“Many of you may have read our research paper printed in Science magazine last March. Our study revealed that a wide range of Britain’s marine animals have ingested microplastics, though those results are hardly a surprise. The whole ocean is a soup of microplastics—they’ve been found at every level of the food chain, from tiny zooplankton to fish larvae, turtles, and now marine mammals. We examined the synthetic fibers which came from a wide variety of sources.” He used his fingers to count. “Such things as clothing, fishing nets, toothbrushes. Much of the rest were fragments whose possible sources include food packaging and plastic bottles.”
Gordon gestured out the window to the harbor. “Dolphins. Our sentinels in the sea. They too had ingested microplastic. The problem is widespread, and we will soon reach a tipping point. The time to act is now.”
He went on, outlining his research and the findings while everyone took notes. It was an important study with worldwide ramifications. He concluded by informing them that he was in Charleston to study the physiology of sea turtles and dolphins in relation to microplastics. Linnea made the connection to his comment at the party about being interested in turtles. She listened, impressed by his intelligence. He spoke with ease not merely about marine life but on a variety of topics.
When they reached the question and answer part of the presentation, Gordon could answer any question put to him on any subject—at length—showing a wide breadth of knowledge. During the break, Gordon was surrounded by colleagues asking more questions about his work. Linnea took time to prepare for her presentation. The recycled bags she’d designed had been approved by the aquarium and she’d ordered five thousand to distribute to the community. She’d brought a few prototypes to share with the group, along with cards printed to explain the program’s goals.
When they returned to the table, Gordon offered her a glass of cold water as he sat down, singling her out. She adjusted her seat and looked around the table, noting that she was getting curious looks from some of the other women at the table.
In the second half of the program, various speakers stood and shared announcements concerning their groups’ plans to deal with the plastics challenge in the community. When it was her turn, Linnea rose, especially aware of the gaze of the blue eyes at her left. She enjoyed public speaking. She was good at it and relished the give-and-take with her audience. Linnea spoke about the upcoming Beach Sweep on Isle of Palms and Sullivan’s Island, the first of several the aquarium would be hosting over the summer. She passed out the mesh bags made from woven recycled plastic, each bearing the aquarium’s logo. She concluded with how they planned to engage the public in the sweep efforts.
“I have to say, that’s a right clever idea,” Gordon told her as she sat down. “Brilliant.”
She picked up her glass and sipped, inordinately pleased.
The group talked on for another half hour before the follow-up meeting was scheduled and the meeting was adjourned. Linnea rose and gathered her belongings, stuffing the few remaining bags into her larger one. The meeting had gone on longer than expected and she was eager to get back to the office and share the results with Cara.
“Have you got far to carry them?” Gordon asked her, looking at her overflowing bag.
“Only to the aquarium.”
“I’ll carry them for you.”
“It’s not far. Just across the square,” she objected, but Gordon had already scooped up the large bag in one hand and hoisted his briefcase in the other.
“This is heavier than it looks,” he said.
“I’m used to it.” She glanced up. “My surfboard isn’t exactly light.”
“No, but it’s sweet.” He lifted the bag higher, testing the weight. “What’s in it? It’s not just plastic bags. Bricks?”
She laughed.
He pushed open the heavy glass door with his shoulder. “Lead the way.”
They left the cool of the building, bidding farewell to some of the others. It was another in a steady stream of hot and humid mornings, hinting at the record-breaking heat that was coming. The sky was clear, and the sun made the sidewalks sizzle. The only saving grace was the heady breeze that blew in from the harbor, moving the stifling air in the square as efficiently as a fan. She looked up to see his curls in complete disarray, freed by the wind. He was unable to reach up and tamp them down while holding her bags. She swallowed her smile as she slipped on her sunglasses.
“So, your work with plastics research brought you to Charleston?” she asked as an opener.
“Yes. I’m at the College of Charleston. As you heard, we’re collaborating with NOAA. They’ve done quite a lot of impressive work with resident dolphins here and in Florida.”
“And turtles?”
“Yes.” He turned to face her and grinned. It lit up his face. “That brings me to the aquarium… and now, as it happens, you.”
“I doubt you’ll be working with me.”
“More’s the pity. No, I’ll be working with Dr. Boylan. His research on the ingestion of plastic in sea turtles is important.”
“Shane, yes, of course. You’re in good hands.”
They walked across the wide square on their way to the rear of the aquarium. With each step, Linnea felt they were moving forward into a new relationship. One she didn’t yet comprehend. He’d singled her out too many times for his intention to be misread. Yet in the back of her mind, she worried how Pandora would react.
At length they reached the industrial back entrance of the aquarium. Several vans and boats were parked there, as well as a few trucks. She walked to the plain cement stairs that led to a metal door, not at all the dramatically beautiful front entrance. The heat seemed to radiate from the stark white concrete. “Here we are,” she said, feeling awkward, as though being dropped off at home on a first date.
“Yes, quite.” He looked around the bleak entrance.
