The Summer Girls

by Mary Alice Monroe

  She cleared her throat as she faced the sea, opening her heart. “I don’t know how to fight this. I depend on you to help me.” She took a deep breath. “So here I am.”

  There was nothing left but to get wet. Carson lowered her paddleboard onto the water as she had countless times before. Her hands shook and her feet felt clumsy on the familiar board but she pushed forward. Once she found her balance on the sweet spot, she took a deep breath and lowered her paddle. Just one stroke after another, she told herself as she made her way away from the dock out into the current.

  There was a peace and solitude in these early-morning paddling trips that was akin to meditation. She was just another creature making her solitary path along the waterway. The water level was low. White egrets stood along the grassy edges with enviable poise on their sleek black legs. A little farther up the creek, she spotted a great blue heron, majestic and haughty.

  It was after six A.M. and still most of the windows of the houses along the creek were dark. Their occupants were sleeping away the best show of the day, she thought to herself. But she was glad for the isolation. It was a good idea to have a buddy watching your back when you were out on the surf. Here on the quiet waterway, however, she felt safe cruising along with only her thoughts for company. She focused on the steady rhythm of her strokes, left to right, left to right, and the rippling sound the paddle made.

  She was making steady progress along the creek when to her left she heard a loud splash. Carson’s rhythm broke as she swung her head toward the sound in time to spot the tip of a dorsal fin before it disappeared underwater. She felt her heart race as her body froze, paddle in midair. Then she saw the gray dorsal fin reemerge a few yards ahead of her board.

  Carson sighed in relief when she saw that it was a dolphin, and chuckled at herself for being so jumpy. Atlantic bottlenose dolphins roamed these waters. These estuaries were their home. She loved these whimsical creatures, never more than since one had saved her life. Carson dunked her paddle back into the water and pushed hard, hoping to see the dolphin again. Turning her head, she scanned the flat water until she spotted the dolphin emerging with a percussive pfoosh to breathe. She followed the graceful swimmer as it traveled farther down the creek; then it surprised her by turning again and coming back.

  Carson stopped paddling and let the current drag her along like it would any piece of driftwood. The sleek gray dolphin eased alongside the board, this time tilting its body slightly so it could peer up at her, curious. Carson looked into the large, dark almond eye and had the distinct impression that this dolphin was checking her out. Not in idle curiosity, either. She’d experienced dolphins coming close to her paddleboard many times before. But this moment was surreal. Carson sensed—she knew—that there was a thinking presence behind that gaze.

  “Well, good morning,” she said to the dolphin.

  At the sound of her voice, the dolphin jerked its head away and dunked under the water.

  Carson laughed at its capriciousness. How different looking into these eyes was compared to the shark’s. In the dolphin’s gaze she sensed a curious mind, not her doom. She couldn’t deny that she was as curious about this unusually friendly dolphin as the dolphin seemed to be about her.

  The water level was slowly rising as the tide came in. The sun rose higher, too, and she was getting close to the end of the boundaries of the cove behind Sullivan’s Island. If she didn’t turn around, the tide would carry her out into the choppy waters of Charleston Harbor. She put her back into her strokes and pushed her paddle against the current toward home. It was hard work but good for that flat belly that seemed to spark Dora’s jealousy.

  She was focused on the task when in her peripheral vision she spotted the curious dolphin again. It was discreetly keeping abreast of her, then shot ahead several yards before turning back. Carson smiled. The dolphin clearly was following her. Carson wondered if it was actually playing with her or just curious about the gangly creature who made such pathetic progress in the water while the dolphin was so streamlined and graceful.

  By the time Carson reached the dock the thrumming of boat engines could be heard in the distance, signaling the end of her peaceful time in the cove. She climbed onto the dock and pulled off her paddleboard, shivering as splashes of chilly water struck her bare skin. Hearing another percussive whoosh, Carson dropped to her knees on the floating dock, raised a hand over her eyes, and squinted. A large gray head emerged from the water a few feet away. Carson didn’t move, not wanting to spook the dolphin. Bright eyes, smart and watchful, gazed at her from the water for a few minutes. Then the creature opened its mouth and emitted a series of short, squeaky sounds.

