Mariah Stewart

by Swept Away

  Hum­ming hap­pily, Jody glan­ced over the wor­k­s­he­et she had pre­pa­red for her­self the night be­fo­re. The­re wo­uld be six­te­en at bre­ak­fast this mor­ning. The Wal­kers' (the Ro­se Ro­om) and the­ir fri­ends, the Cal­ho­uns' (the Chi­ne­se Ro­om), had bo­oked a char­ter bo­at for the mor­ning and wo­uld be stop­ping by for a qu­ick cup of cof­fee only, sin­ce the day trip pro­vi­ded a light bre­ak­fast on the bay. Jody re­ac­hed in­to an over­he­ad cup­bo­ard and pul­led out a small sil­ver ther­mos. Gor­don Chan­d­ler, a long-term gu­est who was at­tem­p­ting to sal­va­ge car­go from a sun­ken ship off the co­ast of Bis­hop's Co­ve, wo­uld be go­ing out early, and he al­ways ap­pre­ci­ated the ex­t­ra cup of cof­fee that Jody sent with him. He was plan­ning on di­ving that mor­ning with his crew, she'd he­ard him men­ti­on the night be­fo­re, and whi­le Jody hum­med, she tri­ed to ima­gi­ne what it wo­uld be li­ke to di­ve in­to the dark, un­se­en depths of the oce­an, to en­co­un­ter… who knew what?

  She shi­ve­red slightly. The­re had be­en a ti­me, long ago, when she had be­en mo­re ad­ven­tu­ro­us, when she wo­uld ha­ve jum­ped at the op­por­tu­nity to di­ve, to ex­p­lo­re a sun­ken ship and se­ek its tre­asu­res. The pas­sa­ge of ti­me and a to­tal de­vo­ti­on to her job had se­emed to ba­nish the tho­ughts of such da­ring pur­su­its from her li­fe's iti­ne­rary.

  Not com­p­le­tely, and may­be not fo­re­ver, she told her­self as she re­mo­ved a sta­in­less ste­el bowl of pa­le brown eggs from the ref­ri­ge­ra­tor and set it on the co­un­ter next to a squ­are tray stac­ked with bun­d­les of spring-gre­en as­pa­ra­gus. One we­ek from now, I will be stret­c­hed out on a blan­ket on the be­ach at Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey. Of co­ur­se, that lit­tle trip co­uldn't com­pa­re with the thrill of de­ep sea di­ving, but still, it wo­uld be a we­ek away from the sa­me old, sa­me old.

  She'd plan­ned the trip at the ur­ging of an old high scho­ol fri­end, Na­ta­lie Evans, one of the crew with whom Jody had spent many a blis­sful sum­mer af­ter­no­on lying on the be­ach, gre­ased and oiled and re­ady to tan. Na­ta­lie, who had tur­ned thirty in May, had tho­ught it wo­uld be fun to plan a re­uni­on of sorts on the­ir old be­ach, and had as­su­red Jody that she'd li­ne up the old crowd and they'd spend a long, happy we­ekend re­li­ving old ti­mes. No spo­uses, no kids, just a bunch of thir­ty-ye­ar-olds who had spent much of the­ir te­en ye­ars to­get­her. Jody smi­led just thin­king abo­ut se­e­ing ever­yo­ne aga­in. It had be­en so long…

  Of co­ur­se, it wo­uld ha­ve be­en even mo­re fun if she'd be­en ab­le to rent the ho­use her fa­mily used to stay in every sum­mer, but a ro­om in that brand-new mo­tel right the­re on the be­ach wo­uld be fi­ne, the per­fect cho­ice for her first trip back in fo­ur­te­en ye­ars. And the­re wo­uld be ot­her ad­van­ta­ges to sta­ying in a mo­tel, she ra­ti­ona­li­zed. She wo­uldn't ha­ve to cle­an or co­ok. And as much as she lo­ved co­oking, she was ta­king this long-awa­ited va­ca­ti­on to get as far away from her re­al li­fe as she co­uld.

