by Lindsey Hart
“Do you think you’ll ever go back in? After what happened?”
He smiled, just the corners of his mouth turning up, but it was glorious. It lit up his dark, expressive eyes. “If I do, it will be up to the waist and that’s it.”
Maren laughed easily. “I’ve been swimming in these waters for as long as I can remember. No one taught me how, I guess I just learned it on my own. My grandma used to joke that I was part fish.” Owen didn’t say anything, and Maren, sensing she’d said too much, stood abruptly. She brushed crumbs off her thin maxi dress. “I have some cleaning to get to. I can make dinner for seven since it’s late already. Is that alright?”
“Yes, yes that’s fine.” Owen’s voice was soft, strangely intimate, as though their sharing bound them together in an inexplicable way.
Maren turned and started the walk up to the back deck. It was huge, brand new, like the rest of the exterior, and led right up to the kitchen. She entered through the large sliding door and shut it firmly behind her. She knew it was unlikely that Owen could see her down from the beach even if he had turned around, so she braced her back against the warm glass and took a deep breath.
She thought back to what Hettie had said about connection. She felt it, the invisible thread that sewed her and Owen together. It had, in truth, ever since that fateful morning when her breath entered his lungs and gave him life.
Sometimes she dreamed about that morning. Sometimes she just dreamed about Owen.
She didn’t want to deceive him. She didn’t want him to feel that what they’d just shared out there on the beach wasn’t real. She decided as she walked through the kitchen, that there was no way she could ask him. It just wasn’t right, but when she thought about losing her house, the house that had meant so much to her grandma and her great grandparents before that, tears coursed down her cheeks and she wasn’t as firm in her stance as she wanted to be.
CHAPTER 5
Owen
He woke sweating, gasping for breath. The last vestiges of the nightmare faded. He sat ramrod straight in the queen-sized bed, back against the headboard, pulling in large gulps of air. As it always did, his breathing eventually calmed. His heartbeats went from hammering against his ribs to a more even rate.
He’d been drowning again. It wasn’t surprising, given that the dream returned almost nightly, even when he lived in Seattle. Being back in Monterey, in the exact location where he’d almost died five years ago, was likely enough to trigger more than the average response.
This time it had been different. He was drowning, sinking, floundering in the water, his lungs filling up, his mouth and nose flooded with it. It was painful, always so damn painful. And then, just as he was about to fall, to sink into oblivion, he felt her arms wrap around him, pull him up, up towards the surface.
Her hair swirled around him, her sure strokes brought them closer and closer to shore. He hadn’t blacked out in the dream like he had in real life. When he’d opened his eyes, it was not Chelsea’s face staring down at him. It wasn’t Maren’s either, but an odd mix of the two, a new woman created from both their features.
Owen swiped a hand over his face. His fingers burned as they hit the fresh growth of stubble on his jawline. It’s just everything that’s happened lately. Chelsea. The divorce. Now Maren. It was all in my dream.
He could tell himself that it was just a dream, just his subconscious playing tricks on him, but he couldn’t fully deny the strange pull he felt towards Maren.
That afternoon, sitting on the beach with her, she’d opened up about the darkest, most painful parts of her life. She told him as though she was talking to an old friend who just didn’t know. She told him as though she trusted him, even though she had no reason to. He fell into it like one falls into an old t-shirt or a comfortable pair of shoes. You just knew that it would fit just right long before you pulled them on.
Restless, his energy bundled up inside of him, ready to burst, Owen slid out of bed. He happily stripped off his soaking wet t-shirt and damp boxers and exchanged them for a fresh pair out of the suitcase he’d set on the antique settee in the far corner of the room.
His room overlooked the backyard and the beach. There were no blinds on the windows, just gauzy curtains. The window was closed, and he decided to give it a yank. It went without resistance and he was surprised until he realized that it was new. The tangy saltwater air assaulted his nose immediately. The breeze wasn’t strong or lax, it fell somewhere in the middle. The curtains fluttered prettily at the window, like gauzy ghosts.
The moon was nearly full. It danced and shimmered over the water, creating silvery streaks and an ever-moving trail.
He stayed that way at the window, transfixed, staring out at the dark waters, almost unseeing, for so long that he nearly started when the waters moved and a lithe figure crested the surface. Was she there all along? Did I miss her?
Even in the dark, with the water changing her hair color, darkening it, he could tell that the figure was Maren. He watched, unable to tear his eyes away, as she stroked through the gentle waves. She swam without purpose or care, with no specific pattern.
My grandma used to say I was half fish.
Her earlier words rang through his head. She was like a fish. She swam with effortless grace. She never seemed to tire or flag. Sometimes her head dipped below the surface and he was astounded at how long she could hold her breath.
It felt like hours that he watched her. It might have been, or it might have been minutes. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t move. She was spellbinding, magical, utterly captivating and enchanting, as though she truly had been born from the sea itself.
When Maren finally stood in the black, inky waters, the moonlight hit her, illuminating her hair. It curved over the tender outlines of her pixie-like face and dappled her alabaster shoulders.
He wasn’t proud that when she started walking through that black water, parting it easily, he didn’t look away. Even when he realized she wasn’t wearing anything at all.
