The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “I’ve been simply aflutter with wonder,” the woman began. “Was that your young lady out there in the water? The two of you…” She pressed a thin hand to her heart. “So romantic!”

  Babcock lifted his eyebrows, and Jonas had to force out the words. “Yes, ma’am.” He said it without shame, for he felt none. Only pleasure in knowing Rosie returned his feelings. Yet it wasn’t a conversation he meant to have in front of Babcock just now.

  The woman whispered loudly behind her hand to Jonas. “Did she say yes?”

  Mr. Babcock’s smile said he was no stranger to mischief himself.

  Jonas cleared his throat. “Still working on it.”

  The hotel owner chuckled, and when the curious woman scurried off with her tidbit, Jonas braved a glance up to the maids’ quarters. He slanted a look back to Mr. Babcock. “Please don’t discharge Rosie. Please hold me solely responsible. I’ll leave. I’ll leave now if that would help.”

  But the man only smiled. “You know what I think? And it’s taken me a few minutes to come to a conclusion that sits right with me.”

  Jonas shook his head—waiting.

  “It’s come to mind that you and your friends have not been the only ones to wash ashore on this beach. The four of you taught me something about determination that day—as did Miss Graham, sometime later. I’ll be forever grateful.” Mr. Babcock leaned his cane against a portion of low fencing that hemmed in a rose garden. “It’s been a reminder for others—me included—to press on.”

  Overwhelmed, it was all Jonas could do not to pace.

  “In regards to Miss Graham’s fate. I view neither of you in any way but morally upright, and I’ll be sure my head staff knows that, as well. Protocol would be to discharge her, and in truth, it will be out of my hands, but I’ll do all I can for her. And with you…leaving would be wise, but I must ask you not to go too soon.”

  Jonas idly rubbed his palms together, trying to comprehend all of this.

  “You make it around the point tomorrow, all right?”

  Relief washed through him at the knowledge that he hadn’t ruined this quest for Dexter, Oliver, and Oakes. “Certainly, sir.” He’d give it everything he had tomorrow. And for tonight…there was a note he needed to leave for Rosie. The lobby would have something to jot the words on, and he’d find a maid to get it to her.

  “Perseverance. That’s the ticket, isn’t it? And it’s what I love about these waters.” Mr. Babcock motioned back toward the sweeping, frothy bay that would have been fully dark were it not for the light of the hotel cloaking it in a man-made glow. “There’s always the crash. But there’s also the swell.”

  “The swell.” Jonas said it with a hint of question.

  “The rising. The returning of strength.” Hefting up his cane, Mr. Babcock motioned toward Jonas with it. “It’s that getting up again and pressing onward. It’s the swell that always follows. Always.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Babcock consulted a pocket watch then glanced to the nearest entrance, his destination, likely. He tipped his hat to Jonas and gave a final, friendly smile. “Here’s to the swell.”

  Stepping back, Jonas thanked him. To the again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  To the what?” Oakes asked

  “The again,” Jonas said over his shoulder.

  “What on earth does that mean?”

  Oliver shifted in his seat to look back. He pointed first to Jonas. “It means you stop trying to be poetic. And you”—he pointed farther down the line to Oakes—“stop talking and put your oar in the water.”

  From the cox seat, Abner chuckled. “Any day now, boys.”

  Smiling, Jonas tipped his head from side to side. So much for his attempt at a motivational speech.

  “I understood what you meant,” Dexter said, and the skiff rocked as he pushed it farther from the beach before lunging in. A fading wave splashed against the bow, and Jonas drew in a slow, steady breath then adjusted his two-hand grip on the single oar. An unfamiliar sensation, but one that felt right all the same.

  Behind them was the roar of the churning break.

  They all looked to Abner and, at the man’s nod, lowered oars. After a few steadying breaths, Jonas spoke for them to set ready. A few more breaths and, “Pull!”

