by Mary Monroe
“You can’t do that!”
“Unless you’d rather walk.”
“No! Wait. What should I do?”
He looked over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. “You don’t remember how to piggyback?”
“Sure. But we’re not kids anymore. I might hurt you.”
His eyes traveled up and down her thin frame and he snorted. “Hop on. I think I can handle it.”
“Well, okay. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She rose and carefully stepped across the boat, afraid it would tip, which was highly unlikely in all that mud. He stooped low and, after a tentative pause, she grabbed onto his shoulders.
“No, I can’t,” she said backing off. “It’s okay. I’ll walk.”
“Honey, a Lowcountry man never lets his lady walk in the mud.”
“Is that on some list of a Southern man’s rules of behavior?”
“Right up there with opening doors and giving up my seat. Learned at my daddy’s knee. So hop on.”
“Oh, okay then. Ready?”
“Any more ready and my legs will atrophy.”
She grabbed hold of his broad shoulders, held her breath and jumped from the boat on to his back, squealing when he slipped his arms under her legs and hoisted her up. His back muscles were as hard as iron and she wriggled to get a grip. She wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing as he bounced her up, gaining purchase.
“Giddy up,” she called out against his neck.
“Look who’s suddenly feeling spry,” he said with mock indignation. He turned and reached for the canvas bag and net. “Mind holding on to this net? Thought we might catch some dinner.”
What a novel idea, she thought as she reached to take the gear. “Got it. Can I carry anything else?”
“Can you handle this, too?” He gave her the canvas bag, which she looped over her arm. Next she saw him reach for the cooler.
“Good God, Brett, you’re not going to carry that, too?”
“Do you have any other suggestions?”
“But it’s so heavy! With me and all. Brett, isn’t it too much? Can you manage?”
“Only one way to find out,” he said, then, with a guttural grunt, he hoisted the cooler into his arms. Cara held her breath and tightened her grip on her parcels and him. He bounced her up once more, tightening his own hold on her legs, then began making his way through the ankle-deep mud like a bull in the harness. She held on to his broad back and tightened her thighs around his sides. She wasn’t blind to the muscle power such a feat demanded but he pushed on through the steaming mud with relative ease. And she had to admit, it was fun.
“How you doing down there, Mr. Allnut?”
“Okay, Rosie,” he said, half turning his head. His neck was right in front of her lips as she lay wrapped around his back and she had to fight the urge to tickle the small auburn curls with her tongue or blow in his ear. She was afraid if she tried either one the great bull would miss a beat and they’d end up in the pluff mud.
“How deep does this mud go?”
“Oh, it can get pretty deep. A couple of times I sank down to my knees.”
“That’s like quicksand,” she replied, not liking the sound of that at all. “What did you do?”
“Only thing you can do. Just rolled onto my back and wiggled till I got my legs out.
“But I’m on your back.”
“Yep.”
She squeezed him with her thighs and he chuckled. It was a deep, sonorous sound that rumbled in his chest.
“Seriously now,” she said, trying not to sound as nervous as she felt. “What happens if you do fall down? What should I do?”
“Stand up, I guess. And wipe the mud off your cute li’l bottom.” He walked a few paces, then added, “But don’t worry about the leeches. I brought some salt.”
Cara stiffened, her mind reeling with visions of Humphrey Bogart covered with bloodsucking leeches as he pulled the African Queen through the marshes.
“You sure are a skittish thing,” Brett said. “Feel your muscles, all tense. I could snap your legs like twigs. You’ve got to learn to loosen up.”
“Please don’t drop me,” she pleaded. “I’m terrified of leeches.”
He laughed again, obviously enjoying himself. “I was only joking about the leeches. There aren’t any in here. I wasn’t joking about sinking low in this mud, though. But never at this particular hammock. It’s one of the reasons I like it here so much. There now. Feel better?”
Her muscles loosened and she leaned against his back with a sigh. “That’s mean, to tease a city girl like that.”
“Nah, I’m just having a little fun. For being so book smart, Miss Rutledge, you sure are gullible. You ought to know better, growing up here.”
She’d never in all her life been called gullible. She found it oddly beguiling. “Maybe I am,” she replied. “Honestly? I’m a bit scared.”
He was silent for a moment. “Don’t be,” he said, and she didn’t detect any further teasing in the tone. “I’ll take care of you.”
I’ll take care of you. Cara warmed to the words, believing them. Had any man ever said that to her? She couldn’t remember one that had. She was proudly self-reliant, not the type that men felt the need to take care of. Instinctively she knew Brett was the kind of man who took care of women. Respected them. He felt at ease in his own skin and didn’t appear the least threatened by a strong woman. Which, in turn, made her feel all the more womanly. She rested her chin against his shoulder, breathing close to his ear. The silence was powerfully erotic, and she was loath to see dry land just ahead. My, my, my, she thought to herself, her mind imitating Emmi’s lusty wail. She could see why Brett Beauchamps stole the hearts of pubescent girls up and down the Carolina coast.
He set her down upon terra firma and stretched his muscles, rolling his shoulders.
“For someone so skinny, you sure pack a punch,” he said.
