Love Bound

by Rebecca Ryan

  He goes over, right after her.

  Within five long seconds, Nic navigates within a dozen feet of where they went under. I slam the revolver on the bench seat and dive into the water, launching almost vertically to reclaim the space between us.

  As the icy water hits, I see her under me—floating, eyes open, no bubbles trailing—and then her arm flinches. I grab her, hauling her up with one arm.

  When I break the surface, there's another splash and Bryce is right next to me. I catch her from behind and squeeze hard, in a kind of Heimlich move, and water shoots from her mouth.

  I hear Nic on the radio, calling for assistance.

  She's limp, lifeless, her eyes glassy.

  "Claire, no. No, no, no, no, no," I say as Bryce breaks the plastic on the BVM and hands it to me.

  Nic's in the water now. He and Bryce lock arms and make a human gurney for her. I put my head to her chest and can’t hear a thing. It’s too noisy.

  I clamp the BVM to her face and pump hard.

  Her chest rises—a good sign.

  I count to five. Squeeze again.

  And again.

  Over and over.

  I see her small pale face under the mask, her blonde hair plastered to her head, her arms floating uselessly. A sob so deep inside me starts welling. If I lose her I will die. I know I will die.

  She is not Allison. But Allison will never be Claire. I love Claire with everything I am and everything I will be.

  Water sirens wail in the background somewhere, their lonely song finding us standing in the water. It's a low-slung coast guard response boat and medics are jumping out. Nic shouts to them and points to Miller's body floating off to the side somewhere.

  I am seeing all this, yet not. The periphery is real and necessary but all that’s important is her chest rising and falling, over and over.

  Come on, Claire. Please.

  Please. Fight this.

  Tears sting my eyes and my legs are numb from the cold. Her skin is turning blue. We have to get her out of the water.

  Men and women are shouting at me and Bryce yells too, to let go, so they can get her on a floating gurney and then to the coast guard vessel.

  "I'm coming with!" I shout. At least I think it’s a shout. My heart is pounding so hard I think it's going to bust right through my ribs.

  Please.

  Squeeze. Chest rises.

  There are more people in the water now, and they move her onto the floating gurney. Within seconds these guys have her up on the deck, and I am right beside her, pushing air into her. Nic and Bryce are with the other two boats.

  "AED!" yells a guy.

  I can’t even see him. Another rips her shirt open and pushes the BVM mask off her face. Her mouth is open, her eyes staring ahead at nothing. Another coast guard medic dries her chest in seconds. People whirl around me. Bryce says something to another man who shouts from the water about a drug. A syringe. Pads are on her chest, the AED whines into static action. They compress her chest at three and nine o'clock.

  On TV and film, they show people spasm, but it's surprising how hard they actually rock. Two guys hold her down.

  Nothing.

  In the time it takes to recharge, I make that BVM work, and while her face is lost under the mask once more, I pump enough for three more rises of her chest.

  I will never stop. They will have to tear me away.

  The men reposition themselves, holding her safe and tight to the gurney.

  I pull the mask away as the paddles come down.

  Her body writhes and rises with the shock and my gut twists with her. Part of my mind is shutting down.

  She can’t die.

  Claire.

  At that moment, she blinks.

  Someone shouts, “She's gotta pulse!”

  Her stare becomes focused.

  On me.

  Her body quivers.

  Claire.

  ***

  I stare at her in bed, an IV running from her left arm, in an effort to stabilize her electrolytes. Her hair has dried in lanky, thick, thumb-sized curls, and her blue eyes closed as soon as she found my face. They haven’t opened since.

  There were scans and tests, MRIs of her chest and brain. As far as they can tell, she inhaled very little water, a good thing.

  I slip my hand under her to make sure the heated mattress isn’t too hot. Hypothermia is a risk. Her heart has stabilized and stopped its fluctuating arrhythmia just an hour ago. Now, they’re looking for possible clots, though the doctor who's been helping us thinks she isn’t at risk.