  Even as he dug in deep, his arms complained—muscles stretching to the difference of a single oar. They dipped and pulled a few more times until a wave slammed them. The rush of water jerked the boat to the right. Abner turned the rudder to match. Three more strokes and another wave crashed, yanking the whole vessel downward. They rowed ten meters, twenty. The next wave came with a roar, slamming everything forward. Jonas nearly collided into Oliver, but he braced himself. He gripped his oar tighter lest he lose it and dug in with every ounce of strength he had. It seemed they’d only gone a few meters when the next rush of salty foam collided into wood.

  The boat soared upward, creaking as it crashed down on the other side. Jonas’s leg smacked the side of the skiff, and Abner winced as he endured his own kind of pain. Cold seawater sprayed them, and Jonas dug in with his oar, giving three more strokes along with the rest. He braced himself when Abner called out for another wave. More cold water drenched them as they rushed over the churning swell, crashing back down. The boat creaked. A fierce slam sent Oliver to the floorboards and Jonas gripping the back of Dexter’s collar to keep him from falling out. Again and again and again waves came, and it felt just as it had when they were boys. Like they were fighting a losing battle.

  As another wave slammed the boat down, Jonas plunged his oar in and steadied himself for the next rush of seawater, but moments passed and nothing came. Just, gentle, rolling sea. He glanced over his shoulder to see the smooth bay. They’d made it past the break.

  Abner nodded his pleasure and angled the rudder—directing them toward the far end of the point. Nothing left to give. It was the cry of his whole being, but Jonas dug in—dipping and heaving with the rest of his crew. Minutes past, tumbling into what felt like an hour as the pain became mind numbing.

  It wasn’t until he could no longer feel his hands that Jonas closed his eyes.

  Suddenly the hands pulling the oars were just fourteen years old—the vessel beneath him, a borrowed rowboat. The panting of his teammates, that of lads and not men. All of them wondering what they had gotten themselves into as they plunged and heaved and plunged and heaved.

  “I’m wondering if this was a good idea,“ Dexter had said as a rising wind whipped at them.

  Then Oakes’s young voice when a spray of salt water hit them all. “Should we turn back?”

  Oliver’s worried face tilted toward a churning, dark sea. “These waters don’t look so calm anymore.”

  The crash of a wave. Last of all, Jonas saying, “Just keep rowing. We can do this.”

  But his chest was narrow, and his arms were thin, and his confidence was nothing more than words. So onward they had all rowed. Facing wave after relentless wave. The tide rising, the sea tossing around them as if to swallow them up. There they had sat, each of them as pairs to an oar, an awkward rhythm as they fought against nature.

  Over and over, the sea shoved them down and turned them around, and by the time they knew they weren’t getting out, a giant churning of froth and foam struck the rowboat, whipping it around, tipping it over. Down they all went.

  Jonas had swallowed a chestful of salt water, and an oar struck him in the gut. He felt someone thrashing beside him and latched onto whoever it was, pushing off the bottom of the sand—desperate for air for both of them.

  He surfaced with Oakes, and all of them fought the ripping of the tide that was trying to drag them back under. Pieces of shattered boat fanned about them—becoming foe instead of friend. A chunk slammed Oakes in the side of the jaw, leaving a gash.

  It felt like an eternity that they fought their way back to shore, praying they would make it all the way. And when they did, it was to the sandy beach that was void of vacatione
rs. Of any kind of hotel. The gray, sunless beach occupied by scarcely more than shrubs and jackrabbits.

  As Jonas and his friends had dragged themselves out of the water, they’d spotted two men running toward them. Dressed in sporting coats, two fine gentlemen. Before Jonas could wonder why such men were on an uninhabited island, the strangers set shotguns aside and suddenly, a strong, sure hand was gripping him under the arm.

  “This one’s bleeding the worst, Babcock.”

  Oliver was shaking, Oakes and Dexter, too. Jonas would have noticed what the cold and fear was doing to his own limbs, but in that moment he was simply trying not to die. There was something about being that age and noticing the blood dripping into the sand that had him quite certain it was his last day on earth.

  Then the second man was kneeling in front of him, grinning as he dabbed at Jonas’s shoulder and arm with a handkerchief. At the deepest gash, he pressed the cloth down and held so firmly that Jonas fought a squirm. He peered up into the face of the man—trying to keep hold of his name—Babcock.

