Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (4 page)

So, I threw my flip-flops and new seashell on the sand and plunged deeper into the Gulf after the boy. But he was fast, and I...was not. He zigzagged in and out of the water, in between people, around clumps of seaweed, giggling demonically the whole way. I reached out to grab him on the shore but, just like some hapless adult in a kids’ sitcom, he slithered out of my grasp and I slipped in the wet sand, falling to my knees.

“Ow!” I cried, not sure what jagged object I’d landed on this time, only that everything out here—be it on land or sea—seemed to be conspiring to cut or bruise me.

I heard a deep, throaty laugh (not maniacal, not demonic) and a voice beside me that said, “This one yours?”

I turned to face the sound and stood up, brushing the sand from my limbs and spotting a collection of cat’s paw shells in a heap where my knee had been. “No—” I began, but then I focused on the man and, for a moment, found myself actually tongue-tied. He was holding up the four-year-old as easily as I’d hold up a coconut...if it had legs and were kicking.

This was not what was remarkable about him, though.

The Sunshine Coast, while full of heavenly bodies in varying states of undress, had presented me with someone wholly unexpected. Although roughly my age, the man had jet black hair—slicked back—full lips, twinkling baby-blue eyes, and a tanned, toned frame, like he’d just stepped out of a late-1960s beach movie. There was just no other way to say it: He looked like Elvis Presley in some film like
Clambake
.

I blinked at him. “Do you sing?”

“What?” he asked above the noise of the still-squealing kid.

“I, um—” I swiveled around in frantic search for Thing One’s father and, suddenly, he was there.

“Sorry, sorry,” the dad said to the Elvis lookalike and to me. “Thank you for grabbing my boy.” He snatched the kid from Elvis’s capable hands and the giggling and squealing came to an immediate stop. As the father marched the child back to his family, Elvis chuckled and said, “I do not envy that man.”

I laughed. “Or his wife.”

“Agreed.”

We shared a fleeting smile.

“Thanks for catching him when I couldn’t. I slipped...”

“I noticed.” He squinted at my feet. “If you’re going to run on the shore, you should get some Beachwalkers.”

“I know, I know. You’re the second person to tell me that today.” I noticed he was wearing some very sporty-looking black water shoes with red stripes to match his long swim trunks. “Do you know a good place to buy some? I just got to Sarasota.”

“Yeah, you looked like an out-of-towner.”

My awe at his resemblance to The King began to wear off and a splinter of irritation took its place. “Do I have a sign on my back or something?”

“Nah. It just takes one to know one. I’m not a native either, but I’ve lived in Florida for a long time.” He checked his watch (waterproof, I was sure) and added, “I’ve got to get to work, but the best beachwear outfitter around is just a few miles down the road in St. Armand’s Circle on Lido Key. Take Tamiami Trail to 789 North and follow the signs. The shop is called Castaways, and it’s on John Ringling Boulevard, just past the circle. They’ve got clothing, bathing suits, snorkel gear, footwear—everything you need for your visit. Lots of other great shops on the block, too. The Beaded Periwinkle and The Golden Gecko are a couple of my favorites and they’re right next door. You should check ‘em out.”

“Hmm,” I said, noncommittally. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused, flashed me one of his twinkly grins and waved like he was The King himself. “See you around.”

I waved back and watched him stride down the beach, finding it hard to believe our paths would really cross again. He had the gait of someone who didn’t spend a lot of time idling on sand drifts and talking to frumpy divorced women, despite how even his tan was or how effortless his manner.

But, then, people always said insincere things like that to each other. Probably even more often in a beach-culture environment such as Florida, where the population fluctuated with the tide.

I grabbed my pink flip-flops and new lightning whelk—both half buried in the sand—patted my pocket to make sure my key was still there and, finally, began my trek back to the Siesta Sunset bungalows. Where the rich people stayed. I knew I didn’t belong there, but I was getting attached anyway.

Such simplicity. It struck me freshly again and again.

What a contrast from the crazy complexity of my life with Donny, his kind parents (when they were still living), and Kathryn as a baby. What a contrast from the quieter life of just me and Kathryn alone, when my daughter was a teen. This summer life felt almost
too
easy.

