Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors

by Donna Kauffman

  It hadn’t always been that way. Growing up she’d had dozens of close friends, confided every last thought, dream, secret, and hope. Hell, Gran used to say she could befriend a kid while handing them a menu and be their bosom buddy by dessert. And she wouldn’t have been far off the mark. Later, Delia had dated Henry all through high school and they weren’t just sweethearts, but because they’d known each other all their lives, they’d also been the best of friends. If she had a problem, big or small, she’d bend his ear, or Gran’s, or Tommy’s, whoever was best suited to help her with whatever issue was bothering her.

  When had that changed?

  The day Henry told you he was going to move to Alaska whether you wanted to go with him or not. That’s when.

  It had been a long time since Henry had had the power to hurt her, but in that moment, it felt fresh all over again. He hadn’t just broken her heart, he’d shattered her trust, and her belief that what they had between them was bigger than, stronger than, anything that happened outside it. Only that wasn’t true. Not for Henry. And as she was later forced to admit when she chose her family over her best, most trusted friend and husband . . . not for her, either.

  After that she’d opted out of sharing confidences and seeking counsel, not wanting to risk building bonds of trust and respect when they were ephemeral at best. She had her family to turn to when she needed help, needed guidance. Family was the only bond she could trust, the only bond that couldn’t be severed.

  Only it had been, though not by choice. Tommy was taken from her. Then Gran. From that point on, she’d relied only on herself, because she was the only one left who wouldn’t let her down.

  She looked at Ford’s retreating back, heard his words echo through her mind. For whatever I may be worth, you’ve got me.

  And another lightbulb fired off. She’d instinctively pulled back from what he was offering her because, well, he’d vanished before, hadn’t he? She shouldn’t let herself want what might disappear again. Should she?

  But . . . so what if life was ephemeral? So what if there was no guarantee that what was offered today would still stand a month from now, or a year, or a lifetime? Should she go a lifetime excluding herself from something so basic, so pure as a hug of comfort, just because those same arms might not be available sometime later? Did that negate the value of all the hugs that might have come before?

  She honestly didn’t know the answer to that. With Tommy, with Gran, the answer was clear. She’d treasured every moment with them, every hug, every bit of their support, and her only regret was that she hadn’t been fortunate enough to have more of them. But trusting in your family wasn’t a choice you made, it was a gift you were given. At least it had been for her.

  Ford paused by the door of his truck and looked back at her. Maybe his super-spidey ranger senses told him she’d been staring holes in his back.

  People you chose to bond with, however, people you chose to trust, could, in turn, choose not to honor that bond, could willfully betray that trust. Or worse, they could be taken from you altogether through no fault of their own, leaving you with no one to turn to. Except the only person who could never leave you: you.

  Was that risk worth the reward? Worth the possible pain and anguish?

  She could rely on herself, could trust herself... but she couldn’t wrap herself up in strong arms, couldn’t be an objective sounding board, couldn’t push herself when she didn’t know she needed pushing.

  He turned back and opened the door of his truck.

  “Ford!” she blurted out. Then, before she could think better of it, or think at all, she was running across the parking lot toward him.

  He was half in the driver’s seat when he jerked his head around and slid back out again. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He reached for her arms and caught her, steadying her as she all but skidded to a stop in front of him.

  “Here,” she said, pushing her backpack into his chest. “Hold on to this. I’ll be right back.”

  “What? Wait, what are you doing?”

  “I’m coming with you. I just need to tell Peg.”

  “Coming with—why?”

  She leaned past him, through the open door of his truck and tossed her cell phone on the passenger seat. “Two minutes,” she told him as she maneuvered herself out of his grasp; then she was running back across the parking lot.

  “Delia!” he called out. “Dee!”

  She only realized she was grinning like a loon when she looked back over her shoulder. “I’m taking you up on that offer.”

  “What offer?”

  She turned and trotted backwards a few steps. “To be my friend.” Her grin split her face wide. “I’m officially stepping inside the circle.”

