Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel

by JoAnn Ross

  “Would you do me a favor?” she asked.

  “What kind of favor?”

  She turned her head and opened her eyes. In her gaze he saw more amusement than frustration. “You’re a cautious one, aren’t you, J.T.?”

  “You learn to be if you want to keep yourself, and your men, alive.”

  “That makes sense. But I’m not dangerous.”

  “Now, there’s where you’re wrong.”

  Her full lips curved. Just a little. “I could be offended. But I’m taking that as another compliment. Two in just a few hours.” She nodded and seemed to regain a bit of the energy he’d watched drain away after they’d left the theater. “I’m making progress.”

  Which was exactly what he was afraid of.

  “What favor?” he asked again.

  “Could we go somewhere? Away from everyone, just for a while. And not to the inn,” she said before he could point out that was where they were headed. “Somewhere outside. Where I can clear my head.”

  He thought a minute. “How do you feel about sailing?”

  She sat up straighter. “You have a sailboat?”

  “I don’t. But Sax does.” The only stoplight in town turned red. “We used to sail a lot growing up.”

  “You’d think sailing would be one of our most popular sports,” she said. “Considering that Ireland is an island. But it’s not. And I’ve never been.”

  It was ironic that just a few days ago he’d been thinking that he should take it up again, and now, because of her, he was.

  “Well, then.” Feeling more lighthearted than he had in a very long time, J.T. reached across the console between them and skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “That’s something we’ll have to rectify.”

  28

  Boats of all sizes bobbed on the glassy waters of Shelter Bay. The fact that most of the slips were filled demonstrated the town’s inseparable bond with the sea. While Mary might not have any personal experience with sailing, her eyes drank in the rows of gleaming white boats as they rested like pearls on blue satin.

  J.T. had taken her hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, and surprisingly it felt that way as he led her down the bobbing wooden dock, stopping in front of a boat that, to her unschooled eye, appeared to be about twenty-eight feet long. It certainly wasn’t the largest or fanciest boat in the marina. It was, however, beautiful, with sleek, graceful lines, and a dark blue hull seeming to reflect the water.

  The deck gleamed with a varnished sheen, making her relieved she was wearing rubber-soled shoes instead of the high-heel boots she’d worn for the parade. It would be a crime to mar the perfection Sax Douchett had painstakingly achieved.

  “I know little to nothing about boats,” she admitted. “But it’s beautiful.”

  “She. Boats are always feminine. This sloop especially.”

  Which explained the name KARA written in white block letters on the back.

  “Don’t you want to know why?” he asked.

  From the wicked glint in his eyes, she knew she was being put on, but since it felt so good to escape from what had begun to feel like a never-ending day, she played along.

  “A writer’s always open to learning new things, since you never know when you’ll need an obscure fact or bit of trivia. So why would boats, your brother’s in particular, be named for females?” she asked.

  “Because she’s trim, responds well to a man’s touch, and if the wind is favorable, she’ll give a guy a helluva good ride.”

  “You really are terrible.” The laughter in her voice ruined any attempt at a stern tone. “Now, do you intend to stand here for the rest of the day making more sexist jokes, or will you be taking me for that sail you promised?”

  “Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.” He stepped onto the gleaming deck, then extended a hand to invite her aboard. The boat bobbed lightly on the soft swells of the bay.

  Before casting off, he gave her a quick tour. Mary found the boat—sloop, she corrected herself—surprisingly roomy. The living area below the deck was tidy, utilitarian, but not nearly as cramped as she’d imagined it would be.

  “This kitchen is larger than the one I had in my first flat in Dublin,” she said.

  “Same with me and my first place in California. And it’s a galley.”

  “Thank you. I’d best learn that, since I believe my next selkie story is going to partially take place on a boat.” She hadn’t even dared bring that idea up to Aaron Pressler yet, knowing he wouldn’t leap at the premise.

  “You’ll have to tell me about it,” he said, as they went back up the short ladder to the outside.

  “I don’t usually talk about my work in the thinking stages. But since you’re the only person I know who knows about boats, then perhaps I will pick your brain. If you don’t mind.”

  “Sweetheart, the mood I’m in right now, you can have any part of me your heart desires.”

  The glint was back in his eyes, making him appear an entirely different man from the one who’d scowled at her just yesterday at the airport. Layers, she thought. This former Marine was turning out to be like a bloody onion. And as changeable as he was proving to be, didn’t that make him even more interesting?

  “Oh,” he said, as he prepared to cast off, “another thing you’ll need to know, while we’re dealing with jargon, is sailors never go to the bathroom.”

  “Surely that must be very uncomfortable for them.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And you accuse me of bad jokes. On a boat, a bathroom is called a head.”

  “Why would it be called that? It seems a silly name.”

  “Not really. The word is a maritime term meaning toward the bow—front—of the ship. Which is also where the figurehead was. There’d be a special deck below sailors would climb down to. It had a grate over it, so they could, uh, relieve themselves into the sea, which kept the boat clean, and was more sanitary because the waves hitting the bow would also keep it washed clean.”

