Beyond the Tides

by Liz Johnson

  The memory washed over him like an icy shower, sending goose bumps down his arms and a shiver down his spine. The whole house had smelled like chicken and dumplings when he returned from mowing Benjamin Kirsley’s back pasture. But when he stepped into the kitchen, he saw dinner splashed across the counters and cabinets. His mom cowered in front of the sink, her apron twisted and soiled, and his dad stood in the middle of the room, his hand raised.

  “I don’t know if he’d hit my mom before—she swears it was the first time, the only time. But by the time I walked in on them that day, her cheek was already red. His lips were twisted. There was this evil inside him. Later, after, I found out that my mom had confronted him about drinking and gambling away their savings. And he was well beyond tipsy that day. But in the moment, I just knew I had to protect my mom. I’d never been in a fight before—you know, nothing more than scrapes with my brothers—but I shoved him, and his fist landed on my cheek so hard I thought I’d lose a molar.”

  He patted the cheek that had borne the scar, the eye that had swelled closed for days. “I missed a week of school afterward, but that day, I refused to go down. I hit him back as hard as I could over and over. Once he was down, he stayed down. Too drunk to stand back up. And then I dragged him outside, kicked his feet, and told him we’d be better off without him. I told him to never come back. The next morning all of his things were gone.”

  Letting out a tight sigh between his lips, he snuck a glance at Meg. She hadn’t moved, but the moonlight turned the single tear track on her face to silver.

  He brushed the streak away with his thumb, her skin like butter. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “No.” She sniffled and rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I didn’t know.”

  “No one did. I didn’t want anyone to. My dad was every bit the miscreant that Druthers called him, but I did everything I could to keep the rest of the island from knowing it.”

  “But you did such a good thing for your mom.”

  He grunted. “Maybe. But it wasn’t enough.”

  “You saved her.”

  “No. I left her—I left us—broke and in debt and . . .” His mouth opened, but it was dry and void of the words he wanted.

  “That’s not on you. You didn’t do that.”

  “But I did.”

  Dear Lord.

  The words were spilling out faster than he wanted them to. If only he could scoop them up and put them back into the hole in his chest where they’d come from. But now those empty spaces had filled with more words, more memories, more confessions. They knew that under this moonlight was a safe place to be laid bare. And oh, how they’d craved the light.

  “I remember so clearly the day that we had to leave our house. Mom was crying but trying to hide it. Levi and I packed everything we owned into big black trash bags. He wanted to pack up Eli’s stuff, and I told him to leave it because we were never going to see him again. He had left a couple weeks before. He’d been offered a tryout with a team that feeds into the Rangers, and it was his chance at the NHL. But we needed him. We were barely scraping by, and I told him we needed him to stay. He told me he was just going to go for the tryout.” Oliver bent his head and scratched the top of it. “I yelled at him that if he was going, he might as well never come back, because I would never forgive him and we would be better off without him.”

  “Oh, Oliver. I don’t even . . . What did your mom say?”

  He let his chin fall forward, his shoulders hunching against a knot deep in his chest. But if he kept pulling at it, maybe the ache would ease. He didn’t have to go all the way. He didn’t have to tell her that he still wondered what Whitaker would think if he knew. He didn’t have to put a doubt in her mind that he was worthy and deserving of the business.

  “My mom doesn’t know. She just knows he never came back, never got in touch. He followed his dream and left us to pack up our lives into . . . well, trash bags.”

  “But where did you go? I mean, I don’t think anyone at school even knew.”

  “I certainly didn’t go spreading it around. And by that point Levi was talking to exactly two people on the face of the planet—my mom and me. One of Mom’s friends let us stay in her basement. It was fully finished—a studio apartment. When we got there, your mom was there.”

  Meg sat up like a shot, pulling away her warmth and leaving only the cold night air. Her question required no words.

  “She had a bag of groceries for us and some homemade bread. She didn’t say much except for us to let her know if we needed anything. Then she kissed my cheek and hugged my mom and squeezed Levi’s hand. And the next day I broke your robot.”

  Meg wanted to hold Oliver, this big, hunched shadow of a man beside her. She wanted to cry for him some more. And mostly she wanted to erase all of those terrible memories for him.

  Since the last was impossible, she threw her arms around his shoulders and pressed her face into his neck. He smelled of salt water and lavender lotion, and she couldn’t help but smile at the contradiction.

  He slowly wrapped an arm around her waist. “Did you hear what I said? That’s why I broke your robot.”

  She rolled her eyes even though he couldn’t see them and spoke into the point where his neck met his shoulder. “I know. But if I’d been through all of that, I’d have broken my robot.”

  He held her tighter, pulling her closer, even though there was no space between them. “I doubt it. But I appreciate the thought all the same.”

  She had no more words after that, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t seem to let go. Pressing her face deeper into him, she savored the texture of his skin. It was somehow equally soft and weathered and scratchy where his beard started. But even that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just a new sensation.

  But that close, Meg knew the moment that he froze. Every muscle in him turned to stone, and even the rise and fall of his shoulders vanished for a split second.

  Because of her.