  “What in Sam Hill are you boys doing?”

  Jonas had tried to come up with an answer better than the truth—that they’d been bored—when Dexter spoke up.

  “We wanted to see how far we could go.”

  “Young men on a mission, then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dexter admitted.

  Jonas gripped the soiled cloth to his shoulder as the bleeding lessened. At the men’s bidding, he rose and followed them to higher ground, where they settled near a boat and a picnic basket. The one man, Story, helped patch up Oliver and Oakes, while his comrade saw to the injuries of both Jonas and Dexter.

  The men finished by asking them if they were hungry.

  Not a one of them nodded, but Jonas had a hunch his friends were as starving as he.

  “The next time you seamen scheme something as crazy as this, throw in a little more forethought, will you?” Mr. Story said with a jovial expression. “Lunch at the very least.”

  Within moments, sandwiches were brought forth and sliced into halves and then quarters, so that each of them—man and youth—had the same share. After sandwiches came huckleberry pie and the smell of cigars as the two men shared a match. It was a comforting smell, a calming smell, as it settled about them and their full bellies. A peaceful end to a wretched afternoon.

  And as the boys climbed into the sportsmen’s boat, they settled down, sobered and quiet, and the two men—the ones who would one day soon purchase that very island because of a dream and a plan—rowed them back to San Diego. Away from the desolate island named Coronado. The one that no one really visited because it was too hard a journey.

  Jonas opened his eyes, and it was the hotel now in its red-and-white glory that had grown small on the horizon—a vast bay now separating them. His arms were that of a man’s again. The gash in his shoulder but a memory. A sobering one. They were rounding the point. The farthest they’d ever gone before. But his lungs were closing up on him. And as his lungs tightened, his breathing growing more and more shallow, he knew what he had to do.

  Jonas closed his eyes. Tipped his head back toward the hot light of the sun and pulled his oar in. “Way enough,” he whispered to himself.

  The boat powered forward. The oarsmen now three strong instead of four. As if feeling it, the others adjusted their rhythm—keeping the boat propelling straight. Jonas’s blade sat still and steady above the water’s surface. Dripping with what felt a lot like failure. That failure threatened to plunge him below, but Jonas just focused on keeping steady breaths. Breaths in time with the splash and rise of the oars. A slow, easy in and out and in and out and in…

  He shoved off any feeling of failure, inviting humility to be what settled about him, instead. To bathe him in understanding, in respect for the men surrounding him. Jonas opened his eyes to see that Oliver’s oar was tainted with palm prints of blood. Dexter’s neck beaded with sweat. Even Oakes’s breathing sounded like it was giving out.

  Abner’s words settled into an easy rhythm. A balm. Jonas breathed them in and plunged his oar again just as Abner was saying, “A few more meters, lads.”

  Pull. He grunted with the rest of the crew—a freedom bubbling up despite the pain.

  Four blades dipped below the water for the catch, and when they feathered back after the drive, Jonas all but laughed aloud at the feel of the boat skimming past their finish point. Because there was Rosie, just overhead, waving to him. It was such a sight that Jonas wanted to remember it always. That’s when he realized that a man stood beside her, waving a black derby hat. Babcock. Jonas grinned so wide it hurt. As if they all felt the finish at the same moment, oars went limp, clattering into the boat bottom, and his teammates doubled over. In front of him, Oliver lay back, crushing Jonas, and Jonas slapped a hand to his cousin’s chest to return the sentiment that none of them could quite speak yet—they’d done it.

  Abner took off his hat, tipped it to them. “Well done, lads. Well done.”

  “And that,” Jonas panted, “is a record, my friends.”

  “We set a record.” Reaching back, Dexter tapped Oliver’s shoulder and then Jonas’s knee. “We set a record.”

  “And we did it like Vikings!” Oakes hollered as he launched himself into the sea.

  The boat lurched from the force, sending the rest of them tumbling out port side. Jonas collided with the water. Down he went, kicking back toward the surface, thinking about Abner. But when Jonas broke from the ocean’s hold, he swiped a hand down his wet face and saw Rosie’s grandfather with one arm gripping the boat, soaked through and laughing a laugh that set them all to join in.