She reached out to reclaim her bag. “Thanks. I can manage from here.”
Gordon transferred the bag to her. They stood looking at each other for a long moment, as though wishing the other would say something.
Linnea said, “Well, I’d better go in.”
This prompted him to speak. “Perhaps we could have a drink somewhere? Off-hours?”
She smiled, relieved that he’d asked. She was beginning to wonder if he would. “I’d love to.”
“Is tonight too soon? I could come by here after work. Say after five?”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Where should we go? I’m new around here.”
Linnea thought for a moment. It’d been a while since she’d gone out for drinks in Charleston. “I heard about a place called the Gin Joint that serves handcrafted drinks. It’s quite close.”
“Let’s do it. Where should we meet?”
She thought for a moment. Her car was parked in the garage across the street. “It might be easiest if you pull up at the edge of the park,” she said, pointing to the far end of the long park that met up with Wharf Avenue. “I’ll leave my car in the garage and wait for you there.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, then smiled that almost reluctant smile she found intriguing. Slipping on his dark sunglasses, he said, “Till five, then.”
Chapter Fourteen
The temperature of the sand during incubation plays a role in determining the sex of the hatchlings. Cool sand produces males, while hotter sand produces females. Thus the phrase, “Hot chicks and cool dudes.”
HE PICKED HER up in a Prius.
Of course, she thought as he pulled to the curb.
“Don’t get out,” she called as he pushed open his door. “I’ll hop in.”
She climbed into the passenger seat and swung the door shut. The cool air-conditioning was welcome on a June day that had hit a record high. Books and papers cluttered the back seat. She held back a smile at spotting his wet suit.
“Cute car,” she said, buckling up. “Good gas mileage, I hear?”
“Great mileage,”
he replied, and they made eye contact and smiled. They saw in each other’s gaze that they both were concerned about such things. He pulled back onto the road. “I was surprised Hertz had a Prius rental.”
“Ah, so you don’t own it.”
“I’m only here for a few months.”
Linnea turned her head to look at him, surprised at hearing this, swiftly followed by disappointed. His eyes were on the road and his profile revealed an elegant, straight nose. She turned her head to gaze out her window. They drove a few blocks in silence while she digested that information.
“I think I turn here,” he said, taking the turn.
“Yes, it’s just ahead. On the left side.”
It was a miracle, but they found parking on East Bay close to the bar. Gordon locked the car and hurried to her side, offering his hand as she stepped out. On the sidewalk, he kept to the outside. Someone had taught him his manners, Linnea thought.
They stepped inside the dimly lit, long and narrow bar, relishing the coolness. The restaurant was busy at happy hour and they craned their necks, looking for a free spot. There was ample seating in the garden, but like everyone else, they opted for the cool interior. The woman at the desk had long black hair pulled high into a ponytail and the shapeless body of a child in her tight black skirt and white T-shirt. She checked the tables as they scanned the room. A long wood-slab table was filled with young people freed from work and meeting friends. They were in luck. As they paused, a booth opened up, and they were seated and handed a menu of drinks.
“Chardonnay?” he asked, tongue in cheek.
She met his gaze and laughed. “Only if it’s unoaked.… But it seems a waste to have a glass of white wine here,” she said. She scanned the menu, suddenly very thirsty. “I heard their negroni is fabulous.” She looked up. “Yes, I’ll have that. I’m dying for something cold and bittersweet.”
The waitress came. Gordon paused a moment to scan the menu, then ordered her negroni and the bartender special for himself—a surprise drink concocted by the bartender.
“I feel lucky,” he told her. “Are you hungry?”
“I could nibble. You pick.”
Gordon looked again at the menu and made choices; that done, he folded his hands on the table and gave her his full attention.
“You grew up in Charleston?” he asked.
“Born and raised. I’m the seventh generation in Charleston. There are a lot of us. The founding family followed the Bible’s directive to go, forth and propagate. I might add,” she said in a teasingly superior tone. “Edward Rutledge was a signer of the Declaration of Independence against your country. We won that war, you know.”
“So I heard. Nasty business. But we’re friends now.”
“Yes,” she said with a smile.
“Then I take it your family owned slaves?”
The waitress came with their drinks. Linnea’s smile fell as she stirred the ice, then took a small sip. She waited until the waitress served a charcuterie plate attractively laden with sausages and cheese and a plate of shishito peppers, asked if everything was all right, and departed. Then she answered his question.
“How much do you know about South Carolina? Or the South in general?”
“Not very much. There was the Civil War, of course. Wasn’t South Carolina the first state to secede from the Union?”
“Yes, my family did own slaves. They were a prominent family, and slavery was the culture of the time. Today, no one in my family is proud that our ancestors owned slaves. It was a deplorable institution. But we can’t change history. We can only try to improve what happens today and in our future.”
Gordon seemed to appreciate that he’d hit a nerve. “Yes, of course,” he replied with alacrity.
“Did you know that some eighty percent of African Americans can trace an ancestor through the Port of Charleston?”
