Harper wiped her eyes, feeling the spark of anger. She was twenty-eight now. Why did she still allow that woman to hurt her?
Harper rose and walked to the small wood desk. She had discovered the only way to release her pent-up hurt and emotions was to write. She sat and flipped open her laptop, placed her fingers on the keys, and started tapping furiously. She felt the tension ease the moment the words began to flow. Even the effort of writing a book, something her father had done, would be an affront to her mother. She hated anything in Harper that hinted at her DNA connection to Parker Muir.
Harper lost herself in the world of her characters. In Harper’s book, she’d created an alter-ego character. Hadley was an empowered woman, intelligent, and not easily swayed. One who didn’t let anyone demean her or stand in her way of achieving her dreams.
When Harper was a young girl, she often wrote stories where she embodied a heroine who faced obstacles similar to the adventures of her favorite storybook characters. She journeyed through a wonderland like clever Alice, traveled through time and space like Meg Murry. As she grew older, Harper sat in coffee shops, in airports, train stations, places where people clustered, and eavesdropped on conversations. She enjoyed finishing their conversations or story lines in her writing, adding flourishes to the tales with an improvisational twist. Most of all, Harper had discovered that her journaling provided her with an outlet for her pent-up frustrations and hurt.
Harper sat at her desk and rewrote the recent telephone exchange, firing off the words to her mother that she wished she had said. The character Hadley was fiery tongued.
“Every word out of your mouth is a put-down!” Hadley shouted. “This is the end of your lifelong campaign of control over me.” “You violate my boundaries, undermine, demean, and criticize me.” “You are a destructive narcissist!”
Harper didn’t realize that she was smiling as she wrote. When she finished, an hour had passed. She leaned back in her chair and let her hands rest on the keys, feeling the cathartic relief she always did after writing.
As she closed her laptop, her smile wavered and she wondered if she’d ever find the courage to confront her mother in the real world, not just in her stories.
Blake didn’t smile when Carson reentered the kitchen. “New friend?”
“Yes,” she replied in a deliberately breezy manner, ignoring his probing stare. “Grab your drink and let’s go outside. It’s hot, but not too bad in the shade. This room is a disaster, thanks to Hurricane Harper.” She took a sweep of the room and shook her head, muttering, “I don’t know what that crazy girl was thinking.”
She led him to the shaded portion of the porch where the offshore breezes stirred the humid air. Carson loved hot weather—couldn’t abide the cold. She was like any other fish that absorbed the sun and tolerated the heat. One of the things she liked about Blake was that he was equally at home outdoors. They both preferred to sit in fresh air than in air-conditioning. Carson pulled out one of the large wicker chairs, then slunk gracefully into it, tucking one leg beneath her.
Blake set his glass beside hers but hesitated before sitting. He stood before her, concern on his face. “How are you feeling?” he asked cautiously.
Carson tapped her fingers along the chair, knowing full well that he was fishing for whether she’d had the abortion. She knew he had the right to ask, and at some point she planned to tell him her decision. But she’d only just made it.
She looked directly into his eyes. “Queasy.” She slipped on her sunglasses.
Blake went still, appearing momentarily blindsided. “As in sick?”
“That’s usually what queasy means. Nauseous. Also known as morning sickness.”
“You mean . . . you’re still pregnant?”
“Seems so.”
She saw hope spring into his eyes, and a quick smile of relief flashed across his face as he digested this information.
Carson removed her sunglasses to meet his gaze. “I’ve decided to have the baby.”
Blake’s emotions shot from zero to sixty. He dropped his computer bag and stepped forward, arms out to hold her. “Carson, I—”
Carson shrank back and put up her hand to ward him off. “Stop!” When he dropped his hands, she said, flustered, “I don’t want to get into this with you right now. Okay?” As he stepped back again, she took a moment to calm her nerves. Glancing up, she saw confusion on his face, and gripping as tightly to her independence as to the chair arm, she pushed on, “I didn’t do it for you. Or for us.”
Blake’s smile slipped but the relief still shone in his eyes. “Okay.” He nodded in affirmation. “Got it. But I can still care, right? I can’t not care.”
Carson’s shoulders lowered, grateful for his understanding and not pushing her into a commitment. She nodded, allowing a half smile to escape. She felt a bit sheepish for being so churlish. “Of course you can.” She looked into his eyes, so dark and appealing. Suddenly she smiled. She had not offered him a smile before, but she smiled now, and in that instant the old affection bloomed. “I don’t mean to be a bitch about this, but I get nervous when you come on strong. I’m just getting used to the idea myself. I need time, okay?”
“Okay.”
Her smile grew wry. “And I don’t want you begging me to marry you.”
When she’d first told Blake about the tiny life growing inside her, he’d tried to push her into moving in together and marriage. Carson had promptly fled, completely overwhelmed and unable to stomach the idea of all that commitment. They’d broken up then and there.
Blake crossed his arms across his chest, eyeing her narrowly. “Who said I wanted to marry you?”
Carson looked askance and smirked.
He dropped his arms. “Okay, I want you back.” Blake shrugged insolently. “I love you. So sue me.”