  The dolphin closed its mouth, then tilted its head to peer up at her speculatively, as though to ask, So now what?

  Carson laughed. “You’re so beautiful,” she said to the dolphin, reaching out her hand.

  Immediately the dolphin dove, lifting its tail into the air.

  Carson sucked in her breath and stared at the empty rings of water where the dolphin had been. A chunk was missing from the dolphin’s left fluke, like it had been bitten off. Carson rose shakily to her feet and stood scanning the water while the memory of the shark incident flashed through her mind. She recalled how the dolphin had sped toward the shark like a bullet and rammed into its side. The shark had seemed to fold into itself for a second, and just as quickly, it had swung around in attack. She’d seen the mighty jaws lurch for the dolphin’s tail as it tried to escape.

  “Oh my God,” Carson gasped. This had to be the dolphin. The one that had saved her from the shark. Could it be possible? It made sense that the dolphin would come to the relative quiet of the estuaries to heal. Her mind went over the way the dolphin had looked at her, studied her, and how it had come back a second time to check her out.

  The dolphin had recognized her.

  She laughed shortly, stunned by the possibility. Her rational mind told her it couldn’t be true. But then again, why not? Like humans, dolphins were self-aware and highly intelligent.

  Carson scanned the water of the cove. In the distance, against the blue-green water, she spotted the gray dolphin as it gracefully arched in and out of the waves. It was heading out into the harbor. Carson cupped her hands at her mouth and called out, “Thank you!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mamaw called an old friend and within the week Carson had a job as a waitress at Dunleavy’s, a small Irish pub on Sullivan’s Island. That’s how things were done on the island, where family connections were tighter than a tick on a dog. Carson had to swallow her pride, but in truth, she was happy to have the job.

  Carson didn’t have savings, stocks—nothing. Her life on film crews had always been on the go, traveling from one exotic location to another. Some people couldn’t keep up the fast pace, but living out of a suitcase came naturally to her. Her father had never let the moss grow over them, moving them from one apartment to the next. So being here at Sea Breeze the last few weeks had been a nice slowing down. She was gradually getting back into the Southern rhythm.

  And she had to admit she enjoyed working at the pub.

  Dunleavy’s was a family-owned pub on Middle Street, a popular few blocks of quaint restaurants and small shops on Sullivan’s Island. The pub had great beers on tap, fresh popcorn, and homey decor. There were picnic tables and umbrellas outside where folks could sit with their dogs. Inside, beer cans and license plates decorated the walls and the screen door slammed when you walked in.

  Carson worked the lunch shift and made decent tips, but even after two weeks she had a lot to learn. She was trying to carry one too many plates from a table when her hand slipped, knocking over a beer glass and sending it shattering across the floor. Thankfully the lunch rush was over and only a few patrons remained at the small wood tables, but each of the six heads turned toward the clatter, as well as the faces of her boss and fellow waitress, Ashley.

  “Careful there,” Brian called out from his post at the bar. “A
gain . . .” he added with a rueful shake of his head.

  Carson gritted her teeth and smiled at the manager, then bent to pick up the broken glass.

  “What’s the matter with you today?” asked Ashley, rushing over with a broom and waste bin. “Step back and don’t cut your fingers. Let me sweep up.”

  Carson leaned against the table. Around her the few tourists went back to their plates and a soft buzz of talking resumed.

  “I’m the world’s worst waitress,” Carson whined.

  Ashley chuckled as she swept. “Well, you’re not the best, but you’ve just started. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you bring a menu to that guy who just sat down in your section,” she said with a nod of her head.

  Carson reached over to grab a menu.

  “Put on your pretty smile,” Ashley teased. “It’s Mr. Predictable.”

