She watched Carson climb from the water onto the dock. The water streamed from her taut, beautiful body. She leaned over to help Nate climb up, he allowing her to touch his hand, his arm. He looked so much stronger, healthier. He had blossomed without her.
Dora wrapped her arms around herself, trying to contain the emotions spilling over. Carson . . . she had so much. She could have anyone. Dora tightened her fingers around her arms. Why was Carson trying to steal her son’s affection?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Blake picked up Carson in a green four-wheel-drive jeep. Mud splattered the sides and wheels, and the rear was plastered with stickers from NOAA and the South Carolina Aquarium, and one that said DON’T FEED THE DOLPHINS.
It was only eight A.M. and she’d hoped to sneak out of the house without notice, but Mamaw had seen Carson peeking out the front window and her antennae were up. When the doorbell rang Mamaw was on her feet and at the door faster than a tick leaping on a dog.
“Why, aren’t you the nice young man who is teaching Carson to kite surf?” she asked in her hostess voice, ushering Blake into the house.
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he replied, smiling politely. Blake was a well-brought-up Southern boy and Carson knew he would give Mamaw his full attention. He was wearing nylon fishing pants, the kind with pockets and zippers everywhere, and the ubiquitous T-shirt, this one a Guy Harvey. Most notably, and to Carson, regrettably, he’d cut his hair. The curls had been shorn like a sheep’s wool and his hair was close cropped around his head.
“Now, where are you two off to, so early in the morning?” Mamaw asked him.
“I thought I’d take Carson on a boat ride,” he replied.
“How thrilling!” Mamaw exclaimed. “Where?”
“We’re going to cruise all through the local rivers—the Ashley, the Cooper, the Wando, the Stono—checking out the resident dolphins. That’s a lot of water to cover, so we’ll be out the whole day. Don’t forget a hat,” he reminded Carson. She responded by lifting her hand, already carrying a cap. “I’ve packed us a lunch,” Blake told her. “Are you ready?”
“I’m ready,” Carson replied. She moved to kiss Mamaw on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”
“Did you pack a rain jacket?” Mamaw asked. “It looks a little cloudy.”
“I’ll be all right. Bye, Mamaw.”
Blake stepped forward. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Muir.”
“Now, you children have a good day, hear?”
Blake leaned closer to Carson as they walked to the car. “I see where you get your charm from.”
“Mamaw was quite the socialite in her day. She’s active in conservation, too. She’s a terrier with a bone when it comes to preserving the wild landscape of Sullivan’s Island. She attends every meeting. I hope I’m so involved when I’m her age.”
Blake opened the car door. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
They didn’t talk much as they drove over the bridges crossing the Cooper and the Ashley Rivers on their way to Fort Johnson on James Island. Harbor View Road curved along the water, revealing vast expanses of verdant wetlands, and wound under huge live oak trees dripping with moss. When they passed through the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources gate onto the grounds of Fort Johnson, Blake asked, “Have you ever been to Fort Johnson?”
She shook her head. “Never.”
“It’s a pretty cool spot with a long and illustrious history. The first fort was built in 1708 and named for the proprietary governor, Johnson. That fort’s long gone now. A later fort was built and used by the British in the Revolutionary War. That one is gone, too. Then, years later, in 1861, South Carolina state troops erected two batteries here and it was from this spot that they opened fire on Fort Sumter, the shots that began the Civil War.”
Carson looked out at the vast expanse of land on which clustered a number of modern, government-style buildings nestled between ancient live oaks and countless palmetto palms.
“When did it become all this?” she asked, indicating the development.
“Well, not a lot happened here after that until around 1970, when the bulk of the property was transferred to the DNR. It’s become a major marine research area for several organizations.” He pointed. “Over there is the Marine Resources Research Institute. Then there’s the Hollings Marine Laboratory. Another portion belongs to the Grice Marine Laboratory, and the Medical University has a marine science department.”
“And that?” she asked, indicating a beautiful white plantation house.
Blake looked to where Carson pointed, then chuckled. “Lots of folks get confused seeing that here among all these office buildings, like a diamond in the rocks. That there’s the original plantation home of the Ball family. It was built on their plantation, Marshlands, along the Cooper River. Some time back the College of Charleston saved it from being torn down and had the house moved here, where it was restored. It’s used for offices now, and not a day goes by that I don’t drive by it and smile and thank God for preservationists.”
He pulled into a large parking lot. “And this,” he said, indicating a spreading, expansive office building, “is my home away from home.” Without ceremony they gathered their cooler and bags and she followed him into the modern building. It was spare and sprawling, a maze of long linoleum hallways. Peeking in some of the rooms, she glimpsed crammed offices, laboratories, computer rooms, and storage rooms; in the hall, she saw rolling carts with specimens en route to one of the labs. It was a beehive of activity, everyone already hard at work or walking somewhere with papers in hand and a purpose. At last they stopped in one of the identical small offices, this one with two metal desks and crammed with computers and equipment.
“I just have to grab a few things,” he told her, clearly preoccupied. “Make yourself at home.”
