by Linda Seed
He pulled his kayak toward the water, the way she’d told him to do. He climbed in, grabbed his paddle, and began pushing the boat toward the water. So far so good. But things started going sideways—literally—as soon as he had a little bit of ocean water under him. The kayak had barely lifted off the sand before the bow started moving to the left, positioning the kayak parallel to, rather than perpendicular to, the waterline.
A wave—thankfully, just a small one—smacked into the kayak, knocking it onto its side so that Patrick was lying in the wet sand, a glob of it in his left ear.
“Whoopsy daisy!” Sofia shoved both him and the boat upright again. Up to her shins in the water, she grabbed the bow and pulled it straight, then gave it a yank into the water and got deftly out of the way.
“Paddle!” she yelled to him. “Paddle hard!”
He did, gamely trying to power past the child-size breakers, reassuring himself that he was up to the challenge. The rest of the group sat in their kayaks about fifty yards away, yelling encouragement.
“You’ve got it! You’ve got it!” Ramon hollered.
For a moment, he truly believed that he did. He got over a wave, his kayak still pointing true. He paddled manfully, rising with the swell of the surf, his heart full of thrill and pride. Why had he been so worried? What had there been to fear? He was doing it, truly doing it, just a man and the sea, like Hemingway and like so many self-actualized men before him.
Patrick imagined this as the beginning of a new, more outdoorsy period in his life. He’d fish. He’d hike. He’d … climb a mountain, maybe. What would stop him?
He was still fantasizing about the better, future him when the kayak began to turn sideways again with a wave—small but mighty—coming at him. He paddled furiously, trying to right his tiny boat before it was too late.
“Straighten the bow!” Sofia yelled from shore.
He’d just about convinced himself that he had it when the wave smacked into him, lifting him up and depositing him head-down into the water, the kayak on top of him. His head slammed into the side of his oar, and the world swirled to black.
“Oh, shit!” Sofia rushed out into the water after him. She had never lost a tourist—not yet, anyway. But there was a first time for everything.
She wouldn’t have thought a full-grown adult could drown while wearing a life jacket in less than a foot of water, but the guy seemed determined to do just that.
He wasn’t getting up—wasn’t moving at all, in fact. She grabbed his life jacket and used it to drag him out of the water and onto the sand. The guy was heavier than he looked, but a surge of horror and adrenaline gave Sofia near supernatural powers.
Was he conscious? He didn’t seem to be. She leaned her cheek down over his nose and mouth and felt the whisper of steady breathing on her skin.
A middle-aged guy in madras shorts and a straw hat had come over to see if he could help, and he was now calling 911 on his cell phone. Her kayakers were paddling back in to assess the situation.
The guy on the sand had a pulse, and he was breathing, so there was no need for CPR. Still, she’d feel a hell of a lot better when the ambulance got here.
“Sir?” She spoke loudly in the hopes that it might rouse him to consciousness. “Sir!”
The guy’s friend had made it to shore. He hauled his kayak onto the sand and ran over, looking scared.
“What’s his name?” Sofia asked.
“Patrick. Patrick Connelly.”
“Patrick!” Sofia yelled at the man on the sand. “Patrick! Can you hear me?”
Patrick woke up certain that he was dead. He had to be, because there was an angel standing over him.
Sofia was so beautiful with the sun behind her, creating a golden halo around her head. Those eyes, and her lips …
But he couldn’t actually be dead, because his head was killing him. He had to assume that when someone was dead, pain ceased. But then, there was the whole Judeo-Christian concept of Hell and eternal suffering, so maybe—
“He’s awake!” Ramon announced, and some of the others whooped and cheered.
“Oh, thank God.” Sofia made the sign of the cross over her wetsuit-clad body.
That body.
It was something to be thankful for, indeed.
3
Patrick tried to protest that an ambulance ride to the hospital was unnecessary, but the paramedics persuaded him to go along with it. He’d lost consciousness—however briefly—and that wasn’t something to take lightly.
It was better to be safe than to ignore a traumatic brain injury.
So he let them strap him onto a gurney and load him into the back of the ambulance while he tried to look brave for Sofia’s benefit. It was bad enough that she’d seen him get creamed by a wave not much taller than a toddler; he didn't need her to think he would fall apart at the first hint of pain.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said to one of the paramedics, speaking loudly and clearly so that Sofia might hear him from where she stood outside the rig.
“Yeah, well, you never know,” said the paramedic, an older guy with a balding head and a slight paunch. “One time I responded to a call for a guy who hit his head on a doorframe. No blood, no bump, no LOC—nothing.”
Patrick surmised that LOC meant loss of consciousness, a piece of information he’d gleaned from watching medical TV shows. “So, what happened?” he asked.
“Buddy of mine at the hospital said the guy came in two days later with a brain hemorrhage. Died in the ER.” He shook his head. “You don’t mess with a head injury.”
Patrick decided that a trip to the hospital wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Sofia wasn’t sure what to do, as this had never happened to her before. Patrick Connolly was the first of her clients ever to be hauled off in an ambulance under her watch.