  Chapter 11

  Ford bumped the boat against the dock and opened his mouth to call to Delia to step back so she wouldn’t get her fingers smashed against the piling, but she already had the nylon line looped and in her hand. She tied off neatly and expertly, so he stepped aft to do the same.

  He lifted her backpack off the console and handed it to her as he met her by the ladder that led up to the dock. “I guess growing up on the coast, you’ve done that a time or two.”

  She smiled. “Once or twice. Been a long time, though. Guess it’s like riding a bike. Or sailing a boat.”

  He reached to help her up the ladder, but she slung the pack over her shoulder and was halfway up before he could pocket the keys to the boat. “Well, okay then,” he murmured. He grabbed the small cooler Blue had stowed on the boat for him, along with a gear bag, and then climbed up after her.

  “What do you need to do first?” she asked anxiously, as he stepped onto the dock next to her. She was already wearing one of his old sweatshirts, which hung down to mid-thigh. Fortunately she was also wearing jeans rather than slacks, although he wasn’t too sure how her shoes would fare on the rocks.

  “Keep the sweatshirt,” he told her. “And put this on.” He slid two hard hats out of the gear bag, handed one to her, and popped the second one on his own head.

  She eyed the green plastic helmet, clearly confused. “Just how deep are the puffin nesting burrows?”

  “It’s not to protect you from what’s underground, but what’s overhead.”

  She looked up and he snatched the helmet back and stuck it on her head about a second before she ducked, a laugh spluttering from her as the first splat hit the dock beside her. “Holy cow. I mean, I saw that there were a bunch of birds flying around as we were heading into the cove here, but—is it always like this?” She chanced a half glance upward.

  Ford didn’t have to look up; he knew the sky overhead was filled with a variety of seabirds. Dozens and dozens of them. “No,” he said. “Over most of the summer, it’s worse. Far worse.” He smiled briefly. “Or better, depending on your perspective.”

  “Right,” she said. “A good migratory news, bad poop news kinda deal.”

  He let out a short chuckle. “More or less. Hold on.” He climbed back down to the boat and pulled a pair of scuffed-up black wellies from one of the storage bins. He climbed up till he could toss them on the deck next to her. “Might want to slide your feet in those.”

  She tugged them on over her thin-soled leather flats as he climbed the rest of the way to the dock. “So, this wouldn’t be considered a lot?” she asked. “Birds, I mean.” She gestured overhead as she hopped on one foot to get the other all the way into the heel of the boot.

  He steadied her, then reached down and gave the loops on the sides a good tug, and her heel popped right in. “Well, it will dwindle pretty dramatically come winter, but there’s still a good number, and we get drive-bys of other species who stop off on their way south over the next few months. The arctic migratory birds, like the Atlantic puffin, only come on land once a year, for ten weeks or so each summer, for the sole purpose of procreating. Once that’s done, succeed or fail, they head back out to sea for the oncoming winter season.”

  “And they do
n’t go on land again until . . . the next summer? At all? Really?”

  “Really. That’s why it’s such a challenge to gather information about them. They spend the bulk of their time out to sea in some pretty unforgiving areas of the world. Makes it difficult to establish range, much less various behavioral patterns.”

  “I would guess so. I had no idea. Even the babies go out to sea?”

  “Yep. And they don’t come back until they’re old enough to breed. A few years at least. They spend most or all of that time solo.”

  Delia made a sad face. “Poor pufflings.”

  He smiled briefly. “It’s just how they roll. And float. And fly. Makes finding a good nesting ground that much more important.”

  “They all leave at the same time?”

  “You mean the different breeds? No. It turned cooler earlier than usual, so many of them fledged earlier this year. Left the nest earlier,” he explained. “The last of the razorbills and puffins left a few weeks ago—well, except for one, apparently. There are still a few guillemots waiting to fledge, but none with cams on them. They don’t migrate south, so getting them off island is not a big concern. I’ll check on them as well.”

