Mariah Stewart

by Swept Away

  She d for­got­ten what it felt li­ke to ha­ve the wa­ter pull at her li­ke that. Next ti­me she'd be mo­re ca­uti­o­us and wo­uldn't just rush in.

  "O­uch! She ex­c­la­imed as a sharp pa­in sli­ced thro­ugh the bot­tom of her right fo­ot. Ba­lan­cing on the left, she lif­ted the fo­ot for in­s­pec­ti­on and fo­und a gash al­most two in­c­hes long, run­ning blo­od. She must ha­ve step­ped on a sharp pi­ece of shell. As she dip­ped the fo­ot in­to the wa­ter to cle­an it off, the lit­tle girl be­hind her yel­led, " No!"

  "What?" Jody as­ked.

  "Sharks! If you get blo­od in the wa­ter, sharks will co­me!" The girl be­gan to hop up and down.

  "I think it ta­kes a lit­tle mo­re blo­od than…"

  "Daddy!" The girl con­ti­nu­ed to shri­ek. "Ma­ke her stop! She'll ma­ke the sharks co­me!"

  "She was wat­c­hing the shark spe­ci­al on the Dis­co­very chan­nel last night…" Daddy smi­led she­epishly, but did not­hing to qu­i­et the child.

  Jody me­rely nod­ded and lim­ped back to her blan­ket, trying her best to avo­id get­ting sand in the of­fen­ding cut that left a tra­il of red splot­c­hes ac­ross the be­ach. Plun­king her butt un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­usly on the blan­ket, she grab­bed her wa­ter bot­tle and po­ured out ca­re­ful drops to wash the sand away from the jag­ged wo­und in the bot­tom of her fo­ot. Rum­ma­ging in­ner be­ach bag, she fo­und a tis­sue, which she held aga­inst the cut un­til the worst of the flow ce­ased. She to­ok a drink of the now warm wa­ter and lay back aga­inst the blan­ket aga­in. Her short bat­tle with the oce­an had left her with the ball of her fo­ot throb­bing and an ir­ri­ta­ting sprin­k­ling of sand un­der her bi­ki­ni. She shif­ted un­com­for­tably and clo­sed her eyes.

  The so­unds from the blan­ket to her left-tho­se of a yo­ung mot­her in­s­pec­ting the mor­ning's col­lec­ti­on of shells with her tod­dler-bro­ught back me­mo­ri­es of Jody's last sum­mer as an only child, the sum­mer be­fo­re her brot­her Jack was born. Jody had be­en fi­ve that ye­ar, and the vi­si­on of tho­se days on the be­ach with her mot­her re­tur­ned now with crystal cla­rity. Jody had had a big yel­low plas­tic buc­ket, and every mor­ning right af­ter bre­ak­fast, she and her mot­her wo­uld comb the be­ac­hes for pretty shells and in­te­res­ting pi­eces of drif­t­wo­od that had was­hed as­ho­re du­ring the night. At the be­ach, her mot­her's long, thick, dark brown ha­ir-usu­al­ly worn lo­ose to fall in un­ruly curls aro­und her pretty fa­ce- wo­uld be twis­ted in­to a long, ca­su­al bra­id that hung down the mid­dle of her back. Jody had lo­ved to sit be­hind her mot­her's be­ach cha­ir and play with that bra­id, wrap­ping it aro­und the back of her mot­her's he­ad in big con­cen­t­ric cir­c­les or just hol­ding on to it to fe­el its we­ight, tra­cing li­nes down her arms with the fat curl at the end.

  It had be­en a long ti­me sin­ce she'd tho­ught abo­ut that, Jody re­ali­zed as the warmth of the sun be­gan to lull her on­ce aga­in. What, she won­de­red sle­epily, had be­co­me of all tho­se shells they had col­lec­ted over the ye­ars…

  A blast from a pas­sing ra­dio star­t­led her, and she sat up, not qu­ite su­re how long she'd be­en re­mi­nis­cing, but kno­wing it must be clo­se to lunch ti­me. Jody de­ba­ted her op­ti­ons. She co­uld walk up on­to the bo­ar­d­walk and grab lun­ch-as­su­ring that she'd lo­se her pri­me spot on the be­ach if she va­ca­ted it for too long-or she co­uld eat the crac­kers and drink wa­ter. Op­ting for the crac­kers, she mun­c­hed and was­hed them down with the now very warm spring wa­ter. Fi­nis­hing her snack, she de­ci­ded to re­ad for a whi­le, tur­ning on­to her sto­mach and ope­ning the bo­ok. She mis­sed the chat­ter of her fri­ends, and wis­hed that one of them had sta­yed an ex­t­ra day.