On one hand, she felt responsible for him. She’d been the one to put him in danger, after all, and had also been the one who’d likely saved his life. On the other hand, she had six other paying clients—five, after Patrick’s friend opted to follow the ambulance in his truck—who hadn’t had their tour.
Everybody was gathered on the beach, looking to her for guidance. She was shaken by what had happened, and she was worried about Patrick. He’d seemed so vulnerable lying there on the sand, his life in Sofia’s hands.
She opted to compensate her clients—rain checks for two of them and refunds for the rest—gather up her stuff, and head to the hospital in Templeton to make sure Patrick was okay.
She didn’t know if he had any family or anyone other than the guy he’d come with. He was her responsibility. And even if he hadn’t been, she couldn’t relax or concentrate on anything until she knew he was okay.
Patrick went through a CT scan, a physical exam, endless questioning about what day it was and whether he knew his name, and several bouts of waiting so interminable that he almost wished his condition were worse just to move things along.
During one of the waits, after the CT scan but before anyone had told him the results, a nurse poked her head through a break in the curtain that had been drawn around his bed for privacy.
“That girl is still out there waiting,” she said, as though they’d already discussed this and Patrick was supposed to know who she was talking about. “Do you want me to send her back?”
“What girl?” Ramon had wandered off to the cafeteria, and Patrick couldn’t imagine who else might have come. His sister? She wouldn’t have been able to make it here from Michigan by now, even if someone had called her. His mother? Surely she would have been described as a woman rather than a girl.
“Long, dark hair. Tall. Pretty. Says she’s the one who pulled you out of the water. Is she your girlfriend?”
Sofia was here?
A riot of conflicting emotions swirled inside him. He was delighted that she’d cared enough to come and also that she was, even now, in his immediate vicinity. But the delight was overwhelmed by his state of humiliation. He’d proven himsel
f to be disastrously inadequate at kayaking. And he was currently lying in a hospital bed wearing a thin paper gown that, should he stand up, would show a three-inch strip of his boxer shorts.
He was still pondering what to tell the nurse about Sofia when Ramon came back, his hands full of Doritos, Snickers bars, and Ho Hos from the vending machine.
“Hey, Patrick, your kayak babe is out there in the waiting room. You want me to get her, bring her back here? This is your big chance to play the sympathy card. Because, and I say this with all due respect, that’s the only way you’re gonna get anywhere with her.”
Ramon might be right. It might take a head injury and a near drowning for her to view him as anything other than a client. But he couldn’t let her come back here. He couldn’t lose whatever masculine dignity he had left.
“Can you get rid of her for me?” he asked.
“Get rid of her?” Ramon looked at him like he was crazy. “What for?”
Patrick put all of his cards on the metaphorical table. “Look at me. Look at this hospital gown. The nurse called me sweetie and offered to help me walk to the toilet. This is not how I want Sofia to see me.”
Ramon considered that. “You have a point.”
“Can you just … just thank her for coming and tell her I’m okay? Tell her everything’s under control. Then send her home or back to the beach or … somewhere. Anywhere.”
“All right. I’m on it.” Ramon parted the curtain and turned back toward Patrick. “Before I go, you want some Ho Hos?”
All she could think was that maybe he was angry, somehow blaming her for causing the accident. Did he think she was negligent? Was he planning to sue?
He’d signed a release of liability before she’d taken him onto the water—all of her clients did—so that would be some protection. But that kind of thing was never one hundred percent. He could argue that the terms of the release hadn’t been made clear. He could argue that she’d failed to perform on her end of things. He could claim that her equipment was faulty, that the life jacket had failed …
None of that would be fair, but when had life gotten a reputation for fairness?
She was worried about all of that, yes. But that wasn’t the only thing on her mind as she rode her bike home from the hospital, having failed to see or speak to Patrick. She was concerned that he might really be hurt. She’d have felt so much better if she’d been able to see for herself that he was recovering from his accident.
Sofia got home earlier than usual, just after noon, because she’d called everyone and canceled her afternoon tour. Martina, who worked from home as an interior designer, was making a cup of tea in the kitchen when Sofia came in, dumping her things on the sofa.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were taking a group out this afternoon.”
“I was. I canceled.” She plopped down onto a barstool at the kitchen island, suddenly exhausted.
“You did? But—”
“One of the guys in the morning group almost died, and I went to the hospital to make sure he was okay. So, that happened.”
“That’s awful.” Martina’s eyes were wide. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”
Martina should have been British instead of Italian. The woman thought anything could be cured with a hot cup of tea. Sofia had less confidence in tea’s curative powers, but it was nice to have someone fussing over her.
She covered her face with her hands, let out a moan, then scrubbed at her eyelids with her fingertips. “He wasn’t even past the breakers. A two-foot wave dumped him upside down, and splat.” She shook her head in disbelief. “He was lying there like he was dead. I thought he was dead.”
Martina deposited a steaming mug of tea in front of her sister. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. I pulled him out of the water, and some guy on the beach called 911. He was conscious by the time they took him away. I followed him to the hospital, just to make sure, but his friend sent me away.”