And, yet, as I approached #26, my pulse started racing again. Not like the rush of rejuvenation I’d felt at the exercise of walking along the stunning beach. No. More like a return to the combination of fear and indistinct emotion I’d felt after talking with Vivian. More like the misgivings I’d tried to express to Ellen at having come to Florida at all.

With simplicity abounding—so much daily clutter cleared away—it was shockingly apparent when there was a big problem sitting in the middle of the room. Like, oh, my entire nebulous future.

I sighed and pushed open the door to the bungalow. It was precisely how I’d left it and, for some reason, this brought with it a fresh wave of sadness. I swiped away any remnants of sand and sea from the shell and placed it in the middle of the glass coffee table. My first decoration.

It wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon but, suddenly, the two days of driving, the tension of moving, the odd sense of displacement I’d felt since getting here, and the endless stretch of the unknown all mingled inside of me to create only the certainty of exhaustion.

I curled up on Ellen’s cushiony floral sofa—a buttercup pillow under my head—and closed my eyes. I needed to call my sister back soon, but for the next hour, I could let myself drift into sleep and away from all anxiety-producing things.

The day might not yet have ended but, tomorrow was still another day. I figured I had more than enough worry and angst to carry over into it. For the time being, though, I’d burrow deeper into my borrowed shell, pretend the ocean was a melody designed to lull me to sleep, and dream about my longest-held fantasy—the one I pointedly refused to name aloud.

Connecticut Disconnect

E
llen Slater had always prided herself on being a strong woman. A warrior, even. In the tax world. In her marriage. Everywhere. No one questioned her ability to do her job extremely well, reel in new clients, get thirteen things done at once—and all brilliantly. And they damn well
shouldn’t
doubt her. She was forty-four, clever, experienced, and at the absolute top of her game. 

Which in no way explained why, after doing nothing more challenging than having a ten-minute phone call with her longtime client, Gage Bartholomew, Ellen had sequestered herself in the far left stall of the women’s restroom—the one on the fifth and highest floor of the New Haven, Connecticut branch of Palmer, Jacoby and Slater—and was trying desperately to breathe deeply and keep her hands from visibly shaking in front of her.

She stared with increasing horror at her fingers, her nails polished with a tasteful rose-red sheen, but each digit trembling as if she were afflicted by some sort of palsy. Her heart raced, she found herself wicked short of breath, and she was sweating straight through her cream-colored silk blouse. Disgusting. She figured she was either dying or—worse—going through early menopause.

What the hell was happening to her?! She’d just had a comprehensive physical in May, and her doctor had pronounced her in good health.

So much for what
he
knew. Stupid asshat.

Ellen had every intention of telling off Dr. Joseph Cole when she spoke with him next...once she could stop quivering long enough to dial his number on her cell phone. It would, however, be a far less effective rant if she were, say, incapable of speaking above a whisper. Like she was at the moment.

She leaned against the cool ceramic tiles on the wall, letting the chilled smoky-blue squares ice the back of her neck, and debated whether or not to call 9-1-1. The fact that she could still “debate” made her less inclined to initiate such a call. Besides, the symptoms of whatever she was experiencing seemed to be lessening—at least she wasn’t feeling quite as lightheaded or nauseated as she’d been back in her office fifteen minutes ago.

Her office... Oh, Christ. She was supposed to have a conference call with her client Carole Grayson this afternoon. In twenty minutes. That just wasn’t going to happen. She’d have to ask her secretary to call Carole and reschedule. This illness—or whatever it was—was effing up her day, big time.

And it was going to take all of her strength just to keep news of her potentially imminent death from her husband Jared. The man might be smart, well-connected, over-educated, and affluent, but he couldn’t even make a grilled cheese sandwich by himself without detailed instructions and/or a step-by-step flowchart. What would he do without her?

Hire a live-in cook, Ellen supposed. Or find himself a new wife.

Crap
.

She swiped the beads of sweat off her forehead with a bit of tissue, her breathing starting to come a bit easier now.