“Thank you very much,” she replied, setting down the bag. “But just in case you think I’m walking back to the boat, think again. I’ve taken a liking to this kind of transport.”
“You’d best be on your best behavior then, Miss Rutledge.”
She frowned at the implication.
“I’m teasing,” he chided. “Follow me. I’ll show you around.”
They set off again, their feet treading uphill on a path of matted cord grass toward a forest of trees. The sun was just beginning to set, bathing the hammock in a lavender twilight that was as mysterious as it was exotic. They walked through a green border of scrubby shrubs. Farther in, there were places where the trees were so dense it was like an impenetrable wall and as dark as night. Brett led the way single file, following a zigzag path through the thick, shadowy forest.
Inside the canopy of the hammock it was a Garden of Eden, filled with live oaks, hollies, pines, cedars and palmettos. Here and there brilliant red and yellow flowers blossomed in pockets of dappled light. Then, quite unexpectedly, they stepped into a wide circle of space that opened to the sky like an amphitheater. Cara stepped into it cautiously at first, like a deer at a meadow, craning her neck to look up.
“This place is magical,” she exclaimed. “It’s no wonder you keep it a secret.”
He smiled, pleased at her reaction. “Indians used to come here to camp. I’ve found bits of broken pottery and shell mounds. They used to call this a hammocka, that’s where the name hammock came from. Animals like it, too. Deer, raccoons, birds.”
“Deer? How do they get here?”
“They swim.”
“I don’t believe it. From the mainland?”
“Back and forth. I’ve seen them do it many times. Everything they need is here—shelter, dense nesting spots and plenty of food. Fresh water gathers between dunes after a rain and on the leaves. Just being so far away from the mainland provides protection.”
“I can see why the Indians liked it here. It’s idyllic. And so private, like a temple. It was probably some sort of ancient ritual ground
s.” She glanced at him and her lips twitched. “I imagine you’ve developed a few rituals of your own over the years, right on these hallowed grounds.”
“A few. One of which is eating miraculous-tasting food. Let’s set up camp. I seem to remember I invited you to a picnic.”
As she unpacked the cooler, he gathered pieces of wood, making a small campfire in the center of the amphitheater. Then he picked up the gloves and hammer, walked to a shrub, and from there pulled out of hiding an old wooden bushel basket. He held out his hand. “Here are some matches. See if you can’t start a small fire. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going? You’re not going to leave me here all alone?”
“You’re perfectly safe. Leeches don’t climb on shore.”
“What about alligators?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Relax, Cara. No gators either, though you might keep your eyes open for snakes. Most likely they’re harmless glass lizards, but stay away from anything with color. I’ll only be a while. I’m going to get some oysters for dinner.”
“With a hammer?”
“You really are green, aren’t you? They grow in clusters in the mudflats. ‘Cept they’re stuck together as hard as cement. I’ve got to beat them off.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said, scampering to her feet. “I feel the same about snakes as I do leeches. Maybe even more so.”
“Well, come on then.”
The sun was setting lower, turning the sky dusky. A welcome breeze met them as they stepped out into the open air of the mudflats. Brett moved farther out onto the oyster bar. Onshore, Cara crossed her arms and watched him work, his legs planted wide and his back bent as he hammered at a large cluster of oysters. He worked without pause, taking the large ones and tossing the small oysters back. Before long he filled half a bushel. Then he straightened with his hands on his back and, stretching, he gazed out at the setting sun. Cara stood silently looking at the dark, solitary silhouette on the dusky horizon, thinking he appeared a part of the natural scenery. Brett bent once more to pick up the bushel and headed back.
“It’s getting dark,” he called out as he approached. “Let’s get that fire going. We’re going to have ourselves an oyster roast.”
In no time they were sitting around a small fire, a mound of empty shells at their side, chilled beer in their hands, their stomachs sated. They were enveloped in a smoky cloud of burning cedar. Cara lay back on the blanket Brett had spread out for them and looked up at the stars. They were just beginning to shine, pale yet pulsing. It was a classic South Carolina sky. The crescent moon was a mere white razor slash in the velvety indigo. The fire cast shadows on their faces and illuminated their eyes.
She sighed, a sound that brought him down to stretch out on his side next to her, resting his chin in his palm.
“Is the lady satisfied?”
“The lady is so satisfied she’s going to burst. I didn’t know I could eat so many oysters in one sitting. The saltines, however, were the pièce de résistance. I give the meal five stars.” Then, looking up at the sky, she amended, “Make that millions of stars.” She smiled and turned her head toward him. His face was above hers, barely a foot away. “Aren’t oysters only supposed to be eaten in months with an R in them?”
“They’re good all year round, but they taste better in the fall and winter. They’re spawning now so it’s only legal to harvest for business in those months. I’ve never seen anyone harvest out here, so the pickin’s good all year round.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I was born and raised on these waters. My father is a harbor pilot and his daddy before him. He’s probably guided more ships into and out of Charleston Harbor than any man alive. He knows every twist and turn, where the sandbars are and the shallows. His blood flows with the tides. It’s a good living, too. He taught me everything I know about the water. Naturally, he expected me to follow into the family business. That’s what it is, really. A family business. Not just anyone can become a harbor pilot. You almost have to be born into it. It’s a tough job, real dangerous, and the pilots have to trust each other. No one wants to make a mistake with one of those huge tankers. Some ships run seven hundred feet or more.”