  When her fat­her's job tran­s­fer to Neb­ras­ka mid­way thro­ugh her juni­or ye­ar of high scho­ol to­ok her from the cen­t­ral New Jer­sey ho­me whe­re she'd grown up, Jody had be­en cer­ta­in that the best ye­ars of her li­fe we­re be­hind her. Fin­ding it dif­fi­cult to ma­ke fri­ends so la­te in the ye­ar, she fo­und her­self spen­ding mo­re and mo­re ti­me at ho­me with her mot­her and her gran­d­mot­her, a re­cent wi­dow, who had co­me for an ex­ten­ded stay with her only da­ug­h­ter. Gran­d­mot­her Jen­ny Ro­se, a true da­ug­h­ter of the So­uth, was an ex­cep­ti­onal co­ok, and was mo­re than happy to te­ach her gran­d­da­ug­h­ter ever­y­t­hing she knew. By the ti­me she gra­du­ated from high scho­ol the fol­lo­wing June, Jody had dis­co­ve­red that she had mo­re than just a ca­su­al knack for co­oking.

  Scrap­ping her plans for an ac­co­un­ting deg­ree, Jody en­rol­led in The Res­ta­urant Scho­ol in Phi­la­del­p­hia, and it was so­on cle­ar that she had ma­de the right cho­ice. She sta­yed in Phi­la­del­p­hia and went to work with a wor­ld-class chef, at first as a low-le­vel as­sis­tant, and la­ter, ha­ving le­ar­ned all from him that she co­uld, mo­ved on to what wo­uld be her last job in the city. Ro­bert Or­loff, the ow­ner of the trendy new res­ta­urant, Flo­ra, to­ok Jody un­der his wing, whe­re she had re­ma­ined for se­ve­ral ye­ars.

  In ti­me, Jody had had eno­ugh of the cold, icy Pen­nsy­l­va­nia win­ters. She'd tho­ught to dri­ve so­uth, may­be to Sa­van­nah or to At­lan­ta. So­mep­la­ce warm. Be­si­des, she'd grown to lo­ve So­ut­hern co­oking, ha­ving le­ar­ned so much from first her gran­d­mot­her, then from Ro­bert, who'd grown up in the area of Vir­gi­nia that sat at the very end of the Del­mar­va pe­nin­su­la. What wo­uld be mo­re na­tu­ral than a mo­ve so­uth? Al­most twen­ty-se­ven that ye­ar, Jody pac­ked up her be­lon­gings and her re­su­me, the glo­wing re­com­men­da­ti­ons to se­ve­ral pre­mi­er chefs pro­vi­ded by Ro­bert, and the fat fi­le of re­ci­pes she had de­ve­lo­ped over the ye­ars, and set out to find ad­ven­tu­re-or, at the very le­ast, a pla­ce to hang her hat and her pots.

  A se­ri­o­us sum­mer storm had for­ced Jody to se­ek shel­ter just as she cros­sed from De­la­wa­re in­to Mar­y­land, and the shel­ter she fo­und was the Bis­hop's Inn. And the rest, as they say, is his­tory. When the inn's co­ok was unab­le to ma­ke it thro­ugh the storm to get to work, Jody of­fe­red to co­ok din­ner for the small crowd of fel­low tra­ve­lers who we­re si­mi­larly stran­ded. La­ura Bis­hop had be­en so im­p­res­sed with Jody's cre­ati­vity on such short no­ti­ce that she had of­fe­red Jody a job that very night. When she threw in a su­ite of ro­oms on the third flo­or of the lo­vely old inn, Jody jum­ped at it. She had al­ways lo­ved the be­ach, and the chan­ce to li­ve ye­ar-ro­und so clo­se to the oce­an had ap­pe­aled to her. Not that she had much ti­me to spend lo­un­ging on the sand the­se days, but at le­ast she co­uld car­ve out an oc­ca­si­onal af­ter­no­on run or early eve­ning stroll along the wa­ter's ed­ge.

  And co­me this ti­me to­mor­row, I will be on my way to my all-ti­me fa­vo­ri­te be­ach, whe­re I will spend a glo­ri­o­us we­ek. She grin­ned as she po­ured cre­am in­to a spat­ter­wa­re pit­c­her for the bre­ak­fast buf­fet. Fi­nal­ly, af­ter all the­se ye­ars- Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey, he­re I co­me!