  Last night they had go­ne en mas­se to the Ho­use of Crabs for se­afo­od, whe­re they had sat for ho­urs la­ug­hing and tal­king. To­night Jody had plans for a go­ur­met din­ner at the highly to­uted Jo­an­na's-re­pu­tedly the best res­ta­urant on the is­land-at the end of the bo­ar­d­walk. It was sa­id that Jo­an­na's chef had tra­ined in Pa­ris and ma­de a ro­ue li­ke no ot­her. Li­ke all pro­fes­si­onals who ex­cel at the­ir craft, Jody co­uldn't re­sist com­pa­ri­son, and plan­ned to or­der one of his spe­ci­al­ti­es to­night.

  At le­ast she'd ha­ve a gre­at din­ner, she sig­hed. Of co­ur­se, af­ter din­ner, she'd end up back at her ro­om- alo­ne-whe­re she wo­uld pro­bably re­ad un­til she fell as­le­ep with the bo­ok in her hand.

  Right now, what she re­al­ly wan­ted was to co­ol off. A swim wo­uld be per­fect, but a se­cond trip to the oce­an with its wic­ked un­der­tow held lit­tle ap­pe­al. That left the mo­tel's po­ol, only a short hop away ac­ross blis­te­ring sand. Gat­he­ring her things, Jody dug her flip-flops from the bot­tom of her bag and star­ted a slow trek, fa­vo­ring her cut fo­ot, to the steps. On­ce back at the mo­tel, she brus­hed off the ir­ri­ta­ting gra­ins of sand that dung to her sin­ce her dip in the oce­an and eased her­self in­to the po­ol, which was sur­p­ri­singly empty.

  The wa­ter was co­oling, so­ot­hing, and Jody flo­ated easily for a few mi­nu­tes, le­aning her he­ad back to al­low her ha­ir to fan aro­und her. She be­gan a lan­gu­id lap the length of the po­ol, all the whi­le trying to re­mem­ber the last ti­me an­y­t­hing had felt bet­ter than the wa­ter that flo­wed aro­und her body. So­on she fo­und a na­tu­ral rhythm, and it car­ri­ed her back and forth, back and forth. Re­ve­ling in the easy mo­ti­ons that to­ok her from one end of the po­ol to the ot­her, Jody swam un­til her arms be­gan to ac­he. When she'd had eno­ugh, she wal­ked to the shal­low end and up the con­c­re­te steps. Grab­bing her to­wel from the lo­un­ge whe­re she'd left it, she le­aned for­ward to dry off her ha­ir when she sen­sed that she was be­ing wat­c­hed.

  Jody glan­ced aro­und the po­ol area, no­ti­cing that most of the ot­her mo­tel pat­rons se­emed to be sle­eping in the sha­de or en­g­ros­sed in re­ading the­ir bo­oks or ma­ga­zi­nes. Sha­king off the sen­sa­ti­on, she dri­ed her legs, then spre­ad the to­wel over the lo­un­ge. She wo­uld sit in the sun and al­low it to dry her off whi­le she too re­ad. She slip­ped on her sun­g­las­ses, le­aned back aga­inst the cus­hi­on, and ope­ned her bo­ok.

  She'd re­ad no mo­re than three pa­ges when she felt it aga­in, the fe­eling that so­me­one's eyes we­re on her. This ti­me, ho­we­ver, when Jody lo­oked up, the­re was a man wal­king to­ward her. He was tall with dark glas­ses and brown ha­ir, exactly li­ke the he­ro she'd be­en re­ading abo­ut in her bo­ok. A shi­ver went up her spi­ne. Su­rely he was a hal­lu­ci­na­ti­on, a mi­ra­ge born of sun and he­at on the smol­de­ring con­c­re­te aro­und the po­ol. It wo­uld ha­ve to be so, be­ca­use he lo­oked exactly li­ke…

  "J­ody?" The mi­ra­ge stop­ped at the fo­ot of her lo­un­ge.