She laughed, accepting his humor, and his determination, with equanimity. “I love you, too. You know that. But that doesn’t mean I want to get married, at least not right now. Let’s start with being friends again, and see where things go from there.”
Blake’s dark eyes pulsed. “I can do that. Friends.” He smiled again, carving deep dimples into his cheeks. “It’s a good place to start.”
“Blake . . .”
He laughed, clearly so happy with the turn of events that he couldn’t be discouraged.
“So what’s this about Delphine?” she said, dragging them back to the subject at hand. “Or was that just a ploy to get rid of Taylor? Because if it was, it worked.”
“I’d like to think I was that clever. But I should’ve known anything about Delphine would trump whatever else was on the table.”
“You’re right about that. Sit down”—she indicated the chair beside her—“and tell me what’s going on.”
Blake took the wicker chair beside her. He leaned forward in his chair, holding his hands together between his knees. When he spoke, it was in the way of announcement. His eyes sparkled with excitement. “I’ve received word that Delphine has improved to the point that Mote is recommending release.”
Carson sucked in her breath. “That’s great!” she exclaimed, slipping her leg out from under her to sit straighter in her chair. They sat knee to knee and she leaned forward with anticipation.
Blake nodded in agreement. “Her progress has been nothing short of amazing. And, more than one person has commented on how your visit turned things around for her.”
Carson felt her heart lurch at that news. Her visit to Delphine at the hospital had been emotional and had confirmed the bond between them.
“It’s also your relationship with Delphine that has us worried, though.”
Carson shifted her weight.
“We’ve begun assessing her for release to the wild. It’s a complex procedure. I came to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long.”
“Sure.” She thought it was strange that NOAA would need her to answer questions. Still, she noted that Blake had lost his authoritarian tone from earlier wh
en he’d been furious with her for attracting the dolphin to the dock in the first place. Blake had seen that as a betrayal to all he’d believed in, and his forgiveness had been hard-won. “I’m willing to cooperate in any way I can.”
“Good. Let’s get started.” He pulled papers out of his bag. “Prior to the release of any cetacean, the National Marine Fisheries Service requires that a thorough evaluation be done. This includes all historical, developmental, behavioral, and of course medical records. So far, they’ve completed her medical evaluation, and as I said, all checks out. That’s good. Her behavior was approved insofar as she has retained the skills necessary to find and capture food in the wild. We also know she can identify predators in the wild, given how she battled the shark to save your life.”
Earlier in the summer, Carson had been at the mercy of a shark when Delphine swooped in and saved her, which had been the start of Delphine and Carson’s special bond. Carson felt, as she always did, the weight of her gratitude to the dolphin.
“This is where it gets tricky,” he continued. “Ideally, after rehabilitation the cetacean is released into its home range with the same genetic stock and social unit. Unfortunately, we still don’t have proof that Delphine is part of the Cove’s resident dolphin community. We haven’t found a photo ID of Delphine in my computer database. And believe me, we looked.”
Carson felt her stomach tighten.
“The hospital couldn’t find any freeze branding or dorsal-fin tags, either.” Blake sighed and leaned back in his chair, letting the papers in his hands fall. The movement suggested defeat. “Bottom line, without some form of identification, it’s unlikely Delphine will be approved for release to the Cove.”
Carson’s heart sank. Neither of them could do anything. She felt the day’s heat and wiped perspiration from her brow.
In contrast, Blake didn’t seem bothered by the heat. “I’m not ready to give up on this.” She saw again the spark of determination in the eyes of the dedicated marine biologist she’d fallen in love with.
“Me neither. What can I do to help?”
“My gut tells me that she is part of the community. Despite her bond with you—and we’ll get into that in a minute—she stayed in the community longer than she would have if she were merely migrating through.”
“But she was injured.”
“True, but not seriously. At least not at that point. Only a small part of her tail fluke was bitten off. She could still hunt and forage. Lots of dolphins do fine out there with those minimal injuries.” He shifted his weight, getting to the heart of the matter. “I need to find any physical characteristics, such as scars that were present before the accident, that I can use to run against my computer data and identify her. We’re down to the wire on this. Can you think of any?”
Carson considered this as she folded a sheet of the newspaper from the table into a fan. Fanning herself, she blew out a plume of air. “Rather than trust my memory, I have a lot of photos that I took of her in the Cove over the summer.”
Blake chortled. “Like baby photos?”
“Hey, I’m a photographer. It’s what I do.” She gave a short laugh. “Do you want to search those?”
“Absolutely.”
“They’re on my computer. Come on.” Carson rose to her feet. She led the way back into the kitchen, aware of Blake’s eyes on her as he followed.
Once inside Carson’s room Blake made a beeline for the computer on Carson’s desk. “So where are these photographs?” Blake was already opening his manila folder, intent on work.
A half hour later, Blake was leaning against the desk, his body so close beside hers that they often grazed each other when he pointed to something on the screen. As the minutes ticked by, she was finding it harder to concentrate on the photographs and not on the chemistry simmering between them. There had always been a visceral physical connection.