  “Well, isn’t that one more reason to be glad I didn’t live in olden times? And as interesting as it is, for the story I’m thinking of telling, I won’t be needing it.”

  “Even so, you never know when you’re going to be on a quiz show,” he said. “That could well be the one bit of trivia that someday wins you a million dollars.”

  “And wouldn’t that be lovely?” Though she imagined she’d win the lottery, which she’d never in her life entered, before she’d be appearing on a quiz show.

  “Here.” He handed her a padded life vest.

  Although it wasn’t the most flattering piece of clothing she’d ever worn, since she knew that the unique patterns on Aran sweaters were originally designed so people would be able to recognize drowned Irish fishermen, Mary didn’t argue.

  She loved watching him move around the deck with a lithe, masculine grace that couldn’t be learned.

  “Could I help?”

  “Although being the youngest of three brothers put me pretty much on the bottom of the sailing totem pole, this is all about giving you a chance to relax before you have to jump back into public mode tonight,” he reminded her. “So, why don’t you just lean back, enjoy the ride, and tell me about the selkie and the sailor?”

  “He wasn’t a sailor,” she said, tapping down a twinge of anxiety as they sailed beneath the arched iron bridge, headed out toward sea. “But a fisherman.”

  Although she’d lived on the coast for most of her life, she’d always found it too wild and dangerous to want to do anything but walk along the beach or look down at the crashing waves from the top of the cliff at the edge of the Joyce family farm.

  Yet now, watching the skill with which J.T. handled the fluttering white canvas sails, she found herself feeling safe enough that the nerves that had been sparking beneath her skin began to relax.

  She leaned back against the sea blue seat cushions as the sloop picked up speed, skimming over the water in a way that made her feel as if they were flying.


  “Since you’ve watched my movies, you’d know that seals have the ability to take on human form.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Though I doubt any of them look as good as you when they do.”

  She was used to men paying her compliments. They came easily and often, and, she’d found, it was difficult to value something so common.

  Yet, to hear those words from this man, who’d originally seemed determined to dislike her on sight, caused a little rush of pleasure.

  “Well, in this story, which I’m considering putting on film, although selkies need to live near the sea, if they actually go back into it, they revert to being seals and lose the ability to ever take on human form again.”

  “That’s one hell of an internal conflict,” he said. When she looked surprised, he said, “Hey, even history majors have to take a lit class or two. I know the basic elements of story structure.”

  Another surprise, and yet one more thing they had in common. She wondered if he was keeping track.

  “Well, as it happens, there was a fisherman who’d lived many years all alone. One day he went out to sea, far beyond the breakers, and came back with a wife. Now, being a coastal village, everyone knew of someone who’d either met a selkie or who probably was one, so although people recognized, at first sight, that she was one of the seal people, she was a good wife and a good neighbor, even though she was shy and didn’t speak more than need be when she went to the market. Nor did she ever step foot in the church where most gathered on Sundays. Nor go to the pub to mingle with people.

  “But those lapses are neither here nor there, because the people could tell that the fisherman was happier than he’d ever been, which led them to believe that the quiet, dark woman was a good wife. So, since they had kind feelings toward the fisherman, who always shared some of his catch with those in need before taking the fish to the monger, no one ever mentioned anything about her being a seal to the fisherman. And thus she came to be accepted by one and all.”

  “A generous village, seeming without prejudice.”

  “Aye, that it was. Yet as I said, she was not the first person in the village to have come from the sea. And undoubtedly would not be the last.”

  Comfortable in the telling of the story that had been asking to be told in her mind for some time, Mary didn’t notice that she’d slipped into the lexicon of her homeland, as she often would do when tired, excited, or relaxed, which, since coming to America, was a rare thing.

  “Well, as was his habit, the fisherman would often take his dory out to sea for several days, which saddened and worried his wife. Some who saw her walking alone on the cliff, looking out toward the sea, swore they could hear her calling to him in a strange, haunting language no human had ever heard.

  “As is the way of nature, spring gave way to summer, which, in turn, became fall. The days grew shorter and nightfall would come sooner, and the seas and winds grew more wild, anticipating the long dark months of winter.

  “The poor selkie was beside herself with fear. Those who’d pass their whitewashed cottage with the seashell trim on their way to the pub in the evening often heard her wailing as if Cromwell himself had driven a sword deep into her heart.

  “But as much as he loved his wife, and did not wish to bring worry down upon her lovely shoulders, the fisherman assured her that he’d been fishing in these winter waters since he was a boy. Besides, he told her, as they lay in their bed, warmed by the glow of the peat fire, didn’t he know the sky and the sea with the same familiarity he knew every curve of her body, every inch of her smooth, fragrant skin? He’d return, he promised as he kissed away the tears that glistened like sea foam on her cheeks.”

  “I don’t see this ending well,” J.T. said.

  “Now, who’d be telling this tale?” she asked as they raced like the wind along the shoreline, past the lighthouse. “You’re getting ahead of my story.”