  La­ter she wo­uld re­call thin­king that, for a mi­ra­ge, its vo­ice was aw­ful­ly de­ep and rich, much li­ke the hot fud­ge on the sun­dae she and Na­ta­lie had sha­red the night be­fo­re.

  "J­ody?" Her hal­lu­ci­na­ti­on re­pe­ated, and she smi­led, thin­king how won­der­ful fic­ti­on was, how it co­uld ta­ke you away and al­most ma­ke you be­li­eve that…

  The mi­ra­ge grab­bed her by the toe and ga­ve it a twe­ak. She slid her glas­ses down on­to her no­se and lo­oked up.

  This had to be a dre­am.

  "Aren't you go­ing to say hel­lo?" He as­ked, lo­oking mildly amu­sed.

  "J­eremy?" She gas­ped. "Jeremy Nob­le?"

  "Ah, so you do re­mem­ber me. I was be­gin­ning to get a lit­tle wor­ri­ed the­re for a mi­nu­te." He grab­bed a ne­arby cha­ir and swung it aro­und so that he co­uld sit next to her. Which was, in his es­ti­ma­ti­on, pre­fe­rab­le to stan­ding the­re and lo­oking down on that long, le­an body.

&nbs
p; Wha­te­ver had ma­de him think that Jody was all an­g­les? In her lit­tle bi­ki­ni, she was all cur­ves.

  Jeremy sat.

  "I ho­pe you don't mind if I jo­in you…"

  "No. Of co­ur­se not. I'm just so sur­p­ri­sed to see you."

  Had she sa­id sur­p­ri­sed? Per­haps daz­zled sa­id it bet­ter. Or pos­sibly in­c­re­du­lous…

  "What are you do­ing in Oce­an Po­int?" Jody for­ced a non­c­ha­lan­ce she wis­hed she felt.

  Jeremy le­aned for­ward, his clas­ped hands fal­ling bet­we­en his kne­es, and he won­de­red if he sho­uld tell her the truth, that he had fol­lo­wed her. Just then she sat up and re­mo­ved her sun­g­las­ses com­p­le­tely, and tho­se am­ber eyes se­emed to swal­low him who­le.

  "I'm on va­ca­ti­on," he told her. That was the truth.

  "Why, so am I!"

  If she blin­ked, wo­uld he di­sap­pe­ar? Was he in fact re­al­ly the­re? We­re her fel­low lo­un­gers at this very mo­ment ex­c­han­ging ner­vo­us glan­ces as she le­aned for­ward and ad­dres­sed what was, in re­ality, an empty cha­ir?

  "And it's be­en ye­ars sin­ce I've be­en to the New Jer­sey sho­re…" Al­so true.

  "Me, too. I spent every sum­mer gro­wing up in Oce­an Po­int."

  "So did I."

  "Why, that's un­be­li­evab­le! Did we talk abo­ut that at the inn?" She frow­ned. Su­rely she wo­uld ha­ve re­mem­be­red that, even in the midst of the cra­zi­ness that had co­lo­red his stay the­re in June.

  "No, we didn't. I just fo­und myself with a few days off, and I de­ci­ded to spend them at the inn." He stop­ped, fe­eling aw­k­ward. "Actu­al­ly, the truth is that I just wan­ted to see you, Jody. La­ura told me whe­re I co­uld find you. I ho­pe you don't mind that I fol­lo­wed you he­re."

  " You fol­lo­wed me he­re?" Had he re­al­ly sa­id that?

  "I'm sorry, may­be I sho­uld ha­ve cal­led you first. To see if it was okay with you. To see if may­be you had ot­her plans. If you don't want me to stay, I can…"

  "No. No. No ot­her plans. Of co­ur­se you sho­uld stay. Why sho­uldn't you stay?" She was to­tal­ly flus­te­red at the tho­ught that this man had fol­lo­wed her from Mar­y­land. "You sho­uld de­fi­ni­tely stay."

  "Gre­at" He smi­led and her he­art did a flip-flop. "What are you do­ing for din­ner?"

  Chapter 5

  It was al­most eight o'clock when Jeremy knoc­ked on Jody's do­or.

  "I'll just be a mi­nu­te," she told him.

  Just un­til my hands stop sha­king and I fi­gu­re out a way to ke­ep my kne­es from knoc­king to­get­her.