Martina was leaning on her elbows on the island. “He sent you away?”
“Yes. Which makes me wonder if I’m about to get sued and we’re all about to be living in a cardboard box.”
“Oh, I doubt it.” Martina, always the most optimistic of the sisters, waved away the idea. “After all, you’re the one who rescued him.”
Sofia sipped her tea. It did make her feel a little better.
“I hope he’s okay.” She held the mug in both of her hands for comfort. “He was … cute.”
“Really,” Martina said. “How cute?”
Sofia pondered the question. “You know how some guys just seem like any other guy, and then something happens and you can see exactly what they must have been like when they were five, or ten, and it makes you want to bring them home and stroke their forehead and make it all better?”
“Yeah.” Martina’s voice was dreamy.
Sofia pointed a finger gun at her. “He was exactly that kind of cute.”
“Well … sounds like he needs someone to make it all better. Maybe you’ll still get your chance.”
4
As it turned out, Patrick did have a concussion, but it was mild, and his brain wasn’t bleeding—though there was some debate as to whether his brain had been functioning properly in the first place, given that he’d gone kayaking with no water skills whatsoever.
They’d kept him in the hospital overnight for observation, then sent him home with a headache, a bump on the top of his head, and a much more significant wound to his manly pride.
Ramon drove him home because he’d arrived by ambulance and didn’t have his car. The fact that it was Saturday added insult to literal injury—he didn’t even have an excuse to cancel his classes.
He said goodbye to Ramon, let himself into the one-bedroom guesthouse he rented in Cambria’s Leimert neighborhood, and went into the tiny bathroom to take a long, hot shower.
Staying in the hospital overnight could make a person feel grimy enough, but Patrick had never had a chance to get clean after his close encounter with the sand at San Simeon. His hair still had grit in it, and he shampooed it gingerly, taking care to avoid the painful bump on his head.
He’d just come out of the shower, his hair still wet, a towel still wrapped around his waist, when his cell phone rang. He picked up the phone from the coffee table and checked the screen: an unknown number with a local area code.
He didn’t know who he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t Sofia Russo. As soon as she identified herself, he felt a giddy surge of adrenaline.
She was saying something, but the buzz of nerves in his brain blocked part of it out, and all he heard was, “… to make sure you’re okay.”
“Oh. Uh … that’s nice of you.” For some reason, that was all he could get out.
“So, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Are you okay?”
He reminded himself to take a deep breath and quiet his mind. Then he focused on the simple, attainable goal of being coherent.
“Yes. I’m fine, thanks. A little bit of a headache, but they say that’s to be expected. They kept me at the hospital overnight, but I’m home now.”
There. That wasn’t so hard.
“Good. I’m glad.”
He wondered for a moment how she’d gotten his number, then he realized that was a stupid question—he’d given it to her when he’d signed up for the kayak tour. He just never thought she’d use it.
“Ah … thank you, by the way. For saving my life. I don’t exactly remember it, but that’s what they told me. That you pulled me out of the water. So … thank you.” He was babbling. Damn it.
“You’re welcome. I’m trained in CPR, and I thought I was going to have to use it.”
For a moment, he imagined her pressing her mouth to his, blowing life back into his lungs, the intimacy of that, the two of them breathing as one. Did they still teach mouth-to-mouth as part of CPR? He seemed to remember that they’d phased it out. Still …
/>
“Patrick?”
He’d wandered off into a reverie. Maybe it was the concussion.
“Sorry. I’m here. I hope I didn’t put you to too much trouble, with the almost dying and everything.”
“No trouble at all.” He could hear the smile in her voice.
“I owe you,” he said.
“No, you don’t. But still … maybe you’ll have a chance to make it up to me sometime.”
As awkward and nervous as he was, he still recognized that as an invitation. She was leaving the door open to … what? Dinner? A coffee date? A tip for her excellent service as a kayak guide and impromptu lifeguard?
It was only after the call was over that he mentally kicked himself for not asking her out.
He sat down on the bed, still in his towel, and flopped onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Was that what she’d meant? Was she open to him asking her out?
If he did go out with her, he’d be so outclassed that it would be like trying to perform open heart surgery while blindfolded and wearing mittens.
Still, a man who was afraid of risk was a man who was afraid of life.
He could do this. He just needed time to work his way up to it.
On Monday, he met Ramon at a coffee kiosk on the Cal Poly San Luis Obispo campus before teaching his first class—a survey of Western literature before the eighteenth century—to debrief him about Sofia’s call. Ramon, an associate professor in the math department, rarely allowed himself to be scheduled for any classes before ten a.m., so he had time to counsel Patrick in the ways of women.
“These were her words: ‘Maybe you’ll have a chance to make it up to me sometime.’ I’m quoting exactly.” Patrick added sugar and cream to his coffee, then fitted the plastic lid on the cup. He turned to Ramon. “What do you think that means?”
“It means you’re hopeless.” Ramon, who had never progressed past seventh grade in his food choices, was holding an iced, blended drink piled with whipped cream. “She wanted you to ask her out, and you dropped the ball.”