  “I thought you said they were all arctic.”

  “Not all. The puffins are. They winter up in and around the Arctic Circle. But other seabirds, like the common terns, for instance, head down to South America, and the arctic terns go all the way to Antarctica.”

  “Seriously? Why?” She shot him a wry grin and adopted a New York accent. “Couldn’t they just winter in Miami, then come back to Maine in the summer, get a nice condo on the beach?” When he rolled his eyes, her grin only widened, but her next question was serious. “Do they come all the way from Antarctica to Maine every summer?”

  He nodded. “When they’re old enough to breed, yes. Most will come back to whatever place they were born. It’s instinctive.”

  “You’re like the Jacques Cousteau of birds. Jacques Crusoe Dolittle.”

  She looked entirely too pleased with herself. He just shook his head, took her elbow, and guided her down the long pier toward the boulder-strewn shoreline. But a smile was hovering, all the same.

  “And the babies, what do they do when their parents fly off?”

  “Depends on the species. Pufflings go solo. Terns follow their parents.”

  She goggled. “All the way to Antarctica? But didn’t they just get their feathers in? How can their little wings do that?”

  “Well, they either migrate or perish. Most of the chicks fledge at night to keep the chances of predators to a minimum, but it also makes getting out to sea a bit trickier.” He walked down the ramp that sloped to shore at the end of the dock. Then he held up a hand to help her navigate the few steps over the rocks, before they both jumped down to the scrub grass and undergrowth that edged a thin line between boulders and forest. There was no beach or sand.

  He started down the trail that would lead eventually to the tree house. Delia had to walk a little faster to keep up with his long-legged stride, but Ford saw the hand she waved in front of her face. “I don’t want to hear the tragic stories about the ones that don’t make it. I mean, I get that it happens, more often than is good, or you wouldn’t be out here studying them, but that’s why I’m a cook and not a scientist.”

  He paused, turned, and she stopped and looked up at him, her hard hat sliding down over her forehead when she did. His lips curved as he bumped the brim back up again, until those startlingly blue eyes of hers met his once again.

  “I’m such a fashion plate, I know,” she said, dryly. She struck a pose. “Seriously, you’re so lucky. You always manage to see me looking my absolute hottest.”

  “You do the helmet proud,” he said, and meant it. With her red curls, still a bit wild from the boat ride, sticking out from under the band of the hard hat, all curling and whipping around in the breeze, and the pink in her cheeks from the wind, her eyes the deep blue of the ocean in Maine, and that wry smile curving her lips . . . he found her utterly captivating. “You do know that there might not be a Disney ending to our little trip out here.”

  She nodded, putting on a brave face and giving him a little salute, even as her bottom lip stuck out in that little pout. “Aye, aye, captain. I know.”

  His gaze dipped to that pout, and got all hung up there. He had the sudden, intense, and clearly insane desire to lean down and nip the lush little bow of her bottom lip. The urge was so strong, and caught him so off guard, he actually took a full step back. “Just . . . fair warning,” he said, more gruffly than necessary, and then continued on down the dock.

  It was the damn dreams, he thought. She never should have told him about that. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about it or, more to the point, forcing himself not to think about it. “The male razorbills will actually teach their young to fish,” he said, inanely, groping for any topic to get him off his current mental track.

  She was silent for a moment, and then asked, “Are the males involved like that with all of the species?”

  Relieved, he said, more easily, “Pretty much. The same pairs will return and mate every season.”

  “Aw,” she said, “I love that.”

  “Good pairs who work well together have a better chance of producing healthy chicks.”

  “Such a romantic,” she said sardonically. “What happens if something happens to one of them? Do they mate for life?”

  He shook his head. “If one mate doesn’t return, the other will eventually find a new partner, though usually not that first season. Both birds take responsibility for the chick, even before it’s hatched.”

  “So they just have one?”