  I sit in a plastic chair right next to her bed and hold her right hand, my fingers making room for the pulse oximeter on her index finger. Despite this, I feel the pulse in her wrist, see it beat in her neck. Every now and then I rise and put my ear to her chest. I don't trust the beeping machine and the monitors and the artifice of medicine.

  I need to hear her heart.

  Although they don’t think there's any brain damage, she needs to wake up. She needs to take tests in order to go home.

  So they say.

  I don’t need anything from her.

  I will take her home, no matter what. I will love her, no matter what.

  I just want to curl up with her on the sofa and wrap my arms around her. I want to hold her and feel her alive in my grip, feel her skin beneath my hands. I want to hear her laugh, hold her when she cries, kiss her mouth when she least expects it, and feel her cold feet wrap around my calves in the dark of the night after a wintery, late-night, house call.

  Nic and Bryce joined me at the hospital an hour ago, telling me about the retrieval of Miller's body. How they’d turned over Nic's gun to the coast guard for ballistics and that I’d have to give a statement.

  Soon.

  Nic had handed me the card of the lead investigator.

  I just texted my statement to the guy on my phone, told him to print it off and I'd sign it. I think he should thank me for saving him time.

  Time.

  How much more time will this take?

  I can wait.

  Nic brings me a lobster roll from a food truck outside. “Typical Maine experience,” he tries to joke, but his face is ashen.

  Bryce, too, is quiet.

  I can't eat.

  Their story is horrific. How Bryce had discovered Miller's place was empty when the neighbor's dog started barking and Miller never made an appearance. How this made Bryce first pound and then break down the door. Inside, across his shitty bed, were wigs, dresses, high heels, and Bryce remembered a leggy blonde leaving at seven ten that morning.

  A prostitute, he had thought.

  I figure it was the same woman who handed Cory a cherry tart. Later, Laurel would say the woman looked “odd.”

  Miller was a sociopath. It had all been planned for Claire's birthday.

  Bryce had tried to call Claire, but the landline had been cut. He’d called Nic, and Nic couldn't reach me. Then there was the fire.

  The thirty-five-minute helicopter ride was hell for Bryce, not knowing what was going on and not being able to communicate with Nic or me even when the radio was within range. He had called the local police, and the fire station, and David Keller had called the Burkes. Ralph said he'd just seen her shushing the Salty back in the corral. That was just before Bryce landed and relayed the message to Nic who broke down the office door, not knowing what they would find. All they could be sure of then was that Miller was going to kill Claire.

  Miller had let the horse out, knowing she'd leave the doors unlocked for her patient, and it would give him time to set up inside. Miller had staged it all—even had her layout the anesthesia for an animal her own weight.

  I felt wrung out. Before Nic and Bryce leaves, Nic drops an apple on the little table by her bed. "For you, buddy. Need to eat."

  Half an hour later, A soft sigh rises easily from the bed and there's a small shift under the blankets.

  Staring at her, half rising, I hold her hand to my c
hest as she blinks her way to consciousness.

  Another shift under the covers.

  "I'm hot," she murmurs, her voice so soft, with a rasp from all the abuse her throat has suffered.

  "I love you," I say. "Welcome home."

  She tilts her head to see me better. Then her eyes widen. I know she must be remembering things, but probably not entirely. Flashes of what happened, coupled with what could have happened. I know, because that's what I've been doing for the last four hours.

  "He's dead," I say simply. It's best to keep it simple. At least for now. She will have to relive all of this in a few days when she gives her own statement, but for now, I just want her to get stronger.

  She closes her eyes for a moment, so she doesn't see me lean down to kiss her on the forehead. When I pull back, she whispers, "Come lay next to me."

  Carefully, I move her to one side, being mindful of the IV as I ease into bed with her. The hospital bed's catch must not be completely locked, as the whole thing slips a half-inch with a clatter. I freeze, waiting for hospital nurses to come running, but no one makes an appearance. I lie on top of the sheets on my side and she tucks her head into my neck, where I feel her breath on my skin.