“That many…”
“Or that in 2018, the Charleston City Council approved a two-page resolution apologizing on behalf of the city for its role in the slave trade. Or that the International African American Museum will open here in 2021 and it will tell the stories of the long journey of enslaved Africans to our shores and their histories in this country.” She pushed her glass a few inches to the right. “We are not all racists.”
“Point taken,” he said, looking down at his drink. “I have a lot to learn.”
“We all do.” She sipped from her drink.
There followed a painful pause.
She glanced at him. “And your family?”
“Oh, the usual,” he replied. “Mum, dad, a sister. All alive and well and living in England.”
“Do you see them much?”
“We try. Not very successfully. And yours? Current, I mean. Not historical.”
She laughed, a little embarrassed for her heated answer. “I see them often. I live with my parents.”
He was a bit taken aback. “Really?”
She felt the warmth of a blush tinge her cheeks. “I just moved back home from California. It’s temporary. Rather like your car.”
“California? That’s a long way off. You didn’t mind living away from your family, then?”
“I missed them, of course,” she replied. “Actually, I think I only realized how much I missed them when I returned home. Not just them,” she corrected herself. “I missed the lowcountry. Charleston.”
“Mum, dad…” he prodded.
“And my brother.”
“Ah yes. The owner of the truck. At Oxford. I remember all. You became interested in turtles because of your grandmother.”
“Yes, Lovie was a remarkable woman. She studied them simply out of love for the animal. She saw a problem and decided to help. I found that inspiring and followed in her footsteps.”
“Only your area of interest is now plastics.”
She picked up her glass. “It’s my assigned area of interest,” she clarified, and took a sip.
“I see.”
“I’m passionate about this too, don’t worry. Who today isn’t worried that our oceans are becoming—how did you put it? A plastic soup? I just got involved with conservation through the sea turtles, but I see education as spreading the net so much further. In our conservation program, we get members in the community involved in citizen science. That’s designed for individuals to give us feedback on what the problems are, so we can work on solutions. We hope that by engaging the communities to identify the problems in their own areas, we can use that data to make changes.”
Linnea heard the urgency in her voice and sat back against her chair. “I’m sorry,” she said in a self-deprecating tone. “I get a little passionate.”
“I like that about you,” he told her. “And I understand it. When you discover plastic in every marine animal off your coast, you can’t help but feel passionate. That’s a reason why I’m involved with Surfrider. My job is the research. My commitment to the nonprofit is action. Surfrider International’s mission is to protect the oceans. So obviously we’re keen on solutions to the plastic pollution.”
“Pandora said that she surfed with you in Australia and South Africa and Cornwall.”
He grinned. “Thus the name, Surfrider International.”
“I’d love to do that someday.”
“You should. The waves here are… well…”
“I know, I know,” she replied. “I’m just grateful for any waves at all. California’s pretty decent.”
“Have you surfed Hawaii?”
Linnea sighed audibly. “No.”
“Linnea Rutledge, you need to see the world.”
She tilted her head and looked into his eyes. “I suppose I do.”
Gordon indicated the charcuterie in invitation. They talked about surfing until they’d devoured all but a lonely piece of prosciutto and an olive.
“I’d say we did that plate justice,” he said. “Would you like anything more?”
Linnea shook her head. “No, it was delicious.”
“Another drink?”
She looked toward the door. “There’s a long line waiting for a table. I feel guilty.”
After a moment’s pause, he asked, “Would you like to come to my place for a drink?”
She thought of all the reasons to say no. But none of them felt compelling tonight. They were for another Linnea—someone’s daughter, friend, ex-girlfriend. The good girl. Not who she wanted to be tonight. Tonight she was simply Linnea, a young woman without entanglements, free to make any choice she wanted. Inside her body, she felt the hum of her drink in her bloodstream. Outside the bar, the sun was setting. Waiters moved from table to table, lighting candles. Across from her sat a man she was truly attracted to. They’d been playing cat and mouse since they’d met, but the chemistry between them was steadily growing. She looked into his eyes, brimming with invitation.
Linnea put her hand on her purse and replied, “Love to.”
* * *
LINNEA AWOKE THE following morning confused. Sun poured in through the open blinds, creating lines across the bed. Waking further, she realized it wasn’t her bed.
She blinked and brought her hand to her forehead. Turning her head, she saw Gordon lying in bed beside her, his head propped on his hand. He was smiling sleepily, his hair disheveled. He was, she realized slowly, waiting for her to awaken.
“Good morning,” he said. His face held the pallor of awakening, his lids half-lowered.
Her smile was wan. “Good morning.” She put her hand to her hair. “I must look a fright.”
“You’re lovely.”
“It was lovely,” she said, remembering all.
“Can you spend the day? I don’t think we should leave this bed just yet. Maybe not all day. Maybe not ever.”
She laughed, enjoying the romance of it. Then suddenly she roused further, startled by how bright the sun was. “What time is it?”
On Ocean Boulevard Page 18