  Skirts hefted above her shoes, Rosie picked her way down the far side of the bluff, steps ginger, smile wide.

  “So what are we going to tell them is on the other side?” Oliver asked, swiping a hand through his wet hair.

  “Spero,” Jonas said.

  “Huh?” Oliver asked, climbing aboard.

  “Spero.” He looked to Abner, and the sparkle in the old man’s eyes hinted at just who had thrown that bottle into the bay for Rosie. “Hope.” With Rosie drawing nearer, Jonas swam that way. When he reached the base of the cliffs, he worked around a large boulder, clambering upon a pile of smaller stones.

  She was there above him, crouching down on the boulder, skirt fanning about her.

  Jonas reached up and grazed her fingers with his own. “I have to go now.”

  “They told me,” she said.

  He glanced back to his teammates, who worked to keep the skiff away from the rocky cliff base. They needed his help, so he spoke with this, his last chance to ask her. “Rosie…may I come back and call on you?”

  She smiled, cheeks pink from her efforts down the bluff. “I would like that very much.”

  “Over the holiday? Christmastime?”

  “I’ll watch for you.”

  He squinted up at her. “Do you think the lighthouse keeper’s granddaughter would quiz me for my final exams?”

  Rosie smiled down at him. “I’d love to.”

  “And show me how to wrestle tubs of whale oil up the stairs.”

  She laughed.

  Knowing his friends needed him, Jonas lowered himself back toward the water. “Did you get my note?”

  “Oh, yes!” She reached into her skirt pocket then tossed down a little leather pouch, which he caught.

  “And Rosie?”

  The breeze stirred her hair, her hem.

  “Stay a girl a while longer?” Sea sprayed around them. “Or I’ll be the worse for missing you.”

  Her grin that bloomed was so sweet, so filled with joy, that the ache to be able to reach her ran deeper.

  “I promise to.”

  It was a promise she kept.

  Because when winter came, painting the California landscape in shades of brown and gold, and with Christmas just around the bend, Jonas boarded a train that all but brought him to their doorstep. In his pocket rested a gold band that held a s
mall piece of sea glass, all surrounded by a wreath of tiny diamonds. And running across the bluffs to him was Rosie—all girl—and when she reached him, pressing the sweetest kiss to his mouth—all his. He felt it.

  Epilogue

  Present-Day California

  Steering her rental SUV up the curving, seaside road, Alyssa ducked toward the steering wheel. She squinted against the shadows of eucalyptus trees that lined the road, stretched long by early morning. There. A sign up the way—was this it?

  HISTORIC NATIONAL RESERVE.

  Grinning, Alyssa tapped the steering wheel victoriously and let out a little shriek of joy. At the entrance to the reserve, she veered off the busy highway and onto a drive that meandered along the rocky bluffs of the point. The asphalt curved past a military cemetery where her heart pulsed with a bittersweet twinge at the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of white gravestones. With the naval base near, a helicopter hummed somewhere in the distance, and as she drove farther out toward the narrowing state park, so rose up the sound of waves to greet her.

  When a welcome booth for the historic lighthouse came into view, Alyssa fetched her wallet. She paid the small entrance fee then turned her car into a spot near the front. No other vehicles were in the parking lot yet, and she began to second-guess her timing. She’d read online that on certain days, historians were on hand to open up the lower rooms of the lighthouse to visitors. If no one was in attendance, people could only view the parlor and kitchen through glass.

  Alyssa said a prayer that somewhere in this beach town, a historian was getting ready to come to work today. “Please let it be so.”

  She climbed out and grabbed her camera case and notebook from the backseat. Even as trepidation wriggled through her calm, she reminded herself that early was best as the national monument wouldn’t be crowded for a while yet.

  Classical music began chiming from her purse as if the leather satchel housed a tiny orchestra. Alyssa pulled out her phone, and as much as she wanted to savor the brassy ringtone courtesy of composer George Frideric Handel, she saw that the caller was her brother, so a press of her thumb halted the symphony. She tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder to adjust the strap of her bag. “Hey, Neil. I just got here.”