  I am not thinking about the future—not thinking about threats or egresses or unlocked windows or doors or what might go wrong. All I know for sure is she is right here next to me and she's alive. Every small sigh, every moment, is a miracle.

  The present, for the first time in a very long time, is a nice place to be.

  I listen to her breathe.

  Even, steady, strong.

  Damn, her body is warm.

  I reach over and turn off the heating pad.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Claire

  They discharge me four days later with instructions to return if anything on a whole long horrible list happens. Regardless, I still have to go back for a chest X-ray in a few weeks just to make sure I don’t have any nasty bacteria in my lungs, festering into pneumonia soup. When I mention maybe not going, Finn gives me a dark glare. It kind-of thrills me.

  So, I make an appointment right there before I check out. Second Friday from next, I get to get zapped.

  I’m so weak and sore that I can barely move. Even sunlight seems harsh and I squint when the nurse wheels me outside to the waiting Ford half-ton pick-up.

  Finn lifts me from the wheelchair at the curb into his truck like I'm made of glass.

  Within minutes, as much as I fight it, I'm asleep in the litter of blankets he's made for me.

  He installs me at The Inn, which is great since Geo's come up to sub for me for ten days until I get my strength back. In the meantime, he can take over the clinic apartment and his old room.

  Finn has turned his bedroom into a sick room, with my clothes neatly stacked in the dresser, my jewelry box on top of it, and pictures of my parents and the family photo of all of us. There are fresh sheets, and sea air blowing in, and the hot sun on the down mattress is like catnip.

  Even though he carried me upstairs, by the time I've negotiated the toilet and he's helped me off it, I’m ready for bed. He eases me onto the down mattress, already warmed from afternoon sun, and it’s sheer bliss. Softness curls around me. I instantly fall asleep.

  Laurel and Cory come over that first evening, and then Devon. She acts weird as usual. Sweet, but aloof. I can’t figure her out. I think she feels responsible for not calling Finn sooner, or not figuring out the mind of a sociopath. But I wouldn’t have expected her to.

  I can’t think about Miller right now. I'm too tired.

  Dinner is chicken soup, with the focaccia Laurel made. Devon’s brought sparkling water. No wine or alcohol for a while—not until all my bloodwork is normal. Everything is delicious, though the focaccia is hard to eat. My jaw doesn't seem to work right.

  That first night, Finn sleeps in his clothes. He spoons me, alert and on guard, ready for any emergency. Even though he lies very still so I can sleep, I can hear his heart thudding against my back, his arm heavy against my side, holding me tight.

  The next couple of days are filled with a lot of banging and wet saws. According to Finn, tiles are going on the back deck—courtesy of the fire station guys, two of whom are in the coast guard and were part of my rescue. I still don’t really want to know what happened right now. Maybe later.

  That Wednesday, Nic and Bryce fly up from Boston and we all have an afternoon together. After hugging them both and trying to thank them without crying, my lids are so heavy I have to close them. There are hushed voices talking about affidavits, judges, a court order for information, and as they speak, I sleep in the front room.

  I’m frustrated with myself at this point. I can still hardly get to the bathroom by myself. And I’m so sore I take aspirin every day, and toy with the idea of a muscle relaxant.

  That Friday, a full week later, Finn coaxes me out of bed and dresses me in my bathing suit. I stand, quivering and leaning on him, as I place one jelly leg into each opening of the bottom of the suit. Then he ties the halter at the back of my neck.

  "Finn, what are we doing?"

  For the first time, I see him genuinely smile. A smile not framed with pain or guilt.

  "I can walk you know," I say, standing at the top of the stairs. But I don’t know if I really can.

  He picks me up and descends the staircase, striding through the empty dining room to the kitchen and then out the door, his back steely and his breathing even.

  I can tell he's excited about something.

  There, at the side of the house, is a pretty large gazebo-looking structure with a door and a peaked roof with open slats at the top. One side is completely open, a barn door pushed back to reveal a square, built-in hot tub.

