The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  Jonas set a slower pace, but even then, he could hear himself wheezing.

  “Waynough, Jonas!” Oliver called over his shoulder before sliding into the recovery.

  But Jonas plunged his blades again. He was fine.

  “Way enough!” Still panting, Oliver carefully enunciated the command for him to rest his oars.

  Jonas’s lungs pinched tighter, but still he dipped at the catch and pulled with all his might. With the others. They were a team, and he was going to bear his own weight.

  Thirty meters to go.

  But he was gasping now. Oliver hollered out something, but Jonas couldn’t hear it.

  Dagnabit, he couldn’t breathe. Jonas set his oars and bent forward, his body fighting for air. Maybe he was strong in build, but he was still the weakest link. He’d always be the weakest.

  Tilting his face to the sky expanded his chest enough to suck in a sliver of air, but panic was taking over. He couldn’t breathe. Upright. He needed to sit upright. It was nearly impossible with his constricted chest screaming at him, but he straightened and gasped for another breath. Stay calm. He had to stay calm. Even though he was drowning above the water, he couldn’t panic. A breath in, a breath out.

  The boat slowed and the others doubled over, panting. The finish line, then.

  The sight of his teammates blurring, Jonas groped against the floorboard for the thermos. It had rolled out of his reach. Panic shot through him and relief fought forward as Oliver angled toward him, thermos in hand. Jonas unscrewed the lid and gulped down tepid coffee. His hands shook as he tried to keep the container still. The wet warmth made it easier to take a thin breath and another and within a few minutes, the caffeine would stimulate his airway. That was his hope. It hadn’t failed him yet, but there was always a first for everything. Jonas swiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Tipped his jaw toward the sky and drew in all the air he could.

  It wasn’t much. He could hear his wheezing, and as a few minutes passed—and with his determination to stay calm—it began to slow.

  “That was too fast,” Oliver said. “We sprinted too fast.” He looked to the others, brows clamped in frustration. “Not again. This isn’t the Harvard–Yale Regatta. I don’t care if it takes us a week to get around that lighthouse, we’re going to go slower.” As Jonas ran a hand down his face, Oliver added, “If you die, it’s going to ruin everything.”

  Oakes snorted and Dexter chuckled. Despite everything, Jonas smirked.

  He heaved in a breath. “I’m not gonna die.” He reached for his oars when the others did but could scarcely row as they made their way back to their starting point. Jonas took the time—the simplicity of retreat—to steady himself. To recover in the fullest sense.

  When they finally reached the shore of the bay, Dexter hopped out and tugged the quad farther onto the sand.

  Jonas climbed out and walked away a few feet before sinking to his knees. The humility of not being able to stand lessened as his friends settled in the sand around him. Or maybe, just maybe, the humility deepened.

  He looked at them in turn, his spirit awash with both gratitude and regret for this group of young men who had been willing—no, eager—to brave this scheme once again. These friends who understood his need to be a part of this.

  They gave him plenty of time, and when Oliver finally said, “Should we head back to the boathouse?” Jonas was able to stand with the rest of them. They circled around the quad, and at Jonas’s nod for Oliver to take the lead, the young man said,

  “All hold.”

  Then, “To shoulders…” They lifted the vessel. “Over heads.”

  Arms up, they hefted the shell above their heads. With it steadied, they walked up the beach and toward the boathouse. Jonas was certain his teammates were as exhausted as he was, but no one complained. It was just part of it. A responsibility that every oarsman had to bear for this sport. A reverent reminder that the journey down the water was only half the trip. They carried the shell to the boathouse, which was an exact mirror of the del itself—the same red roof, even a small tower up top for viewing the island.

  By the time they headed back to the hotel for baths and a change of clothes, it was well into the lunch hour. Starving, Jonas buttoned up a clean shirt and had nothing on his mind but a hearty meal. Or two. He’d never been so hungry in his life.

  When a knock sounded against the door, Oliver rose stiffly and answered it.

  Jonas heard a gentle voice from the hallway. “Is Mr. McIntosh here?”

  Eyebrows raised, Oliver looked back over his shoulder.

  “I’m here.” Jonas stood, recognizing that voice. His own still felt weak, but he sounded enough like himself that no one seemed to notice.

  Suddenly Rosie ducked under Oliver’s arm. “I have a question of utmost importance.”

  “Hi, Rosie. I’m all ears. But I think we should step out into the hallway.”

  “No, if we’re spotted talking I’ll get in trouble.”

  “If you’re spotted in our room you’ll get in trouble.”

  She glanced around as if she hadn’t thought of that. “We could speak out on the roof?”

  Jonas leaned toward her and said gently, “How about we just talk fast?”

  She leaned near as well, smelling of the same fresh soap as the sheets, the towels. “Will you take me for a ride in your boat?”

  She wanted to…what?

  Jonas glanced to Oliver, who shrugged a shoulder, then to Oakes, who was gawking at her as if he’d never seen a pretty girl before. Dexter was gaping just as much, so Jonas took that as affirmative.

  His brows pinched as he glanced back to Rosie. “Why?”