“This is the best one I can find,” Carson said with finality, showing a close-up of Delphine staring up at the camera. “See the scar at the bottom of the rostrum? It’s not something I thought about before, but it’s in every photo. It’s a defining scar. Will that work?”
“It’s something.” Blake stepped back and straightened. He put his hands on his back and stretched. “I just don’t know how many close-up photos we have of dolphins that would show a small scar on the rostrum.”
Carson sighed with frustration. “Where else on the body should we look?”
“That’s the problem. The notches in the dorsal fin are like a fingerprint. We primarily use those for photo ID. Unfortunately, the dorsal-fin photos of Delphine that you already showed us are not in our database. And now, her dorsal fin was compromised by the fishing line. Lopped off the tip. The damage there is small, but it’s like cutting off part of your fingerprint.”
“What about the tail fluke?”
“We already documented the shark bite.” He shook his head. “We’d need some mark that was there before the shark bite.”
Carson rose to her feet as a memory surfaced. “Wait a minute! I just might have something.” On her camera, she scrolled through countless photos. “I took more photos of Delphine when I was in Florida.”
“Those won’t help. I need pictures documenting scars before you met her.”
“I know, I know. Hold on . . .” Carson knew what she was looking for. Suddenly she stopped. “Found it!”
Blake leaned over to take a closer look at the photograph showing Delphine diving under the water, her fluke high in the air.
“I’ve seen her injured fluke.”
“Don’t look at her left fluke. Zoom in on her right tail fluke.” Carson waited while Blake did so, aware that his chest pressed against her back. “There!” She pointed. “See that small hole?”
Blake zoomed again. “That small one? The size of a dime?”
“Right. During the summer when I took those other photos of Delphine in the Cove, I was focusing on her eyes, her expression. Like a mother taking photos of her baby. But these”—Carson indicated the photos on the camera—“I took these to document her scars. I thought it was important to follow up her healing. That’s when I noticed that small hole on her right tail fluke. I thought it was odd how it’s perfectly round, like it was punched with a paper hole puncher. She had this hole before she went to the hospital. It’s not a normal scar, right?”
“Right,” he said slowly, studying the photograph. “A round hole isn’t normal, like notches or rake marks from other dolphins. It certainly would be unidentifiable.”
She chewed her lip. “Do you have photos of tail flukes in your database?”
Blake lowered the camera and met her gaze, only inches away. He was smiling. “We do.”
Carson released a heavy sigh of relief and beamed. “Thank God.”
Blake straightened and crossed his arms. “We still have one other concern to cover.”
Carson stared back at him. “What’s that?”
“You.”
Carson heard the word like a blow to the midsection. “What do you mean, me?”
Blake shifted his weight, then looked directly into her eyes. “One of the key conditions for clearance is the dolphin’s behavior. Knowing that the dolphin did not take food from humans while in the wild.” His expression was implacable. “We both know the answer to that one.”
Carson stared back.
Blake shifted as though uncomfortable, clearly reluctant to say anything that would cause Carson pain. His tone softened. “Simply put, Delphine’s ability to survive in the wild is considered compromised by your actions.”
Carson felt awash with a wave of guilt, and her chin wobbled as she tried not to cry. Not only was she responsible for Delphine’s injuries, but that she might be the reason the dolphin was not released back into the wild was a crushing blow.
“But,” Blake continued, and Carson felt a flash of hope, “there is something we call a conditional release.”
“What are the conditions?”
Blake paused to open the folder again and shift through the papers. Finding the passage he searched for, he read aloud, “ ‘Attraction to humans in the wild has been extinguished.’ ” Blake closed the folder.
Carson stared back at Blake. In her eyes she saw a NOAA official determined to follow the rules and to do what was best for the dolphin. But she also saw compassion.
“Can you assure me—promise me—that you will no longer have interaction with the dolphin known as Case Number 1107?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Blake held her gaze and lifted his hand to count off his fingers. “You will not attract her to your dock. You will not feed her. You will not whistle or call to her. You will not do anything to draw her to you in any way, shape, or form. And you promise to let her be wild in the full sense of the word.” Blake dropped his hand.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s possible Case Number 1107 will be cleared for a conditional release.” Blake’s expression grew serious. “But you should know me well enough by now that I will not play favorites. If Delphine persists in hanging around your dock or does anything else that exhibits her inability to let go of her attachment to you, I will recommend recapture.”
“What happens then?”
“That would depend on the dolphin’s health at that point. If Delphine doesn’t thrive after release, if she doesn’t hunt or become a social member of her community, she’ll go back to rehabilitation. The choice then would be to release her to a facility or euthanize.”
Just the possibility of euthanasia had Carson’s knees weak.
“The bond is two-sided. We have to see if Delphine will be able to leave you alone, too.”
Carson averted her gaze, remembering how Delphine had whistled with joy at seeing her again at the Mote hospital. “Maybe we shouldn’t take that chance. Maybe we shouldn’t release her here in the Cove. At least if she goes to the Dolphin Research Center, she’ll be safe.”
The Summer's End Page 7