  The truth slammed into her, making her stomach drop through the bottom of the boat. What was she doing? They were just becoming friends.

  No, that wasn’t quite right. New friends didn’t share family secrets or pour out their fears.

  They were confidants. Secret safes. They were . . .

  And then she couldn’t think anymore about how to define their relationship, because his long fingers—slow and tentative—brushed up her spine, firing every nerve and setting her alight. His touch was gentle, but not even the extra sweatshirt she wore could hinder its warmth.

  When he made it to her neck, he brushed her hair back, the very tips of his fingers sliding over her flying pulse and across her jawline. His hands, so big, moved with such grace.

  All she could hear was the thundering of her own heart. She knew what was going to happen next. She knew he was going to urge her to look at him. She just wasn’t sure she could do it without falling apart.

  His thumb ran the rim of her ear, pressing lightly just below the lobe and making her chest flutter. Pinching her eyes closed, she managed a stuttered breath.

  “Meg?” The question in his voice rang through her. She had no answer for it.

  But she could be brave. Pulling back just far enough to be able to look into his face, she met his shy smile with one of her own. Sucking in her bottom lip, she tilted her head and shrugged.

  The moonlight over his face illuminated the shadows of his long dimples, his gaze so deep she was sure he could see all the way into her soul. And she let him look, staring back into his eyes. She’d long since memorized their color—the blue of the sky early in the morning, just before the sun broke the horizon—and she pretended for just a moment that she could really see them.

  Reaching up, she brushed his hair from his forehead. Shaggy and dark as night. But soft and thick too. When she tucked it behind his ear, she remembered why he kept it long. His ears stuck out, cute and boyish.

  She took her time running her fingers over his cheek, brushing his sh
ort whiskers, and curling into him.

  All of a sudden, his hand braced around her wrist, and her gaze shot toward the place where his fingers met her skin. He held her gently, and she was quite sure he’d release her if she pulled away even a little bit. She didn’t.

  With his other hand, he swiped the line of her lower lip. Slow. Soft. Better than any kiss she’d ever had.

  Leaning in, she turned up her face, closed her eyes, and prayed, Lord, let him kiss me.

  Suddenly a light so bright it made her see white behind her eyelids flashed across the sky. Earth-shaking thunder followed only a split second later.

  Before Meg could even get her eyes open, Oliver had hopped to his feet and pulled her with him. Pointing south toward a cloud of gray that seemed to connect the heavens and the earth, he said, “Look at that rain.” Another flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky. “Come on. We should get out of here.”

  She took a step only to discover the boat was rocking side to side, the waves already picking up. Out of habit, she reached for the patch behind her ear. Still there. But it wasn’t enough to keep her stomach from sloshing with the motion of the boat.

  “I’m going to be sick,” she moaned.

  But then she was weightless, Oliver’s arms about her as he carried her to the ladder, where he pushed her up to the dock. He followed right behind her.

  “You okay?” He tucked her hair behind her ear, only to have the wind whip it free and back across her face.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” She cringed at the thought of getting back on the boat in a few hours. “Guess I better double up on my patch for the morning.”

  He shook his head. “Sleep in. This storm is coming in hard and strong. No one will be fishing in the morning.”

  Had anyone ever said such sweet words?

  “All right. But . . . what are we going to do?”

  He got close and whispered in her ear, “I’m going to sleep in too.”

  She playfully pushed his arm. “No, I mean what are we going to do about watching the boat?”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and lifted his shoulders high, staring out at the coming storm. His hair danced around his face as his lips pursed to the side. “Maybe it’s time to move on. Let it go. We haven’t had any trouble since that one line, and no one is interested in telling me anything. If it’s about my dad, then maybe whoever’s behind it feels like the debt has been repaid.”

  Oh, thank the good Lord.

  Sleep. Precious sleep.

  “Besides, there are other parts of the business we should be looking at—like the books.”

  Right. Of course. Because this was a business, and it had to make money to stay afloat—literally. She’d kind of forgotten that. Between learning how to fish and when to fish and where to fish and, well, Oliver, she hadn’t thought too much about it.

  “Yes. I’ll do my part. Just . . . where are the books?”

  “I’m going to the studio. Will you be here for supper?”

  Oliver looked up from the accounting ledger spread out on the kitchen table before him. Mama Potts stood next to the counter, gathering her bag and apron, her jeans covered in colorful glazes. His eyes darted toward the window over the sink and the gray clouds sweeping across the sky. They had finally cleared away after two and a half days of pouring rain—three days without any income.

  “Sure.” He didn’t have anywhere else to go. At least nowhere else he wanted to be.

  His mom kissed his forehead. “Close these books and try to get into some trouble today. You’ve been so serious lately.” With that, she disappeared out the kitchen door, slamming it closed behind her.

  That was his mom’s way of saying he’d been grumpy. And he had been, so he’d tried to keep to his apartment. But since he didn’t have a table there where he could spread out the books and compare this year’s numbers with last year’s, he’d set up at his mom’s kitchen table, trying to get his mind off of what had happened. More accurately, what hadn’t happened.