  “And a fine one it is.” He waved a hand. “Carry on.”

  “Tragically, perhaps because his mind was too much on his wife, or perhaps it was just the whims of fate, on that sad day, the fisherman misread the water and sky he’d come to know so well. The wind rose, turning the autumn waves rough and choppy.

  “But still he was not concerned. Because he’d promised his wife he’d return home. And being an honorable man, he’d never, ever broken a vow to man nor woman. So he wasn’t going to begin with his beloved bride.

  “Even when the fog blew in, surrounding the dory, the fisherman wasn’t afraid. A man could not fish off the Irish coast without knowing his way through fog. And though he might not be able to see six inches in front of his hand, didn’t he still have his ears? All he had to do was listen and the gong on the buoy would lead him home.

  “But the wind and the sea had other plans for the fisherman. The waves rose higher, until his dory was bobbing on the sea like a cork. The wind, blowing with a furious temper, ripped down his heavy sail, and broke the mast into splinters.”

  A thought suddenly occurred to Mary, having her glance up at the Kara’s tall mast.

  “Don’t worry,” J.T. assured her. “Unlike the fisherman in your story, I’m not one to tempt Mother Nature.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Despite the breeze that was still blowing in over the water, J.T. was lowering the sail and switching to an engine. “I don’t want to be distracted,” he answered her question before she could ask. “So, I thought we’d drop anchor for a while. That way I can pay full attention.”

  He steered the gleaming white boat into a small cove carved into a cliff, cut the engine, then lowered the anchor over the side.

  “Okay,” he said, sitting down on a padded seat across from her and stretching out his legs. “You have my full attention.”

  It occurred to Mary that even in meetings with people who were considering whether to pay her a great deal of money, since she’d left Ireland, she hadn’t had anyone as riveted to one of her stories as J.T. appeared to be.

  “So,” she continued, “for hours, as he drifted without his sail on the tides, the wind and the sea and the fisherman battled. Every time the elements seemed to be winning, the fisherman, who was as wily as he was stubborn, would outsmart his adversaries.

  “Until finally, he was blown farther and farther out into the wild, windswept sea, and snow and ice began pelting him like stones, and his boat began to fill with icy water that chilled both his bones and his heart.

  “Which was when the fisherman knew that his stubborn pride had finally gotten the best of him. He would not be returning home to his wife that night. Nor would he ever see her beautiful face again.

  “So, with a heavy heart, he put his hands to his mouth and called out to her, shouting to be heard over the wail of the wind and the roar of the wicked sea, telling her that she was the only woman he’d ever loved. The only woman he would ever love. And he’d continue to love her to his death. And beyond.

  “But even as his words left his mouth, they were whipped away by the cold, cruel wind, and the fisherman feared she’d never be able to hear them.

  “His heart broken, he lay down on the bottom of the boat and prepared to die as snow fell from the midnight dark sky and began to cover him like a cold white blanket.”

  Mary bit her lip and blinked away the tears burning at the backs of her eyes. Whenever she thought of this tale, it made her cry. Which was why she was certain that audiences would be as moved by the fate of the fisherman and his selkie wife as she was.

  Unfortunately, the one thing she’d learned since moving to America was that the powers that ruled in Hollywood wanted more conflict than a mere man against the elements, which was, to her mind, the most basic of all. And while, because her films made money, they might be able to overlook a lack of car chases or explosions, when it came to romances, as she knew this love story would be marketed as, they wanted a hearts and flowers “happily ever after” ending tied up with a pretty pink satin bow.

  She sighed and shook off her dilemma, dec
iding not to ruin a perfect afternoon borrowing trouble.

  “What the fisherman had no way of knowing was that his words, given wings by the power of his emotions, and his love, did indeed carry across the sea, to the cliff where his wife was pacing, drenched to the skin in the icy rain that was slashing down like needles from the churning dark clouds overhead.

  “Lifting her wet and heavy black skirts, she raced down the stone steps as fast as her feet would carry her. When she reached the rocky beach, she tore off her confining human clothing, dove headfirst into the waves, and swam out to sea to save her husband.

  “She called as she swam, and in the same manner his words had reached her over the scream of the wind, the fisherman heard her and jumped up just as she reached the dory. He caught her as she leaped over the railing into his arms.

  “Well, as you can imagine, they held each other tight, and there was much crying and kissing, and together they lay back down in the bottom of the boat and made the sweetest love they’d ever made together during all the days and nights of their marriage.”

  “So she saved him?” J.T. asked, clearly into the story by now.

  “In her way,” Mary said. “Without a sail, the boat continued to drift, and when the tide changed, as it always has, since the beginning of time, it drifted back onto the shoals. Where, the next morning, the villagers found the fisherman, sound asleep on the bottom of the boat, a seal covering him like a blanket, with her own blanket of white snow on her back.”

  “He was alive.” J.T. moved next to her on the canvas seat. “But she had to return to the sea?”

  “Aye. But at least, for that time they had had together, they shared a grand love. Which is, after all, more than many of us are granted in one lifetime.”