Of course, she’d swim nude, without the encumbrance of anything on. It made the most sense, given that he felt like he was witnessing the birth or magic of some sea sprite and not a human woman at all.
The waters parted and swirled, receding to her waist and then to her knees, her ankles. She stepped out onto the sand.
Owen waited, breath caught somewhere between throat and lungs. Droplets of water sluiced off her hair, off her shoulders, her breasts. Her pink nipples stood out in the moonlight as the chill of the night breeze blew over her damp skin. Thankfully, she turned, lifting her arms over her head, raising them as though saluting the moon or some unseen force, before they dropped back to her sides. The slope of her hips and the round swells of her bottom were hidden by her wet hair. Damp, it was far longer than waist length.
He finally tore his eyes away, aware that he’d been rudely gawking. He hadn’t appreciated her body sexually. No, it had been far too otherworldly a sight for that exactly
When he looked back a moment later, Maren had already donned her maxi dress from earlier. She was bent slightly to the side, her hair gathered up in both hands, twisting it to get the water out of the long red strands.
Now that she was dressed, covered, protected from his gaze, his body reacted viscerally, as any male would. His blood surged, pounding in his ears. His cock stiffened, punching at his tight boxers. God, it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. He and Chelsea hadn’t had a proper marriage even for the year before she cheated on him. He wasn’t even sure, exactly, how long it had been since he felt truly connected to another person in a physical way. Had he ever felt that way with Chelsea?
He’d found her beautiful, as soon as he met her, days before the morning she’d pulled him from the water. After she’d saved his life, he knew that was it. He’d never wanted to be married, but he knew he wanted Chelsea as his wife. He loved her instantly, from the moment he opened his eyes and found her face hovering over him, soaking wet, water bead
ing the ends of her hair, eyes wild with fear. She’d smiled, when he’d taken that first choking breath, laughed triumphantly after, wrapped his shoulders in her arms and turned him onto his side so he could retch up the water he’d taken on.
She’d been so tender, so kind. Maren had been there too, a few feet away. She was soaking wet, he remembered, her hair plastered all over her body, sitting on the sand, staring out at the water. As Chelsea helped him to his feet, their eyes met briefly, but she looked away, back at the horizon. Her lips pressed into a thin hard line and he recalled watching a visible shiver rock her sodden frame.
And then Chelsea had steered him away, exhausted, back up to the bed and breakfast, her energy unflagging even after the hard swim out to reach him, after pulling him back to shore.
Owen stumbled away from the window, back to bed. He peeled back the sheet and the light comforter, oddly disturbed, as though something wasn’t right about that day.
He shook his head. If anything wasn’t right, it was that he’d married a woman he hardly knew on the basis that she’d saved his life. He’d hoped that was enough of a connection to hold them through the years, through the struggles, but it wasn’t. He’d married a stranger and found out the hard way just how much it hurt when the person he loved wasn’t who he thought she was.
Chelsea had a past. One he knew nothing about until Maren told him on the beach. She had a past just like the rest of them. It now made sense why she couldn’t settle down with him. Maybe she never had meant to hurt him.
It was a comforting thought, one Owen clung to until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Maren
The first thing Maren noticed the next morning when Owen emerged in the kitchen just after nine, was that he had deep black smudges under his eyes. He was dressed, more casually that she guessed he usually was, in dark green khaki shorts and a black t-shirt which was tighter and more fitted to his muscular frame than she would have liked it to be. He hadn’t shaved, and dark stubble stood out on his jaw. His eyes were bleary, red-rimmed, as though he’d slept little.
“Good morning,” she said, trying to keep her voice from being overly cheerful since she figured it would be abrasive and annoying if he truly hadn’t slept well. “You look like you could use a cup of coffee.”
“Or several,” he said sardonically. He made an attempt at a wayward grin and though it was awkward and forced, it was still far too dazzling.
Maren’s gaze flew down to her hands, which were busy cutting up peppers, mushrooms and onions for an omelet. She already had the coffee brewing. Being raised in the bed and breakfast meant that she’d become sensitive to anticipating the needs of her guests. As soon as she heard footsteps in the room above, she’d put the coffee on. Not sooner, so that it would grow bitter and cold, or too late, so that she had to scramble to do it and he had to wait.
She left her half-cut vegetables, washed her hands in front of the white farmhouse sink, and brought down two mugs out of the cupboard.
“How do you take your coffee? I know you said black yesterday, but I thought that might have been because you needed it that way then.”
She sensed his smile in his voice. “Maybe a touch of cream if you have it.”
“It just so happens, I do.” She always had cream. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but she didn’t truly care. She felt good that morning. Better than she had in months. Though the same worries were still heavy on her shoulders and early that morning there had been a phone call from creditors. But she refused to let stress get the best of her.
Owen took a seat at the island. The kitchen wasn’t huge, but it was big enough for an L-shaped row of cabinets, a large fridge, a gas stove, a huge sink and a massive island. She would have preferred to serve breakfast in the dining room where it was supposed to be, with an actual table and fancy settings, antique paintings and a chandelier, but if Owen wanted to make himself comfortable, she supposed that was alright, given that he was her only guest.