  “Stop it,” Carson said with a smirk.

  “He always sits in your section.”

  “That means he likes the window, not me.”

  “Yeah, well you don’t see his moon eyes following you when you walk away.”

  “Really?” Carson asked, mildly surprised. Not that she should have been. She was accustomed to the glances of men, but her radar was off and she’d not registered this one. She turned her head to slyly check out the man in question. He was tall and lean, a little too angular, and had the slightly disheveled T-shirt–shorts–and–sandals look of a local. His hair was dark brown with curls that went askew under his cap. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes, couldn’t, for that matter, remember much about him.

  “He’s not my type,” Carson said.

  “You mean he’s not the cool Hollywood dream boy you usually hang out with in L.A.?”

  Carson had told Ashley about some of the men she’d dated in L.A.—mostly actors and filmmakers. She got a kick out of seeing Ashley’s eyes widen, impressed with the roster of men who were either movie star good-looking or very cool. Mr. Predictable was neither.

  Carson smirked and tightened the strings of her apron around her uniform, a green Dunleavy’s T-shirt. “Why don’t you take his order? He’s more your type anyway . . . the scruffy good ol’ boy.”

  Ashley sighed lustily. “He’s cute. But I’ve got a boyfriend. I’m off the market. Besides”—Ashley put her hand to her heart with an exaggerated expression of horror—“I couldn’t do that to the poor man. He’d be so disappointed if he saw me come to the table instead of you.”

  “Well, he can look all he likes. I’m not looking for romance.”

  “Honey,” Ashley said with a smirk before sauntering away with her broom and trash, “we’re always lookin’ for romance.”

  When Carson approached the table the dark-haired man turned from the window to her. This time Carson looked into his eyes. They were a deep chocolate color that had the power to melt when he locked gazes with someone, as he did now. He was taking her measure, she could tell, as though he were surprised that she’d finally taken notice of him.

  “Well hey,” she said with an engaging smile. She’d had a lot of luck with this smile over the years and expected results. “Nice to see you’re back.”

  He arched a brow, amused. “Yeah, well, I like it here,” he said, withholding a smile. “Good food. Nice atmosphere.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied. “What’ll it be? Wait, let me guess. The black-’n’-blue burger.”

  He glanced up to look at her from over the top of the menu. “You noticed?”

  “Well, you do order the same thing every day.”

  “Why change a good thing?” he replied, closing the menu and handing it to her.

  “Do you want a beer with that?”

  “Sweet tea,” they both said at the same time, and laughed.

  “Coming right up.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she smiled, then chuckled quietly, noting that Ashley had been right. His dreamy gaze was following her. He was indeed Mr. Predictable.

  A short while later she carried the pub’s signature burger to the table. He looked up from his sheaf of papers and smiled too brightly when she approached. Not wanting to encourage him, she didn’t smile in return and placed the food down without ceremony.

  “Sure you don’t want a beer?” she asked, all business. “We have Guinness on tap.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

  “Oh,” she said. She felt awkward for pushing the beer if the guy was an alcoholic. “A refill then?” The ice clanked loudly in the pitcher as she poured his tea.

  “Did I say something to offend you?” he asked.

  “No,” she replied, shifting her weight. “Not at all. I’m just preoccupied.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not unless you know someone looking for a stills photographer.”

  “So, you’re a photographer?”

  “Yes. But not like for portraits or weddings. Though I’d freelance those now, if you know anyone who’s looking. I work out of L.A. In the entertainment business.”

  Understanding flickered in his eyes. He leaned back against his chair. “So you take all those publicity shots we see in magazines and online?”

  “No,” she replied slowly, realizing she’d have to explain for the thousandth time what a stills photographer did. “I do anything to do with photos for marketing a film. I shoot episodes, backdrops, behind the scenes—whatever, to promote the show. It’s complicated,” she said, cutting the conversation off. She was reminded to check her messages to see if any of her contacts might’ve come through with a job possibility. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Oh. Right,” he said in a rush, realizing he was taking up her time.

