Adrift

by Micki Browning

  “Very.” She smiled. “I didn’t learn that particular lesson until college. Sometimes I’m a slower learner than I like to let on.”

  “The trick is to keep learning.” Bijoux swept her hand toward the living room.

  The space closed in around Mer, but, rather than imparting a sense of doom, the warmth of the room enveloped her. Comforted her. Jeweled tones accented the dark-wood furniture. Soft fabrics, soft lighting, soft music—the room was an extension of Bijoux. Exotic and inviting.

  “You once said that you know the Tarot,” Mer said. “I know it’s late, but would you consider offering me a reading?”

  Bijoux raised her tea cup to her lips and stared at Mer over the rim, not drinking.

  “I’m serious,” Mer assured her. “The only reason I know which way is up at the moment is because of gravity. Everything else is a muddled mess.”

  “That must be very off-putting for you.” She nodded. “Yes, let us consult the cards.” Bijoux pointed to a low square table. A trio of candles decorated its corner, and cushions softened the floor around its edges. “We’ll be comfortable there.”

  Mer pulled over a large pillow and settled in front of the table. Up close, the burning candles released an intoxicating fragrance. Jasmine, maybe freesia. The aroma calmed her jangled nerves. Bijoux returned carrying a worn velvet pouch. She lowered herself onto another pillow with the grace of a dancer.

  “So, how do we do this?” Mer asked.

  “Think about what you want to know. Close your eyes. Inhale your question. Exhale your doubt.”

  “This is difficult for me. I don’t understand how a deck of cards can answer my question.”

  “And yet here you are,” Bijoux remarked. “Why?”

  Mer pondered the question before answering. “I don’t want to overlook the possibility that I’m wrong.”

  “Ah, that must be powerful motivation for a scientist.” Bijoux loosened the drawstring of the pouch and withdrew the cards. “The Tarot is a tool that will help you think of your problem in a new way. It is not absolute. Think of the Tarot as a mirror. In its reflection, we can sometimes see things more clearly than when we look at it directly, especially as it applies to ourselves. You must clear your doubts, Mer, or the reading will be as muddied as your thoughts.” Bijoux handed the deck to her. “Shuffle your cards. Dwell on your question.”

  The cards were larger than most modern decks, and the artwork on the back had an archaic aesthetic. Mer traced her finger across the muted colors. The corners had been blunted with use and the cards felt soft, as if strands of linen had been pressed into the paper.

  A jolt of electricity ran through Mer. She tore her eyes from the cards and found Bijoux studying her.

  “You honor the cards. They will speak to you if you listen. Now is not the time to be analytical. Now is the time to heed your gut, allow your heart to be heard. This deck belonged to my grand-mère. She will take good care of you.”

  Mer closed her eyes and shuffled the deck. Questions swam through her mind like a school of minnows, darting and turning in synchronicity. How could she choose? She inhaled, concentrated on the air filling her chest. She relaxed her shoulders and inhaled again. Her mind quieted. A few questions separated from the cacophony. Practical questions. Expected questions. Questions she wanted answered about Selkie. But they weren’t the right ones.

  The room receded. She inhaled again. Heard a question. The question. Her eyes popped open.

  Bijoux patted her arm. “I see your question has found you.”

  She could only nod.

  “Let us see what choices the cards present.”

  Mer placed the deck in Bijoux’s palm.

  The layers of bracelets on Bijoux’s wrist jingled as she placed a card faceup on the table. Ten wands formed an X on the card. She turned over another card. A small furrow appeared between her thin brows before she settled the card sideways on top of the first.

  An image of a bound and near-naked man hanging suspended by his feet stared up from the card. A shiver rippled across Mer’s shoulder and she closed her eyes. Focused on the question. Bijoux’s sharp intake of breath caused her to open them again.

  The third card occupied the space above the previous two. A skeleton walked across the card under the words “La Morte.”

  “Death?” Mer asked.

  “Not in the sense you are thinking.”

