jacket, close to his chest. The storm made the day like night as they huddled close under the tarp. “No one’s ever said that to me before,” she said in a soft voice.

“That he won’t let anything happen to you?”

She shook her head against his chest. “I used to dream that my father said things like that to me, back when I was very little. When I got older, I dreamed that some man would. Someday. A childish dream. Like wanting to be a princess.” She laughed ruefully. “Neither one of those dreams came true.”

There was a long silence and she squeezed her eyes tight, feeling so exposed.

“You strike me as someone who doesn’t need taking care of,” he said.

He spoke in a soft voice, but in the small confines of the tent, the words seemed shouted. Or maybe it was because, though his words were true in one sense, they were so untrue in another that Ella cringed to hear them.

“I’ve always taken care of myself because I’ve had to. And, frankly, no one’s ever stepped up to ask for the position. A person can be resourceful and competent and still need to feel cared for. Protected.” She took a breath. “Not alone.”

She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her palm.

“Do you feel alone, Ella Majors?”

Something in the way he said it, his voice hushed and husky, his breath coming fast, let her know that his question came from a source much deeper than mere curiosity. And she knew her answer would have consequences.

Words formed in her mind.
Yes, I’ve felt very much alone for a very long time, but never have I felt the pain of it so keenly as I have in the past few months as I lie in my bed, night after night, knowing you were lying alone, too, just down the hall. Knowing that I loved you and that you thought of me only as Marion’s nanny. A colleague. A friend.

She clutched his shirt, mouthing the words that she couldn’t give breath to and suddenly she was crying. Her! Ella never cried and was embarrassed for the tears but couldn’t stop them.

He brought his hand to lift her chin, saying, “It’s all right, Ella. It’s all right.” His hand wiped the tears from her face, smoothed her dampened hair back as she took hiccupping breaths. He stroked her hair slowly, murmuring her name in a low voice while her crying ceased and her breathing slowed. She could feel his breath on her face—warm and so close—in rhythm with her own.

Her lids fluttered open and she saw his eyes staring into hers, so near that she felt she might drown in their blue depths. He moved toward her in degrees, and when at last he pressed his lips to hers, Ella closed her eyes again, breathing in his air. This time, she knew she was lost.

The kiss deepened and it was as if lightning struck, violently and unexpected. It sparked a fire so fierce and scorching that it blazed out of control, heating their skin, leaving them panting and tearing off damp clothing with shaking hands.

The storm outside raged. The wind whipped at the tarp, causing it to billow and shudder. Thunder rolled overhead, deafening in its fury, heralding the crackling lightning that lit up the sky, illuminating the two smooth, rocking silhouettes in the darkened tent.

Yet inside, Ella was unafraid. Closing her eyes she was back on the river with the sun shining overhead, brilliant and clear, deliciously scorching their skin. She was in Harris’s arms and his movements were smooth and soothing. They were blissfully in sync, their strokes repetitive, rhythmic, gradually gaining speed. She was caught in the current, flowing with the river, toward the warmth she’d been seeking and—at last—found.