She set his coffee down in front of him. He reached for it automatically and took a long pull. “That’s really good.”
“Yah. Thanks. I get it from the farmer’s market. It’s not exactly local, but it’s fair trade. It’s more expensive, but I think it’s worth it. Plus, I use less, so I guess it all evens out.”
“A farmer’s market? That sounds interesting.”
She couldn’t tell if he was just trying to be polite or not. “It’s actually on this afternoon. It’s pretty good. Most of Monterey comes out, or at least it feels like that.” She resumed cutting up the vegetables for the omelet.
“And you usually go?”
“Yah, I usually do. I get a lot of the things I use here from there. I try and support local businesses as much as possible. My grandma used to take me out all the time. It was something we loved doing. That and thrift stores. My grandma was a bit of a treasure hunter.” Maren was surprised at how her easy laugh filled the kitchen. It wasn’t tinged at all with sadness, like most of her memories were, at the woman who no longer filled up her life.
“That sounds… really nice.” Owen sipped his coffee and she chanced a glance at him. He was looking down, studying the nearly full cup.
“Sorry. Maybe that’s awkward.”
“No.” He looked up then and his eyes met hers. She felt his gaze like a shiver rooted deep inside her stomach. Her hands tingled and she gripped the paring knife a little tighter to keep from dropping it.
“I’m going around one. You’re welcome to come if you want, though you’ll have to put up with Hettie and I gawking over everything. We aren’t fast shoppers, I warn you.”
“Who is Hettie?”
“My neighbor. She was my grandma’s best friend. She’s kind of like a second grandmother. We’re really close, even though we’re so far apart in age. I kind of feel like ever since I’ve truly become an adult, that she’s been less like a grandma and more like a best friend.”
“I get that.” Owen looked wistfully towards the window and Maren glanced away, a little disappointed that she couldn’t read what he was thinking or feeling. He looked somewhat lost, as though he had no one he could truly trust.
Maren cracked eggs from the waiting carton into a bowl. She added a little milk then whisked hard. Salt and pepper were next and then her cut up vegetables were added to the mix. She walked over to the stove, turned the front burner on and placed the cast iron frying pan over the open flame.
“Do you… what is your family like?” She didn’t turn around but wished she could take back the words, as they sounded intrusive, far too personal. She almost thought he wasn’t going to answer her and then he spoke.
“My parents are very wealthy. I was their only child. I was raised mostly in private schools then packed off to university as soon as I graduated. I had to take business since that was the only appropriate avenue of study other than law or something. I went to an Ivy League school. My mom never really worked. I don’t even know what she did all day. When I was young, I had nannies. My dad was never home. He made his fortune in overseas investments. He was always busy.” Owen coughed. “I really didn’t understand until I was much older, what busy meant. He was always having affairs. My mom probably was too. I don’t even know why they stayed married. It was just a sham. They came from money, both of them. My grandparents, both sets, had passed away before I ever knew them. I guess that’s how they were raised, to keep up pretenses, to save face. It wasn’t my thing. I swore I’d never go down that road. I never wanted to be married. I buried myself in business and I became very successful. I haven’t seen my parents in a very long time. Although my mom did write me- actually write, expressing her condolences and her disappointment when I got a divorce.”
“Jesus.” Maren definitely wished she hadn’t asked. She busied herself pouring the first omelet into the pan and watching it so it didn’t burn.
“Sorry. Maybe that was too much.”
She spun, flipper in hand, to find Owe
n studying her. Something about his intent gaze made her feel flustered or flushed. She wasn’t sure which.
“No. It’s fine. I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to pry.”
“You told me about your family yesterday. It’s only fair.”
Maren swallowed hard. She half turned, keeping a wary gaze on Owen and the omelet at the same time. “My grandma and I never had a lot of money. We got by fine, but we weren’t rich or well off or anything. If we didn’t have guests, things could get pretty tenuous, but we were always so happy. Chelsea said that to me once. That she envied the love in this house more than anything.”
“That makes sense.” Owen sighed heavily. “That was the one thing I always missed growing up. It’s hard to feel loved by parents who don’t want you around. I was just the product of them doing their duty. After me, they never had any more kids. They probably never even looked at each other again.”
“I’m… sorry.” What the hell am I supposed to say to that. She flipped the omelet, her throat achingly dry, her entire body rigid with discomfort.
When she placed Owen’s plate in front of him he shrugged, as though to say he didn’t truly mind talking about it. For him, the past was just the past, like it was for her. It was just a repeating of facts that still stung a little, but it was, for the most part, therapeutic, a relief to finally get it out there, to tell someone who didn’t know where she had come from, to prove, even in a small way, that her start in life didn’t define her. Rather, she looked on it happily, as a gift of love, the reason she was who she was.
Maren quickly whipped up her own omelet. She wasn’t sure if she should pull out the stool beside Owen, which seemed far too familiar, but she eventually settled for it. She set her plate down with a dull thud.
“Is this alright? Eating with you?”
“Of course.” Owen’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “I think we’re a little beyond the business side of things. You know, after all that’s happened.”