  It had ta­ken Jody al­most an ho­ur to de­ci­de what to we­ar. The red silk didn't se­em ap­prop­ri­ate, so she'd had to run out to one of the sto­res along the bo­ar­d­walk and find so­met­hing su­itab­le. She hadn't plan­ned on ha­ving to dress for din­ner with the man or her dre­ams. The short blue sun­d­ress that she fo­und at one of the lit­tle bo­uti­qu­es had be­en just right.

  I wis­hed him he­re, she tho­ught, and the pos­si­bi­lity fil­led her with a sort of po­wer she'd ne­ver felt be­fo­re. I wil­led him he­re.

  One last glan­ce in the mir­ror had her fe­eling li­ke Cin­de­rel­la abo­ut to set out for the ball on the arm of her prin­ce.

  "Hi," she sa­id as she ope­ned the do­or. The lo­ok in his eyes ma­de her fe­el all the mo­re li­ke a prin­cess.

  "You lo­ok be­a­uti­ful," he sa­id simply, ma­king her fe­el that it was true.

  "Thank you," she blus­hed un­der her ma­ke­up and bit her ton­gue to ke­ep from ad­ding, So do you.

  "Yo­ur ha­ir…" He re­ac­hed out a hand to to­uch the long curls that bo­re a pa­le sha­de of mo­on­light and drif­ted aro­und her li­ke a ha­lo.

  "I had it hig­h­lig­h­ted," she nod­ded, as if he co­uldn't see that for him­self.

  "It lo­oks gre­at." He slid his hands in­to his poc­kets, the ur­ge to crush tho­se soft rin­g­lets was so strong. He cle­ared his thro­at. "Jo­an­na's is just down the bo­ar­d­walk, isn't it?"

  "Yes." She grab­bed her pur­se and chec­ked to ma­ke cer­ta­in her ro­om key was in­si­de, then step­ped thro­ugh the do­or that he held open for her. "I cal­led and chan­ged my re­ser­va­ti­ons to a tab­le for two. The re­cep­ti­onist he­re at the mo­tel told me it was only a ten-mi­nu­te walk."

  It was a ple­asant stroll along the bo­ards to Jo­an­na's and a pic­tu­re-per­fect night. Gulls cri­ed he­re and the­re as they ra­ced each ot­her and the ti­de for the bits of ma­ri­ne li­fe that lan­ded un­ce­re­mo­ni­o­usly on the sho­re, dum­ped by one wa­ve, car­ri­ed back out to sea by the next. Tan­ned chil­d­ren ra­ced by, the­ir pa­rents hot on the­ir he­els, an­xi­o­usly trying to ke­ep them in sight lest they fa­de in­to the crowd and di­sap­pe­ar be­fo­re they re­ac­hed the amu­se­ment pi­er at the op­po­si­te end of the bo­ar­d­walk. A sun­bur­ned co­up­le strol­led by, the­ir fa­ces lo­oking red and un­com­for­tab­le.

  "Cu­te shop," Jeremy nod­ded to the sto­ref­ront whe­re lar­ge shells and all man­ner of kitschy things crow­ded the win­dows.

  Jody glan­ced at his fa­ce to see if he was kid­ding.

  "Might ha­ve to stop the­re on the way back and pick up so­met­hing su­itably ho­key for my par­t­ner." He grin­ned.

  She stop­ped in front of the win­dow. "Is he the tacky tee-shirt type or the ce­ra­mic mug with ob­no­xi­o­us sa­ying type?"

  "Both," Jeremy nod­ded.

  "Ah, well then. I'd say you're in luck. They ha­ve a bit of ever­y­t­hing in the­re."

  "I kind of li­ke that lit­tle rub­ber hu­la dan­cer over on the si­de the­re." He le­aned a lit­tle clo­ser.

  "The one that says 'I dan­ced my grass off at Oce­an Vi­ew Be­ach'?"

  Jeremy's la­ug­h­ter flo­wed thro­ugh her li­ke warm mo­las­ses.

  "It's per­fect," Jeremy nod­ded, ta­king Jody's hand. He do­ub­ted he'd find an­y­t­hing bet­ter-or wor­se, de­pen­ding on how one lo­oked at it-to ta­ke back to T.J., who af­ter much pro­test had ag­re­ed to ta­ke over that last in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on that Jeremy hadn't be­en ab­le to get to.