  Bijoux laid seven more cards in an elaborate pattern across the tabletop. When she was through, she set the remainder of the cards off to the side and studied the spread.

  Mer remained quiet. The combination of cards baffled her, and her gaze kept landing on the skeleton. As a child, she’d played crazy eights and go fish. On the research vessel, she’d whiled away plenty of idle hours playing gin rummy and hearts. She understood the mechanics of various poker games but had never mastered the bluff. The cards in front of her bore swords, cups, and wands, but not the coinlike image that her mother had once informed her were called pentacles. She probably should have paid more attention.

  “There are two parts that make up the whole of the tarot deck,” Bijoux said. “The Major Arcana speaks to things that are often beyond our control. Out of the seventy-eight tarot cards, only twenty-two belong to this category. Four of them are in your spread. The remaining cards are known as the Minor Arcana. These cards offer insight into the events that we can influence. The majority of your cards suggest that you have considerable control over your concern.”

  Mer stared at the cards again. Clueless.

  Bijoux indicated the first card. “The Ten of Wands indicates that you feel overwhelmed by your current situation.”

  “No mystery there.”

  “No, but the Hanged Man card offers two meanings. Like the image, he is suspended in limbo. There is nothing you can do about this. Moving beyond limbo may require a sacrifice. Penance.”

  Guilt pressed down on Mer. “And the second?”

  A smile softened Bijoux’s features. “Some things are best looked at from a new perspective. Perhaps a shift from the analytical to the intuitive.”

  “Big shift,” Mer replied.

  “Is it?” Bijoux tapped the card with the skeleton.

  Mer straightened, curious. “Let me guess. Someday I’m going to die.”

  Bijoux arched her brow. “Someday, Madam Scientist, we are all going to die. I don’t need to consult the cards to tell you that.”

  “Then why did you react like you did when you turned it over?”

  “Its position in the spread speaks to your current concern,” Bijoux said. “It is different from your first card in that this card delves into what is bothering you. The cards are seldom so—what’s the phrase you Americans use? On the nose.”

  “I haven’t told you my question.”

  “You don’t need to. Since Ishmael’s disappearance, everything you do is to discern if you could have done something different. If you could have saved him.”

  Mer hung her head.

  “The death card is often symbolic, describing change. It may be difficult, it may be painful. But it will be final.” Bijoux sat back in her chair. “Your cards, their positions. I find it telling that there are no pentacles.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Pentacles apply to practical matters, material issues. If I had to describe you as a card, you would be a pentacle. The wands, on the other hand, reflect taking risks and following one’s intuition. Swords are linked to difficulties, cups with emotions and relationships. Taken together, the cards suggest that it is not your practicality that you need to rely upon to find your answer; it is your heart, your intuition, your friends.”

  “What else do the cards tell you?”

  The candle beside Bijoux guttered. “The cards tell a story.”

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  Bijoux sighed. “Sometimes happiness comes later. It is interesting to me that the Moon illuminates your spread. Nothing is the same in moonlight. She hides thi
ngs, disguises them. It may be that you aren’t seeing your situation in its true light. But your ending?” Bijoux traced her finger between the nine cups that decorated the last card. “The Nine of Cups is a wish card, Mer. Anything is possible.”

  Chapter 24

  Mer studied the midmorning sky as she stood on her patio sipping from the steaming mug in her hand. Everyone who made a living on the water checked weather reports each day and then tried to predict which patterns would actually transpire. Today, however, the weather channels all agreed: despite the tropical storm spinning up in the Caribbean, clear skies, light winds, and flat seas favored Key Largo.

  Seemed a shame to waste.

  The day was supposed to be spent ghost hunting. She and Leroy had prepped the LunaSea, but none of the Spirited Divers had shown up. They waited another hour before Bijoux released them for the day.

  Mer tossed the dregs of the instant coffee onto the rocks. A couple hours of paddling was just what she needed to put her thoughts in order. Racks along the rear wall of the house held four kayaks and, as part of her rent, she was welcome to use them at any time. She selected a mango-colored Hurricane Santee 126 kayak—twelve and a half feet of free therapy—and carried it down to the water’s edge.