  Chapter 2

  "I left fro­zen do­ugh in the big fre­ezer," Jody was sa­ying as she stas­hed her two su­it­ca­ses and a sho­ul­der bag in­to the trunk of the sports car-con­ver­tib­le, of co­ur­se-that she had ren­ted to dri­ve to her des­ti­na­ti­on.

  No big, clunky Bu­ick for this trip.

  Fe­aring that her twel­ve-ye­ar-old se­dan wo­uld not ma­ke it to De­wey Be­ach up the ro­ad, ne­ver mind all the way to New Jer­sey, Jody had de­ci­ded to rent so­met­hing mo­re re­li­ab­le for the next two we­eks and hang the cost, li­ve a lit­tle, a small vo­ice in­si­de her had ple­aded when she ar­ri­ved at the agency's lot, which had be­en li­ned with zippy lit­tle num­bers, the­ir tops down, the­ir le­at­her new, the­ir chro­me shiny eno­ugh to see yo­ur fa­ce in.

  The ur­ge to fe­el yo­ung, to fe­el ca­ref­ree and ad­ven­tu­ro­us, to­ok over her nor­mal­ly sen­sib­le na­tu­re.

  Yes­ter­day mor­ning, she had ren­ted the con­ver­tib­le.

  Yes­ter­day af­ter­no­on, she had her ha­ir hig­h­lig­h­ted with sub­t­le blond stre­aks.

  Last night, she bo­ught two bi­ki­nis and a lit­tle red silk dress that lo­oked li­ke a slightly lon­ger ver­si­on of the ever po­pu­lar tank top.

  "You got the body for it, ba­be," Mar­le­ne at De­de's Bo­uti­que had cro­wed as Jody step­ped from the dres­sing ro­om in the dark blue bi­ki­ni. " 'Bo­ut ti­me you sho­wed it off."
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  And then so­me­how Mar­le­ne had tal­ked her in­to the red dress.

  "Hey, you're go­ing on va­ca­ti­on," Mar­le­ne had nod­ded her he­ad, her be­ehi­ve ha­ir swa­ying to and fro. "You might as well li­ve a lit­tle. Kick up yo­ur he­els, Jody. Be­si­des, that dress will lo­ok gre­at with a tan."

  It was cer­ta­inly dif­fe­rent from an­y­t­hing she'd ever ow­ned in her li­fe. It was fe­mi­ni­ne. It was sexy. It fit her li­ke a glo­ve, al­be­it a so­mew­hat snug one.

  The prac­ti­cal, wor­ka­ho­lic Jody re­tur­ned the dress to the sa­le rack and tur­ned her back on it, but still, her lit­tle in­ner vo­ice had pric­ked at her li­ke a thorn.

  This was a dress for a wo­man who was ad­ven­tu­ro­us and unaf­ra­id to ta­ke chan­ces. A wo­man with long, sun-st­re­aked ha­ir who dro­ve a con­ver­tib­le and who had the ti­me to in­dul­ge her­self with days spent lo­un­ging on the be­ach, so­aking up the la­te July sun. A ca­ref­ree, con­fi­dent wo­man li­ke the one an ado­les­cent Jody had in­ten­ded to grow up to be.

  The Jody who just that day had had her ha­ir hig­h­lig­h­ted and ren­ted a con­ver­tib­le ad­ded the dress to the pi­le on the co­un­ter.

  "J­ody, we'll ma­na­ge just fi­ne," La­ura was sa­ying as she ope­ned the do­or of the slick lit­tle sports car. "After all, I am a de­cent co­ok. Our gu­ests will be well fed. May­be not qu­ite as well as you might do it, but no one will fe­el che­ated. I pro­mi­se. Go and ha­ve a won­der­ful ti­me. Vi­sit with yo­ur old fri­ends and get re­ac­qu­a­in­ted. Ha­ve a li­fe. Ha­ve a fling." La­ura tuc­ked Jody be­hind the whe­el and slam­med the do­or. "Just don't for­get to co­me back."

  "You ha­ve the ad­dress and pho­ne num­ber of whe­re I'll be sta­ying…"

  "I do. And if an­yo­ne thre­atens not to pay the­ir bill un­til they've had so­me of yo­ur ex­qu­isi­te flan, I'll call." La­ura le­aned over and kis­sed Jody on the che­ek. "Other­wi­se, just for one swe­et we­ek, I want you to for­get that the Bis­hop's Inn exists. Enj­oy yo­ur­self. You're long over­due…"

  "I am, aren't I?" Jody nod­ded as if the idea had only just oc­cur­red to her.