  He relaxed further, back in his element, and warmed to the subject. “Most of the smaller seabird species, yes. But some of the bigger species have more. Osprey, eagles, gulls to name a few. The black-backed gull is the world’s largest, and a major predator for the alcids.”

  “El Cids? What, like little Charlton Hestons and Sophia Lorens”—she snapped her fingers over her head as if she had castanets and did a little dance in her rubber-boot-clad feet—“Castilian knights of the eleventh century kind of thing?” she said, with a heavy Spanish accent.

  “Alcid,” he enunciated, but he chuckled all the same. “Means burrowing seabirds.”

  “Ah,” she said, her smile still wry, as she dropped her arms and resumed her place behind him when the trail narrowed. “What do you do about that? The predators, I mean.”

  “Nothing. It’s part of the life cycle. But we observe, monitor the behaviors and general numbers.” Steering the conversation away from the predator aspect, he paused and pointed toward a tumble of rocks just down the coast. “We have other guests, too.”

  Her face brightened. “Harbor seals! I love them,” she said. “Their pups are adorable.”

  “Most will head south for the winter, some only as far as Long Island; some will go as far south as the Carolinas. And a few hang out here year-round.”

  “All the way out here?”

  He nodded. “A few might head in closer to land, but generally they prefer more remote, less populated locations. Safer that way. Grey northern seals will start showing up over the winter months and have their pups. There are a few well-established bald eagle nests, too.”

  “So, it’s not just what’s happening in the summer,” she said. “I didn’t realize how year-round the life cycle was out here.”

  “Well, most of the work we do takes place over the summer months with the seabird nesting, but yes, being out here all year does afford me the opportunity to observe the migratory and breeding patterns of a number of other species, too.”

  The trail had wound between the boulder-strewn shoreline and the edge of the pine forest, but now took a turn inward. Once they stepped in among the thick stand of tall pines, he took her helmet off and tucked it back in the gear bag, along with his own. “Keep the boots on; you’ll need them to navigate the rocks when we g
et to the other side.”

  She reached up self-consciously and fluffed at the wild tumble of curls. “Helmet hair.” She rolled her eyes. “It just gets better and better.”

  “Your hair is beautiful.” He’d spoken without thinking, simply being honest, but when her eyes widened a bit and her wind-pinkened cheeks took on a slightly deeper shade, he suddenly felt awkward. “Always does,” he added, lamely. “Look good, I mean.” Stop talking, start walking.

  “Why, thank you kindly, Dr. Maddox,” she said, adopting a fluttery Southern accent this time.

  He tossed a “give me a break” look over his shoulder, but she just laughed. And God help him, he loved that laugh of hers, rich and full, without a lick of self-consciousness. It bordered just on the edge of brassy but was deep enough to be sexy as hell. It had always caught at him, but at the moment, it made the fit of his khakis a bit uncomfortable, which in turn made him uncomfortable. Seriously, he wished to hell she’d never mentioned those damn dreams. Don’t worry, I won’t jump you.

  Only it wasn’t her he was worried about doing the jumping. “Don’t you already know a lot of this stuff?” he asked, forcing his brain back to the topic at hand. The one he was comfortable with, at any rate. “Growing up here, I’d think you’d know most of this by osmosis.”

  “You’d think so, but no, not really. Not in that kind of detail, anyway. I grew up feeding fishermen, and I was busy helping Gran, then, later on running my own place, so I never really get on the water much myself. And the fishermen weren’t talking about migratory patterns and breeding habits of seabirds.” Her voice dropped to a more sultry tone. “I could tell you more than you want to know about the mating habits of lobsters and eels, though. If you’re interested.”

  The path had widened a bit and she’d caught up to him. He glanced down in time to see her bat her eyelashes at him, and chuckled. He’d forgotten how outrageous and funny she could be, always a laugh and a smile on her animated face. She hadn’t been like that since he’d come back to try to help her, and it was good to see the real Dee finally coming back out to play. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave that to the marine biologists.”