Carson was intrigued at this peek into Blake’s life. His shared office was far from glamorous, but she could tell from the photos of dolphins posted on the walls, the awards he’d won, the maps of the Charleston-area rivers with red pushpins marking coordinates, that he was committed to his research. When she spotted a hoard of photography equipment, however, she zeroed in. It was an impressive, quality array of cameras.
“Pretty top-notch equipment. Who’s the photographer?” she asked him.
Blake was searching through files. “I guess I am,” he replied. “We’re collaborating on the research project.”
“What are you studying?” she asked.
“It’s a long-term study,” he replied, walking over to rummage through his desk. “It’s similar to several photo-ID studies being conducted along the southeast and Gulf coasts of the United States.”
He picked up a piece of equipment and, satisfied, smiled. “As you’ll soon see.”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.”
“I’m not,” he answered, grabbing the bag of camera equipment. “But I’m good enough to get my job done. Here, take this,” he said, handing her the red cooler. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.”
She had to rush to keep up with his long strides down another maze of institutional halls. He pushed open a pair of double doors and suddenly they were in the back of the building on a boat ramp. Several large research boats were docked out here. Another man, tall and broad-shouldered, was unhooking the trailer of a boat.
“That’s our ride,” Blake said with obvious pride, pointing to the large black Zodiac. “Pretty cool, huh? It’s fast and handles the chop like a champ.”
Carson heard the awe in his voice and thought he was just another Southern boy, in love with his boat. But she had to admit, this one was very sleek looking.
He handed her a personal flotation device. “You have to put this on,” he told her. Then, “You don’t get seasick, do you?”
“It’s a little late to ask that question,” she said with a laugh, then shook her head. “I was born to be on the water.”
A half hour later, Carson was holding tight to the rop
e in the Zodiac as it sped through the Charleston harbor. The Zodiac was an inflatable marine craft over twenty-three feet long and outfitted for research rather than comfort. It was thrilling to hear the roar of the outboard motors and feel the spray as they cut through the chop of the harbor water like a knife through butter, low in the water. She got weary of holding on to her hat, so she stuck it between her knees, smiling with a giddy feeling of euphoria as they streamed across the water.
She looked to Blake standing wide legged at the wheel of the boat. She couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses but knew they sparked with excitement, like hers. From time to time he’d check papers as he steered the boat, reminding her that this wasn’t a joyride for him but part of an important, multiyear research study.
They left the harbor and the water calmed as they entered the first of a myriad collection of rivers and waterways that made up the heart of the lowcountry. The tides breathed in and out of the wetlands, their rhythms as complex and interconnected as the veins in her body. Overhead, she saw a line of pelicans fly in formation, and in the grasses, herons and egrets hunted. They passed under bridges she’d crossed countless times in her car. From beneath, she heard the rumble of the cars overhead and wondered if the people in the cars even looked out at the magnificent water below. Had she? How different it was to be below in a boat, skimming across the water like a fish.
Blake abruptly slowed the engine and pointed. “Dolphin. Twelve o’clock.”
Carson sprang to attention as Blake jumped for the camera and immediately began clicking. “There are two,” he called out. “Adults.”
Carson raised her hand over her eyes, squinting, but she couldn’t see anything but water.
“Where?”
He ignored her question, lowering his camera to scan the water. After another minute, Blake shouted, “Three o’clock.”
By the time she turned her head in the right direction, at best she caught the tail fluke of a dolphin diving. She turned her head to see Blake standing at the podium recording the sighting.
“That was number ninety-eight for sure. And eighty. Those two guys are pals,” Blake added. “They’ve been hanging around together for years now.”
“You know the dolphins?” Carson asked.
Blake nodded. “We’ve been doing this for years, so we’re at the point where we can recognize them on sight. The dorsal fin markings are as unique as fingerprints.”
“But you only saw them for maybe, what? A second?”
“That’s enough.”
Carson felt like a rank amateur. “I can’t even see a dolphin in the time you spot it, identify it, and take its picture.”
“The pictures are critical. When I return to the office later, the team will study the photographs, search for scarring and injuries, to solidly identify the dolphin. We know then the status of the pod, which dolphins are missing, sick, or additions.”
Carson’s fingers itched to use the camera. This was her area of expertise, after all. Something she could do to help. “Why don’t you let me take the pictures?” she begged. “Really, I know the camera. At least then I can feel like I’m doing something to help.”
“Sorry. Can’t,” Blake replied, returning to the rear of the boat. He was all business now, not allowing argument. “Insurance won’t let anyone but us handle the equipment. It’s expensive. And it’s not as easy as it looks to get the shot fast enough.” He waved his hand, calling her closer to the center podium. “But you can help.”
Holding on to the rope, she carefully made her way across the rocking boat to his side at the wheel.
“I can always use another scout. Try to keep your gaze on the distance,” he instructed. Blake kept one hand on the wheel and pointed out with the other. “Let your gaze scan in a sweeping motion. You’ll be able to catch any movement, even out of your peripheral vision. Then you can zero in.” He turned to look at her face. Their gazes locked; then he smiled.