  "Most de­fi­ni­tely." La­ura step­ped back to per­mit Jody to ma­ke a U-turn ac­ross Sea Vi­ew Ave­nue.

  Jody wa­ved as she sped off past the inn, slid her sun­g­las­ses on, and he­aded north.

  Sea bre­ezes fil­led the car every mi­le of the way along the co­ast dri­ve, and she re­ve­led in the fe­eling of fre­edom, of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  Li­fe sho­uld hold mo­re ti­mes li­ke this, she told her­self. All work and no play has ma­de Jody a very dull girl. Well, not for the next se­ven days. From this mo­ment on, I will kick up my he­els. I will so­ak up the sun. And may­be, just for a lit­tle whi­le, I will be that exo­tic cre­atu­re I used to dre­am of be­ing…

  And oh, to be re­tur­ning to Oce­an Po­int, af­ter all the­se ye­ars!

  She grin­ned, thin­king back to her last sum­mer the­re, the ye­ar she had tur­ned six­te­en.

  Li­fe be­gan at six­te­en, by una­ni­mo­us dec­ree of pa­rents and Oce­an Po­int tra­di­ti­on.

  At six­te­en, you co­uld da­te for re­al. At six­te­en, you co­uld we­ar a bi­ki­ni-only the "fast" girls wo­re them at fif­te­en, and Lord knew you didn't want to be cal­led that. At six­te­en, you co­uld go to Doc­ker's Amu­se­ment Pi­er af­ter 10 P.M., when it wo­uld clo­se to the "yo­un­ger" kids, and you co­uld ri­de the rol­ler co­as­ter, whe­re you'd sit clo­se to the boy next to you and cling to him li­ke a ter­ri­fi­ed mon­key. At six­te­en, you co­uld stay out till mid­night every night of the we­ek if you felt li­ke it, may­be even la­ter on the we­ekends. At six­te­en, li­fe had be­en won­der­ful, ma­gi­cal, en­d­less fun, full of pro­mi­se.

  Yo­ung fa­ces of fri­ends, so­me she hadn't tho­ught abo­ut in ye­ars, now ap­pe­ared so de­arly in her mind's eye. What, she won­de­red, might they lo­ok li­ke now, af­ter fo­ur­te­en ye­ars had pas­sed? Ot­her than Na­ta­lie, she'd not re­al­ly kept in clo­se to­uch with an­yo­ne, tho­ugh over the ye­ars she had won­de­red what had be­co­me of tho­se girls she had sha­red her ado­les­cent dre­ams with. Well, so­on she wo­uld find out, wo­uld spend an en­ti­re we­ekend cat­c­hing up.

  Jody le­aned on the ra­iling of the ferry as she ma­de the cros­sing from Le­wes, De­la­wa­re, to Ca­pe May, New Jer­sey. Off the bow, a gull cir­c­led dow­n­ward to the sur­fa­ce of the bay and emer­ged with a small fish in its black be­ak. Se­ve­ral hun­d­red fe­et away, a small flo­til­la of sa­il­bo­ats swa­yed gra­ce­ful­ly in the wind, and be­yond, the po­wer bo­ats cut choppy grids in tic-tac-toe fas­hi­on ac­ross each ot­her's wa­ke. Far­t­her out to­ward the At­lan­tic, lar­ger bo­ats he­aded to sea. Stra­ight ahe­ad lay Ca­pe May, and far­t­her up the co­ast, her des­ti­na­ti­on. Sig­hing, she tur­ned her fa­ce up to the sun to catch its war­ming rays, to let the swe­et salty bay bre­ezes swirl aro­und her.