  She swirled away, stopping at tables to refill glasses, take orders, bring food in the dance of waitresses. Half an hour later he was still sitting at his table reading. Carson stopped back to check on him.

  “Refill on that sweet tea?” Southerners always rolled the two words together so it sounded like sweetie.

  He looked up from his papers and smiled. “I’m good,” he replied in his easy drawl. “Just a check.”

  She was about to turn and fetch it, but, thinking of her tip, paused to say, “Sorry I had to run off like that before.”

  “I’m sorry I kept you from your job.”

  He really did have a nice smile, she thought. When his lips slid halfway up in that sweet teasing grin, his dark brown eyes sparked with what she knew was flirtation.

  “What’s your name, anyway?” she asked him. It seemed wrong to think of him as Mr. Predictable.

  His grin widened to reveal white teeth. “It’s Blake. Blake Legare.”

  Recognition clicked. “Are you one of the Legares from Johns Island?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “No kidding? Do you know Ethan Legare?”

  “Which one? We’re a big family and there are a few Ethans.”

  “The one who works at the aquarium. Married to Toy, who’s in charge of the sea turtle hospital.”

  “Sure do. That Ethan’s my first cousin.”

  “Really?” She’d forgotten how living in Charleston was like living in a small town. Mamaw had always impressed upon her the importance of dressing well and speaking politely, because there were no strangers in Charleston. “Ethan and I used to surf together back in the day. I haven’t seen him for . . . well, years.”

  “I don’t figure he’s got much time for surfing nowadays, what with two kids.”

  “Ethan has two children?” She chuckled, remembering the skinny kid who was as fearless on the water as she had been. “That’s hard to believe.”

  “It happens,” he drawled.

  “What about you?” she asked him. “Are you married with kids in tow?”

  “Me?” he asked, amused at the idea. “God, no. I mean—” He faltered, seeing her shocked reaction at the emphasis. “Not that I’m against marriage or anything, it’s just, well . . . No. I’m not
.”

  He was blushing slightly and Carson thought it was mildly beguiling.

  “Do you surf?” she asked Blake, steering them into a different topic.

  “Used to in high school. Don’t anymore.”

  That was typical of a lot of men who grew up along the coast. Most boys she knew tried surfing at least once, but few really took up the sport. Too bad, she thought.

  Blake added, “I’ve taken to kiting.”

  Carson’s mind did a U-turn. “As in kiteboarding?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I like it better. I go out whenever I get a free moment and some good wind.”

  Carson looked at his long, lanky body, seeing him in a new light. He wasn’t muscle-bound, which was never a look she found sexy. But in his dark brown T-shirt she could see that his muscles were hard and sinewy, typical for swimmers. Who knew? she thought with renewed interest. Mr. Predictable wasn’t so predictable after all.

  Condensation dripped from the iced tea pitcher down her arm. It was getting heavier by the minute. She boldly put the pitcher down, then dried her hands on her apron.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn to kiteboard,” she said, warming to the topic. “But I don’t see a lot of girls out there doing it. I know they do, of course, but it looks like it takes a lot of upper-body strength to handle the kite.”

  “Not especially. The arms are used for control of the kite, but you’re connected to the kite by a line that’s attached to a harness you wear like a belt. There’s a lot of core strength involved. A lot of girls are giving it a try. If you surf, you shouldn’t have any trouble.” He paused, then said, “I could give you a lesson . . .”

  There it was. The invitation, as she’d expected. And yet, not at all what she’d expected. Going to the beach to learn how to kiteboard wouldn’t really be a date—no drinks, no candles, no awkward small talk. It was a lesson, outdoors, in the daylight. If she didn’t like him, they’d say good-bye and that would be it.

  She smiled. “That’d be great. Where do you kite?”

  “Around Station Twenty-Eight.”