  Too bad Selkie wasn’t around. His car wasn’t in the driveway when she got home last night, and he still hadn’t returned this morning or she’d have invited him to come along. Although, if he did kayak with her, she probably wouldn’t get a lot of thinking done—which, according to Bijoux, was a good thing.

  Was it? Mer’s head and heart were each currently trying to trump the other. Her heart was navigationally challenged. Following it had only led to heartache. Her intellect, on the other hand, hadn’t strayed from its path to success, at least not until Ishmael’s disappearance. Even now, she had a research offer on the table. All she had to do was accept it. But then what? Snuggles on a couch and a couple of amazing kisses didn’t mean a man would be willing to traipse to God-knows-where while she pursued her research. And frankly, would she even want him to? Maybe, it was her turn to leave without a word.

  An anhinga dove into the shallows and its splash startled her out of her reverie. A moment later, the bird’s glossy black head and neck popped above the surface while the rest of its body remained submerged. In the ocean. Where she should be. There would be plenty of time to think about Selkie. Later.

  Two boulders bookended a makeshift boat ramp, and she set the kayak between them. Coast Guard regulations required her to have a personal flotation device, but they didn’t require her to wear it, and she bungeed it to the back of the kayak. She threw her dry bag in the cockpit, jammed a ball cap on her head, and grabbed the paddle. The GPS on her wrist acquired satellites, and she hit the button that would track her distance. Seven miles seemed a worthy goal for the day. She straddled the kayak and sat, then drew in her legs.

  Squinting through her Oakleys, she considered her options. She could go north past Aviary Island. Hugging the shore had its advantages—mangroves to explore, easy to navigate, no boat traffic—but with the tide going out even her kayak risked being grounded. Today she wanted something different. She dragged the right side of her paddle in the water and the kayak pivoted until the nose pointed seaward. Strong, fluid strokes carried her away from the shore.

  The sky remained cloudless as the morning waned. Even on the ocean, the heat of the sun burned through her shirt. She paused frequently to drink from her water bottle. A turtle surfaced next to her during one of the breaks, and she sat quietly, enjoying the encounter while she ate a granola bar. She’d miss this, she realized—the warmth, the clear endless sky, her new friends—not enough to change her mind about the new job, but Selkie was right: the Keys had started to grow on her.

  She stretched, arching her back and flexing her hands to work out the kinks. Her body felt strong, but after today’s workout she knew she’d sleep well tonight.

  Just before noon, Mer decided to turn around. She glanced at her GPS. Nearly four miles, a tad farther than she expected. Boat traffic had been minimal. She’d chosen her path to avoid the most congested areas, but now she saw a dot on the horizon. It grew larger as a boat neared. Figured. An entire ocean to play in and the only two vessels on it had charted a collision course.

  The boat spewed a plume of churned water that marked its progress like a contrail. It had the sleek profile of a go-fast boat, the type of boat that adrenaline junkies raced in Key West or smugglers used to run rum, drugs, and people past the Coast Guard. Mer pulled up her paddle and watched the boat. It was speeding straight toward her. Surely the driver could see her.

  She raised her paddle into the air to increase her visibility and waited for the boat to turn, but it maintained its course. Fear fluttered in her stomach.

  “What the hell?” The boat bore down on her. She gripped her paddle and dug into the ocean. Her knuckles whitened and her muscles strained as each stroke propelled the kayak forward. She had to keep moving.

  Each slap of the approaching boat’s bow against the water sounded like a thunderclap. Adrenaline settled into the crannies of her body, spreading until it flooded every cell. She had nowhere to go.

  Time slowed. The boat loomed closer. Her body vibrated with tension. She tried to swallow but found her mouth dry.

  The roar of the engines filled the air. Taunted her until she wanted to clap her hands over her ears to shut it out.

  Still the boat charged closer. Mer braced for impact.