No, she definitely could not meet with Carole. And she would rather not tell anyone—not Jared and certainly not her whiny little sister—that she wasn’t in such great shape these days. They relied on her to be their rock. Jared was juggling a dozen projects at work, and Marianna had always been such a catastrophic thinker when it came to anything, especially other people’s health. The way she clucked like a little Mother Hen whenever Kathryn had the sniffles or her in-laws were sick...ugh. Always trying to make up for that bastard of a husband by being such a dutiful mom and daughter-in-law. The woman must have spent two decades in the Land of the Worrywarts after she married Donny the Freeloader. No way was Ellen going to give her sister something new to fuss over. Marianna had enough problems.

Ellen forced out some air and inhaled long and slow.

She slipped her hand beneath the neckline of her blouse and placed her palm on the bare skin above her heart. Still pumping furiously.
Too
furiously, considering she wasn’t running a 500-meter dash or sprinting up a flight of stairs.

What did they always say to do if you thought you were having a heart attack? Chew on baby aspirin?

Well, she didn’t have any baby aspirin. She didn’t even have any ibuprofen—at least not with her. Then again, it wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to check with her secretary to see if she had anything like that on hand. That, of course, would mean admitting she was sick, though. She cringed at the thought, but if she was going to leave early, she’d have to tell
someone
. Might as well be Selena, whom she at least liked a little and felt to be somewhat loyal.

Ellen splashed a bit of water on her face, blotted with a paper towel, and tried to tidy up her appearance as best she could. But, really, there was no way around it. She no longer looked like a tax partner. She looked like one of those unfortunate women who’d had their brains half eaten by rabid zombies in the latest horror flick. No one would doubt she had some terrible bug. Maybe it was a kind of summer flu? People got weird things like that, with symptoms like hers, didn’t they?

When she got back to her office, her secretary eyed her with concern. “Ms. Slater, are you all ri—” Selena began.

“No,” Ellen said. “I’m coming down with something. Twenty-four-hour...hmm, maybe forty-eight-hour flu, I think.” She watched as Selena nodded sympathetically and leaned a few inches back from her.

“I’m sorry to hear—”

“Please reschedule my call with Ms. Grayson for next week, and cancel all of my appointments for tomorrow,” Ellen interrupted. “I’ll call in if I think I’ll be gone longer than that.”

“Of course, Ms. Slater,” the secretary said promptly. “I hope you’ll feel better.”

“Thank you.” Ellen escaped into her office, gathered her laptop, her phone, a folder of paperwork to be signed and a handful of peanut M&Ms. No, they were not exactly
baby aspirin
, but she’d changed her mind about asking Selena if she had any of that. And, besides, Ellen could tell her heart rate really had returned to normal (almost), and it was foolish for a person to take medication they didn’t need. Especially if chocolate tasted so much better.

When she was safely in her silver Lexus, though, she called her doctor’s office. “Yes, this is Ellen Slater. I need to speak with Dr. Cole at once.” She waited as the receptionist transferred her to Dr. Cole’s nurse, who then asked her to describe her symptoms.

“Why can’t I speak with Dr. Cole directly?” she asked instead. “Where
is
he?”

“He’s with another patient, Ms. Slater,” the nurse replied. “But if you’ll please tell me what you’ve been experiencing, I’ll be happy to—”

Ellen clicked off her phone.

She’d overreacted by calling in the first place. She was
fine
. Really.

She’d go home, rest up, and be her normal self by tomorrow or the day after at the latest. And everything would return to the way it was.

Whatever had happened, it was just a fluke. She was sure of it.

Nevertheless, she stopped at a corner pharmacy on the drive home and picked up a bottle of chewable baby aspirin—that chalky orange-flavored stuff she’d hated as a kid—and forced herself to take a couple of tablets, along with a few swigs of Evian. She washed both down with a small pack of almond M&Ms (she liked to strive for variety in her snacking—
everyone
knew how different almonds and peanuts were from each other—and, besides, nuts were
good
for you) and ordered some freshly rolled sushi for dinner from Tasty Tokyo’s “lite menu.” There were heart-healthy Omega-3s all over the place with that meal. Although, maybe not so much with the side order of fried calamari.