  Well, of co­ur­se he had. Just as Jeremy wo­uld ha­ve do­ne for T.J. Af­ter all, they we­re al­most brot­hers, we­ren't they? Mo­re or less…

  Jo­an­na's was a per­fect wed­ding ca­ke of a ho­use, with a to­wer over­lo­oking the oce­an and a wra­pa­ro­und porch, all set upon pi­lings that ra­ised the ho­use far abo­ve the be­ach. The un­der­si­de of the struc­tu­re was open, which ac­co­un­ted, Jeremy no­ted, for the fact that the struc­tu­re had be­en ab­le to wit­h­s­tand the many storms it must ha­ve se­en over the ye­ars. They to­ok the sta­irs hand in hand and step­ped thro­ugh a scre­en do­or, he­avily de­ta­iled with fret­work, in­to the re­la­ti­ve co­ol of the han­d­so­me re­cep­ti­on area.

  "This de­fi­ni­tely has at­mos­p­he­re," he mu­sed as he pe­ered be­yond the lobby in­to a small di­ning ro­om whe­re ro­und tab­les we­re set to over­lo­ok the oce­an.

  "It's al­so sup­po­sed to ha­ve the best chef on the is­land."

  "Do you ha­ve a re­ser­va­ti­on?" the hos­tess, in a whi­te skirt and short-sle­eved shirt and spor­ting a red pla­id bow tie, as­ked.

  "Yes," Jody nod­ded, gi­ving her na­me.

  The hos­tess scan­ned the list of re­ser­va­ti­ons.

  "Ted," the hos­tess sig­na­led a pas­sing wa­iter. "Tab­le three in the Ma­ri­na Ro­om."

  The wa­iter led them thro­ugh one lo­vely ro­om to the next to a tab­le over­lo­oking not the oce­an, but the op­po­si­te si­de of the is­land whe­re, be­fo­re too much lon­ger, the sun wo­uld be­gin to set over the bay. Ha­ving se­ated them and gi­ven them each a me­nu, he to­ok the­ir drink or­ders and di­sap­pe­ared.

  "What are y
ou ha­ving?" Jeremy as­ked af­ter he had scan­ned the me­nu.

  "Gril­led Chi­le­an sea bass," she told him, "and I'm to­ying with the idea of trying the­ir crab so­up."

  "That so­unds go­od. I think I'll ha­ve the sa­me." The wa­iter re­ap­pe­ared with the­ir wi­ne at the pre­ci­se se­cond they fol­ded the­ir me­nus, and Jeremy or­de­red for them both.

  Jody lo­oked ac­ross the tab­le and fo­ught the ur­ge to pinch her­self.

  "I still think it's the most ama­zing co­in­ci­den­ce that you used to co­me to Oce­an Vi­ew," she sa­id. "It's not as if it's a well-known re­sort."

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, I grew up not far from he­re."

  "Whe­re was that?"

  "J­ust a small town in­land a bit."

  "Oh? Which town?" She per­sis­ted.

  "Cris­men's Well." Just spe­aking the na­me alo­ud af­ter all the­se ye­ars all but stop­ped his he­art from be­ating.

  "Do you ha­ve fa­mily the­re?"

  "No, he sa­id softly. "Not an­y­mo­re."

  "Yo­ur sa­lad, ma­dam," the wa­iter ap­pe­ared, of­fe­ring a wel­co­me in­ter­rup­ti­on. "And yo­urs, sir. Anot­her glass of wi­ne, sir?"

  Jeremy nod­ded dumbly.

  "How long are you plan­ning on sta­ying?" She was as­king, mer­ci­ful­ly chan­ging the su­bj­ect.

  "Till the we­ekend." He wil­led his pul­se to re­turn to nor­mal, his palms to stop swe­ating.

  "What are you plan­ning on do­ing for the we­ek? You don't lo­ok li­ke the sun­bat­hing type."

  "You're right abo­ut that. I ne­ver co­uld just lie the­re on the sand and ba­ke. I tho­ught I'd do so­me de­ep-sea fis­hing one day. The mo­tel desk clerk sa­id you can sign up for a char­ter down at the ma­ri­na with just a day's no­ti­ce. Do you fish?"

  "I ha­ve, but it isn't so­met­hing I'd do on my sum­mer va­ca­ti­on. I'm mo­re in­c­li­ned to ba­ke on the be­ach."