  Inches from running her over, the boat veered. A wall of water crashed into the side of the kayak and knocked her into the ocean. The temperature change constricted her chest. She somersaulted underwater and the paddle wrenched free of her grasp. The sound of the boat’s engine surrounded her, coming from all directions at once, so that she had no way of telling how close it remained. She raised her hand protectively above her head and surfaced. Another wave slapped her face. Sputtering, she blinked salt water out of her eyes. Her kayak bobbed upside down a few feet away.

  The speedboat made a wide turn and returned. Slower. Contrite.

  Fuming, Mer swam to the kayak and held on to it with one hand and hailed the driver with the other.

  Red and black racing stripes covered the side of the boat. Ornate script above the swim step identified it as the Second Chance. A woman wearing large sunglasses stood behind the helm. She brought the boat around and idled closer.

  Mer spit salt water out of her mouth, then nearly choked again as she recognized the driver. “Lindsey?”

  Lindsey put the engine in neutral; the deep rumble sounded like a growl.

  “Didn’t you see me?” Mer searched for her paddle and found it floating between the kayak and the boat.

  Lindsey sprawled across the transom and plucked Mer’s paddle from the water. “I told you to quit meddling! Why didn’t you listen?” Lindsey shook the paddle like a war hammer and then threw it on the boat’s deck.

  “What are you talking about?” Mer’s legs beat an eggbeater pattern as she treaded water.

  Fury colored Lindsey’s face, and she stomped to the helm. “You have only yourself to blame.” She mashed the throttle and the boat leaped forward, kicking up a new battery of waves to pummel the kayak.

  Mer stared at the receding speedboat, then looked beyond it to the distant shore. No other vessels dotted the horizon. Suddenly she felt very small.

  She righted the kayak and hoisted herself across it. Without a paddle to use as a stabilizing outrigger, the kayak tipped precariously. It took several attempts before she successfully crawled into the boat. Once seated, she took a couple of steadying breaths. And then a couple more as she pondered the gravity of her situation.

  What the hell had gotten into Lindsey? She thought about it a minute, then cast the topic aside. She couldn’t think about that now. If she did, she’d slip right into the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. And she had more pressing needs. Like how to get back to shore.

  Her heart r
aced. She’d lost her hat when she capsized, and the sun beat down on her head.

  Great.

  No sign of her water bottle or dry bag, either. No sunscreen. No lip balm. No sunglasses. About the only thing she still had was her flotation device. Seemed like a fine time to slip it on. She loosed the bungee cords and drew it around her body. Zipped the front. Tightened the straps. Felt infinitesimally better.

  Until she turned toward shore.

  Maybe it was a figment of her imagination, but land appeared farther away than the last time she looked. She ran her hand over her face and regretted the action as fresh salt water puckered her already pursed lips. Four miles. A decent length to kayak. A hell of a long swim.

  She blew out her breath. No sense dawdling. Bobbing in the middle of the ocean wasn’t going to get her closer to shore. She dipped her hands in the water and started paddling. Sweat beaded her forehead and drizzled between her shoulder blades. After about ten minutes, she gave up. Chihuahuas paddled faster than this.

  She’d make better time swimming, unencumbered by either a kayak or a life vest, but she’d never swum four miles before. Even in college, the longest team workout clocked in only at about half that distance. What would she do when she got tired?

  Drown.

  No. The bright-orange kayak made her a lot easier to spot if someone started to search for her. Mer’s spirits dropped even further. The only one who knew her whereabouts was Bijoux, but she wouldn’t know that Mer was in trouble until she didn’t show up for work tomorrow. Even then, she might shrug it off to something else. Selkie might notice her absence, notice that one of the kayaks was missing and put two and two together. If he came home.

  She scanned the horizon again. Still no boats.

  “Fungule!” Mer shouted the Italian F-bomb. She didn’t know if swearing in another language made it any more acceptable, but she didn’t really care. “Fungule,” she whispered.

  No sense postponing the inevitable. She rocked out of the kayak and into the water. Holding on to the kayak for ballast, she started frog-kicking. When she tired of that, she flutter-kicked. Back and forth, back and forth, alternating between the two.