  Steam wafts in the morning air.

  "Are you kidding me? How did you do this?" I ask.

  "You never got a proper birthday." He sets me down, and I’m able to see jets. He presses a button on the wall and the water begins churning. Once he leads me inside, he pulls the barn door closed but light shines from above. It’s beautiful. Tiny fairy lights wrap around the timbers at the top and sea breezes blow. "In winter, I've got Plexiglass cut to frame those in at the top. We'll be tight and snug in here."

  My body, this close to release, begins to shake.

  He steps into the fray. It's got to be a twelve-person tub. There are four jets along each side with a set of three steps to the bottom. It seems huge. He stands in the center, water swirling around him just below his waist.

  Then, he gently leads me by the hand, the hot water instantly unknotting my muscles. Shivering, my legs buckle slightly and he catches me, easing me down into the hot swirling water.

  It's heaven.

  Water laps all around, churning, forceful, pounding into muscles and bones. I want to hold my breath and go under, but that’s impossible for right now.

  It might be impossible forever.

  My morning swim, I believe, is a thing of the past.

  "How does it feel?" His voice is in my ear, deep, and for the first time since Miller took me out to the boat, my chest feels Finn's voice resonate.

  "It's amazing. Oh. My. God." I can feel sweat already beading on my forehead. I ease my head back onto the tile and tilt my head up, feeling for the jets as I try to position them to target my shoulders.

  "Let me help," he says, kneeling so the water is above his waist. Finn gently moves each of my arms up onto the tiled rim. "See these little handles? Hang onto them." He juts a jaw to something behind me.

  There, to help guests climb in and out are two grips. I slop a hand into each one, but I don’t have the strength to lower myself carefully against the jets.

  "Hold on," he says, and then, supporting my head, he slowly lifts my rump and stretches me out, so the jets shoot down the length of my spine.

  My head begins to slip into the water and I jerk up, but he kisses me on the cheek.

  "I got you," he says, pulling me even straighter so my de
lts and arms are in the stream as well.

  Still, he's supporting me, and I feel his wide hand under my neck. With his other hand, he massages those little muscles nipping and tucking along my back, and then my ass and hamstrings. Water flows over and around me, his hand underneath me, and I moan it feels so good. No pain, no tightness, no weight, just delicious pounding.

  He is heaven.

  Suddenly, I want him. I don't know how, or why now, or if I can do this, but I arch my back and look directly at him. My eyes feel heavy-lidded.

  "What are you asking?" he inquires.

  "Find me," I say, my voice sounding deep to my own ears.

  "Are you sure?"

  I regrip the handles and close my eyes. "Yes."

  I feel him come close to me and with a deft pull of the tie, my halter slips off. Still holding my head with one hand, he places his knee under my rump to keep me floating on my back. With whisper touches, he runs his other hand down my jaw, which immediately opens, and I moan again. That hand starts down my throat, to my chest. My breasts, pummeled by water, are now stroked by his large hand and fingers. My skin, extra sensitive from the hot water makes each stroke exquisite.

  "You're so beautiful, Claire."

  I look up at him. The love in his expression makes me want to cry. His eyes, such a depthless color of green-blue. His face, beautiful. His body, achingly perfect. He is the man I love. The man I have chosen to love. That I was bound to love. It's fate. I never believed in it, but now, I always will.

  Heat rushes between my legs. "Touch me," I say.

  "Oh, I'll touch you," he says in my ear, abruptly sliding his hand under my swimsuit bottom just at my mound.

  My mind has not been my own since everything happened, but now, my mind is his. Leaning down to kiss me, he lifts my head slightly out of the water as he probes deeply with his tongue. I nearly let go I’m so nerveless with lust.

  He stops for a moment, reaches for the rim of the tub and tears open a condom. I grip the handles harder, knowing he has to let go of me to put it on.

  Then he returns, swiftly, breathing me in, exhaling, and kisses me again while his finger slips inside me.