  I won­der if The Os­p­rey is still on the cor­ner of West Bay and Cor­bin's La­ne, if the­ir cho­co­la­te mil­k­s­ha­kes are still the best on the New Jer­sey sho­re… if Car­ney's Ge­ne­ral Sto­re is still sel­ling Play­boy ma­ga­zine with pla­in brown co­vers… if you can still buy plas­tic san­dals and ro­ugh-tex­tu­red be­ach to­wels and ga­rish lip­s­ticks at the drug­s­to­re…if the ri­des on the pi­er are still as scary as they used to be…

  As the ferry be­gan to dock, she pul­led a map from her sho­ul­der bag and chec­ked her ro­ute for abo­ut the fif­ti­eth ti­me in the past two days. Sa­tis­fi­ed that she co­uld in­de­ed find her way, she re­fol­ded the map and tuc­ked it away. If all went well, she wo­uld be in Oce­an Po­int in less than an ho­ur. A tic­k­le of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on rip­pled thro­ugh her. Ha­ving co­me this far, she was an­xi­o­us now for the jo­ur­ney to end.

  The first thing that Jody no­ti­ced as she dro­ve over the old draw­b­rid­ge that led on­to the is­land was that new ma­ri­nas had pop­ped up ever­y­w­he­re along the bay si­de of the town. Dri­ving tho­se first few stre­ets in­to Oce­an Po­int, it be­ca­me ap­pa­rent that the sle­epy lit­tle se­asi­de vil­la­ge of her chil­d­ho­od me­mory had be­en dis­co­ve­red. De­ve­lo­pers had strung a li­ne of new tow­n­ho­uses over­lo­oking the mar­s­hes and con­s­t­ruc­ted a ho­use on every open lot they co­uld get the­ir gre­edy hands on. Co­ming to the in­ter­sec­ti­on of West Bay and So­uth Ave­nue, she pul­led to the si­de of the ro­ad and just sat whi­le she got her be­arings.

  If this is West Bay, the ol­d­fi­re­ho­use sho­uld be on that cor­ner, she re­aso­ned, and if that is So­uth Ave­nue, the­re sho­uld be a park with swings and sli­des right the­re.

  No fi­re­ho­use, no park, tho­ugh the sign cle­arly an­no­un­ced the stre­et na­mes.

  Well, it had be­en fo­ur­te­en ye­ars…

  Jody eased back, in­to the tra­vel la­ne, to­ok a right, and cru­ised down Bay to Oce­an Bo­ule­vard in se­arch of the Sea Vi­ew Mo­tel, her ho­me for the next we­ek.

  As pro­mi­sed, her ro­om over­lo­oked the oce­an. She dum­ped her lug­ga­ge on the king-si­zed bed and drew back the cur­ta­ins, ope­ned the sli­ding glass do­or, and step­ped out on­to the small, ra­iled bal­cony to drink in the sight. Di­rectly be­low her win­dow, ro­und tab­les sha­ded by tro­pi­cal­ly co­lo­red um­b­rel­las we­re pla­ced he­re and the­re aro­und a glis­te­ning po­ol of pa­le blue wa­ter the sa­me co­lor as the sky over­he­ad. Be­yond the mo­tel's stuc­co wall, the bo­ar­d­walk se­pa­ra­ted the shops, ho­uses, and res­ta­urants from the be­ach. And the be­ach it­self, well, that was pu­re New Jer­sey, with sand slightly dar­ker and just a lit­tle co­ar­ser than that fo­und on the Mar­y­land sho­re. Even with the re­cent ye­ars' ero­si­on, the ex­pan­se of be­ach wa
s de­eper than the be­ach in Bis­hop's Co­ve, al­lo­wing mo­re happy va­ca­ti­oners to lay the­ir to­wels and blan­kets si­de by si­de and end to end for as far as the eye co­uld see. He­re and the­re the li­fe­gu­ard stands ro­se abo­ve the crowd, two fi­gu­res upon the ben­c­hes whe­re only one had sat in the days of Jody's yo­uth. Mo­re bat­hers, mo­re li­fe­gu­ards…

  And Lord knows, the­re are mo­re bat­hers, li­ned up li­ke sar­di­nes in a can, she mar­ve­led, sha­king her he­ad at the she­er num­ber of pe­op­le on the be­ach.

  Step­ping back in­to the ro­om and clo­sing the scre­en be­hind her, Jody de­ba­ted what to do first. Na­ta­lie and the ot­hers wo­uld not ar­ri­ve un­til la­ter in the day. Her hungry sto­mach de­ci­ded for her. She wo­uld walk on the bo­ar­d­walk and find a pla­ce to ha­ve lunch.