“Unbelievable.”
“I’ll tell you, though, I’ve seen my daddy maneuver one of those suckers under the bridge as easily as a johnboat.”
“So why didn’t you become a harbor pilot? You obviously love boats and the water. It would seem a natural fit.”
“I thought about it, of course. My father wanted it and you can make a good living. But pilots are on call 24/7. That wasn’t for me. Besides, I was more interested in what was in the water than what sailed on it.”
“So you went to Clemson.”
“That’s right. I graduated with a degree in biology—aquaculture primarily. For a long time I did all kinds of research studies on this coastline. I worked for a state agency for a while, too. I can’t say it wasn’t interesting. I loved the fieldwork especially. But bureaucracy isn’t for me. Much as I like being with people, deep down I’m a loner. Like you. I guess that’s what attracted me to you, even way back when.”
She smirked. “I never would’ve guessed from the way you acted. You certainly didn’t seem like much of a loner back then. You were always surrounded by a retinue of pals and adoring girls.”
“Yeah, well. I was young. A slave to my hormones.”
“And now?”
“Well, the hormones are still active, if that’s what you’re asking. But tempered. More under control.” He looked at the fire. “As for the rest? I don’t know. I started the tour company about ten years ago. It’s doing fine.”
“That’s an understatement from what I can tell.”
He shrugged. “I expanded to two sites and I’m thinking about another. For the first time I’m keen about the prospect of a little more money coming in. On the other hand, I’m not keen about getting stuck doing paperwork behind a desk.”
“I noticed your interesting accounting system.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “I guess I could use a little help in that department. I’ve never made decisions before based on money, and I don’t want to start now. It’s a trade-off, I guess. Most things are.” He plucked a bit of grass. “Now that I’m older, I want different things.”
His words resonated deep, leaving her feeling both drawn to him and wary. She sensed that she could get close to him.
“Turning forty does that to a person,” she said.
“The ol’ Tolstoy’s bicycle theory.”
She laughed lightly and looked at him. “What’s that?”
“Tolstoy wrote War and Peace at forty. He learned how to ride a bicycle in his sixties. It’s supposed to be inspiring.”
“Well, it is to me.” She stretched and looked up at the stars again. “I wonder what can I do at forty that I’ve never done before? I suppose I could learn how to pilot a boat. Or catch a fish. Maybe even harvest an oyster.” She wriggled her brows. “I know a secret place.”
“You’re the first one I’ve ever brought here who I’m worried just might find it again.” He moved to his stomach, resting on his forearms to look down at her face. “So, what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Tell me about your life. The missing twenty years I don’t know about.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Were you ever married?”
“Were you?”
“I asked you first.”
“No, I never married. Never wanted to. As you said, I’m a loner.” She looked straight into his blue eyes, gauging his reaction. The firelight seemed to dance in them. “Does that shock you?”
“No. Should it?”
She’d expected some comment of disapproval, and not hearing one, she felt herself loosen. He was chipping away at her hard-shelled obstacles as readily as he had the oysters.
“It’s just that mo
st men, and women too, are not sympathetic with the concept of a woman being single and content. They think all single women are frustrated or unhappy.” When he didn’t say anything more, she found she was suddenly intensely curious about him. “Your turn.”
“Nope. I never married. I almost married once,” he admitted. “We were very young, right out of college. She wanted to settle down and have children. I wanted to do fieldwork and travel all over the world.”
“What happened?”
His face darkened and he tossed the blade of grass from his mouth. “It ended.”
A scuttling noise sounded in the darkness, followed by the high, piercing scream of an animal. Cara sat up and stared into the black. All she heard was the crackling of the fire and the music of tree frogs and crickets.
“Are you sure no one else knows about your secret spot?”
“I’ve never seen any trace of them. Not alive anyway.”
“Wha—Ah yes, the Indians. So, we’re really, really alone here. If anything happens to us, no one will ever find out.”
A wry smile crossed his face. “Nope. Not for a long, long time.”
“Uh-huh. That sort of puts me at your mercy, doesn’t it?”
His eyes sparked, warming to the game, but he had the good sense not to reply.
“Be honest. How many girls have you brought here? Ten? Twenty? A hundred?” She wondered if he’d tell the truth, wondered if she really wanted to hear it.
“I haven’t brought any other girl here.”
“Right. Your jaunts to hammocks are legendary in these parts.”
“There are lots of hammocks.”
“Oh.”
She felt the air thicken between them and his eyes, glittering, glanced to her lips.
“I was trying to remember,” she said, lying back and bringing her arms up to tuck under her head. “Aren’t oysters supposed to be an aphrodisiac?”
He leaned closer, his face now mere inches from her own. When he spoke she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face. “Well, that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you believe in old wives’ tales or not. According to them, we should both be quite randy now.”
“And if I don’t believe?”