  It hadn’t worked very well. Every time he closed his eyes—even to blink—he saw her face, saw her full lips. His fingers could still feel the silk of her skin, the way the muscles in her throat worked when she swallowed. And every breeze seemed to carry the smell of her shampoo.

  He’d opened the books to try to be productive. But all he’d done was miss Meg Whitaker. He hadn’t seen her in two days.

  Maybe that was a good thing, because when he did see her, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop from picking up right where they’d left off. She’d felt so good in his arms, the perfect fit, all softness and strength. And if he’d just moved a minute faster . . . but he hadn’t wanted to. He’d savored every moment, every step closer.

  Oh, they’d been so close.

  What if he’d scared her off? What if all the things he’d confessed sunk in and she realized she was too good for him? He’d walked her home that night. He should have kissed her then. Given her a taste of what could be between them. He was pretty sure there was something.

  He slammed a fist against the table. Stupid.

  A deep chuckle behind him caught him off guard.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked. “Isn’t this usually your roosting time?”

  Levi shuffled from the stairs to the table, his white socks flopping at the toes and nearly falling off. His black hair a wild mess, he rubbed his eyes. “Mom say something about supper?”

  Oliver kicked his brother’s foot. “It’s barely noon.”

  Leaning crossed arms on the table, Levi nodded at the ledger. “Not good?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Over the years, Oliver had learned to read Levi’s expressions. If he hadn’t, they never would have talked. The one on his face now asked a question he didn’t really want to answer. Then again, there were bonuses to having a brother who barely spoke. He wouldn’t repeat what he heard.

  “I may have almost kissed Meg the other night.”

  A smirk said he’d caught Levi’s attention.

  “Yes, Meg Whitaker. We were on the boat, and I don’t know what happened, but I told her. Everything.”

  Levi raised his eyebrows, his forehead wrinkling.

  “Yep. Told her about Dad leaving and Eli splitting and those stupid black trash bags.”

  A line formed above Levi’s nose, and he rubbed at it.

  “I guess . . . I thought . . . I don’t know. It felt good to tell someone else. You know.”

  Levi let out a snort.

  “Okay, maybe you don’t know. But to a normal human being who’s been carrying secrets for a long time, it was nice to just—it felt like I didn’t have to carry it alone. Like she was willing to carry some of it with me.” Oliver looked into his brother’s face, which was twisted with confusion.

  “You know she wants the same business you do.”

  Yes. He knew. He’d reminded himself of that over and over.

  Levi took a breath. “You’re never going to get both her and the boat.”

  That felt like a bee sting. Levi was right. There was no way he could win the boat and the girl at the same time. If Whitaker chose him, she’d hate him again for taking away the only part of her family not falling apart.

  But if Whitaker chose her, Oliver would have nothing to offer. And there was no way he could work for someone he just wanted to kiss. She might not even deign to hire him.

  The best outcome he could hope for was a boat and a fishing business. But was that enough?

  “This isn’t going to end well, is it?”

  Levi chuckled and popped him on the back as he stood up. “Nope.”

  Oliver rested his elbows on the table and his face in his hands and called himself every kind of fool. Because he was.

  He knew it for sure when his phone rang and Meg’s name flashed across the screen.

  “Hey, Meg. Ready to look at the books?”

  “No.” She laughed, the sound sweeter than the icing on a cinnamon roll. “I mean, I do want to look
at them with you. But that’s not why I called.”

  “Oh?” Hope bubbled in his chest, and he tried to keep it under control with a deep breath.

  “I was thinking about what you said.”

  Well, that was an ominous start. He’d said a lot of things over the last month. Some he was proud of. Others might make her run screaming. But he bit his tongue to keep from blurting out a preemptive apology.

  “About my mom. About making memories with her while I can.” Her voice grew thick, but she powered on. “I had this idea. She’s always liked the beach, and I wanted to take her. After all this rain, it’ll be clean and beautiful.”

  “That sounds like a great idea. I’m sure she’ll love it.”

  “It’s just that . . . she’s not very stable, and I’d rather not ask my dad. It would be nice to make a memory just with her.” She paused for a second. “I was wondering—that is, if you’re not busy—would you like to go with us?”

  He was every kind of fool.

  seventeen

  Meg opened the passenger door to Oliver’s truck and turned to help her mom onto the bench seat. But Oliver was already there, picking her up by the waist and sliding her gently to just this side of the gearshift.

  Her mom patted his cheek and offered a half smile. Meg moved to crawl up after her, and Oliver slipped his hands around her waist, boosting her in too. He winked at her as he closed them in. He was around the front of the truck and behind the steering wheel before she could get her mom buckled in.

  When Oliver turned the key, the old truck rumbled to life, grumbling about being awakened.

  Only then did her mom begin to look around, her hand grabbing Meg’s thigh. “Where are we going?”

  “It’s okay, Mom. We’re going to the beach. Remember? To splash in the ocean.”

  “Where’s Walt?”

  Meg grabbed her hand and held it firmly. “He’s at home.” They’d left him sitting down with the latest spy thriller from his favorite author just a few moments before. He’d kissed his wife’s cheek and then let Meg lead her out the door.