Another boat zoomed by, creating a wide wake that rocked the Zodiac. She lost her footing and Blake’s arm dropped to grab her around the waist, steadying her.
“Wouldn’t want to lose you,” he said.
She brushed the hair from her face and smiled self-consciously, hating that the man made her feel like a shy teenager. She was in new territory here and wasn’t sure she liked not being in control.
Blake released her abruptly and reached for the gearshift. “Hold on.”
Carson grabbed the platform as he pushed the engines and the Zodiac took off again across the water. She’d given up wearing her hat and let her hair stream behind her. For the next few hours they traveled up and down the different rivers. It was a mystery to her how Blake knew where he was going; so much of it looked the same to her. They passed countless miles of muddy banks and acres of dark green cordgrass. From time to time they passed a cluster of houses, some of them modest campgrounds, others stunning homes with docks. Most of the time, however, it was like they were in The African Queen, journeying alone in the jungle, miles from civilization.
She saw small groups of female dolphins that included mothers and their young. The young calves stayed close, dorsal fins and glistening gray backs rising and falling together in the water as in a choreographed ballet. One curious youngster swam closer to the boat, its bright eyes gleaming with curiosity. Carson leaned over the side of the Zodiac, watching with delight and calling to it.
“Sweet baby,” she crooned.
“Don’t encourage him,” Blake called out with a shake of his head. A moment later the mother swam up to steer her calf away, making loud clicking noises that sounded to Carson like she was scolding.
Whenever a dolphin was spotted, Blake killed the engines and grabbed for the camera. Carson eventually got better at sighting the dolphins as they rose and dipped in the water. To her chagrin, she only caught a fraction of the dolphins that Blake did, but when she spotted one, she felt a rush of adrenaline and shouted out the location.
Other times, however, she sat with the roar of the engines in her ears and watched Blake. His boyish enthusiasm was beguiling. More intriguing, however, was that his fervor was for something other than himself. This was in sharp contrast to so many of the men she’d dated before. Wealth, position, power—none of those things mattered to Blake, she realized. He wasn’t looking at what he was going to get—more money, a new car, a vacation, or some fancy bottle of wine. She watched him, his hands on the wheel of the boat as he scanned the sea. Blake was looking at what he could give back.
And that spoke to Carson. Because of Delphine, she could understand what that passion felt like. She put her hand in the water and let it drag in the wake. She felt its coolness and felt connected to this water and everything in it. She gazed up into the infinite sky and felt connected to the birds of the air, the clouds, the grass that surrounded her, and creatures of the sea. She felt this in her deepest nature. She was part of something so much bigger than herself. And this realization simultaneously made her feel more vulnerable and stronger than she ever had before.
As she bounced along the waterway in the boat, her face in the sunshine and the wind in her hair, Carson looked out at the natural beauty that surrounded her and it dawned on her why Blake had wanted her to see this. He was offering her a window to look and really see. Not through a lens, but with all of her senses. To appreciate the significance of what was wild.
And in doing so, he was sharing with her a vital part of who he was.
A short while later Blake slowed the engines and brought the Zodiac close to a very small beach, larger than many of the sandy spits they’d passed that morning. The engines growled low as he brought them near, then suddenly all went silent. The Zodiac rocked while Blake hurried with the speed of experience to drop anchor. Carson listened to the sound of the gentle lapping of water against the boat and the creaking of the rope she clung to that ran along its sides.
“Ready for some lunch?” he asked her, offering his hand.
“Starving
,” she replied, taking it.
“Do you mind getting wet, or do you need me to carry you ashore?”
Carson smirked and for a moment thought she’d have him carry her, just because she could. The flat bottom of the Zodiac allowed Blake to get them close to shore. They only had to wade through knee-high water to get to the beach. After all the kite surfing, she’d have been too embarrassed not to wade in this short distance herself.
“I think I can manage it,” she said with sarcasm.
“Careful of the mud,” he cautioned her. “It can be slippery. And deep. I knew a guy who got stuck up to his knees in that slime. Had to lie on his back to pull his legs free.”
Carson, swinging her leg over the edge of the boat, paused. “Are you trying to scare me? So you can carry me?”
“Just being a gentleman,” Blake replied. “And did I mention the critters?”
Carson stiffened and drew her leg a bit farther back into the boat. “Critters?”
“Oh, sure,” he said in a grand manner. “All kinds of insects call this mud home. And snails and fiddler crabs, of course.” He shook his head. “Yep. Countless crabs. What do you think all those birds are feeding on?”
Carson looked down at the mud, squinting as she tried to see if anything was moving under the water.
“Thinking twice about my offer of a ride?”
“No, thanks anyway, Captain.” Carson held firm to the rubber side of the boat and let her other leg swing over. “I’ll take my chances.” She scanned the water beneath her, then, taking a breath, let gravity do its job. She slid with a splash into the water. Her feet sank a few inches into the mud, but nowhere near as deep as Blake had implied.
The Summer Girls Page 21