  With a crook of her finger, she motioned him nearer. Jonas dipped his head beside hers.

  She whispered against his ear, and he was certain that in her voice, he heard a spark of hope. Of bravery toward the waters she confessed to fearing. “Because I think I remember something.”

  Chapter Six

  Surrounded by the observatory’s whitewashed walls and snugly closed windows, the air felt strangely still to Rosie. With only a few stolen moments to speak before she needed to hurry out of his room, Jonas had asked her to meet him up in the lookout tower once more. So here she sat, short hours later, thoughts of him and the sea she was daring to brave all spinning in her mind.

  The air thick and heavy, she thought about opening the door that led out to the balcony encircling the tower, but that would only alert passersby to her presence here, which seemed unwise. Also unwise would be for them to climb the narrow, winding stair together, so she’d slipped up here a few minutes before he was due to arrive.

  But as Rosie looked back to the door, she had a glimmer of worry as to what might happen if they were discovered together. For a staff member and a hotel guest to be alone was unseemly. No, scandalous.

  Pinching a bit of her bottom lip between her teeth, she crossed her ankles together and kept a keen eye on the closed door. Beside her, the telescope all but beckoned its visitors to squint an eye and press it to the round bit of glass that would lead all imaginings to the stars above, but she stayed still and unmoving until she heard footsteps on the stairs. Her heart pulsed away each steady thud-thud-thud until the door creaked open and Jonas appeared. It was an inquiring look, him yet a few steps down—a look that rose up to meet her with brown eyes that were nearly asking for her.

  A slow smile lifted Rosie’s lips, and she felt a wash of nervousness of a different kind. Though not as broad of shoulder as the sailors who waved to her and Abner along the point, his scholarly frame was strong. Athletic. The way he angled with ease into the small room, both unassuming and captivating.

  He wore a brown tweed dinner jacket, and his deep-cocoa bowtie was slightly askew as if he’d just tugged at it. His hair was slicked to the side, yet a few stray hairs in the back didn’t seem fond of his attempts with comb and pomade. He smelled of citrus and brandy as he stepped near, making her wonder how old he was. She asked
the question before she could stop herself.

  He settled on the angled bench a safe foot away from her. “Twenty.”

  “Oh.”

  With something in hand, he set down two bottles of root beer as if this were an early-evening rendezvous between old friends. Even sweethearts. But she couldn’t be sure. Feeling lost, Rosie looked from the offering to his face—that steady, contemplative gaze he wore. “I don’t know that this is a good idea.”

  “I overheard a maid saying it was suppertime for you. I didn’t realize that when I suggested we meet now.” He set a paper bag beside her, and she peeked inside to find a cheese danish bedecked with slivered almonds. Rosie looked at him in surprise.

  Eyes amused, he pulled something from his pocket. “Straw?”

  She took the paper straw, and he nudged one of the drinks closer to her. Using her thumb, she pushed the marble stopper down into the bottle, let the hiss of fizz escape, and then sipped.

  Jonas didn’t touch his own. “And what of you? Your age?”

  “Eighteen, supposedly.”

  Like a blackbird across a sunset, confusion dipped over his eyes. “You’re not certain.”

  “Not factually.” Knowing she couldn’t just leave it at that, she did her best to explain Dr. Brooke’s estimates about her. Based on how and when she was found as a toddler on the lighthouse steps.

  “So what are these theories?” he asked, dropping a straw into his own bottle.

  Rosie broke off a piece of pastry and offered some toward him. He raised a hand, his conviction clear that he wished it for her.

  “The doctor has pieced together his speculations about my past. He has pages of notes. They go something like this.” She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Parentage: uncertain. Background: decidedly American.” She sipped her drink then hiccupped. “Moral standing: undetermined.” She squinted over at Jonas. “What do you suppose he meant by that?”

  He smiled—his gaze warm as it skimmed over her face.

  It was such an endearing look that she dropped her own attentions, fiddling instead with the edge of her white apron. Rosie adjusted it, wishing suddenly that she could wear something other than this starched, black-and-white uniform. When she glanced out the window, she saw women wandering below, their glamourous gowns and hats glimmering in the soft radiance of strings upon strings of electric lights. That same glow rose up toward the observatory, gently lighting the side of Jonas’s face where her focus once again landed.

  He cleared his throat. “Are you off shift after your supper?”

  “No. We eat early so we can do turndown service while guests are having dinner. I’ll have to head back in about ten minutes.” Slowly she turned her straw, unnerved to be sitting here, making small talk with this man. Perhaps if she prompted him toward their purpose for being here. “What about you, Mr. McIntosh? What do you do when you’re not out rowing your boat on holiday or sitting in the lookout tower questioning odd birds like me?”

  His brow pinched as he turned his face toward the glow below. “I’m studying law at Stanford. Second year.”

  Law. Stanford.

  That was very…upper class. But he would be nothing but, not if he were staying at the resort. A week here cost more than she’d see in a year of service, and though she knew his trip was sponsored by Mr. Babcock, she sensed Jonas McIntosh could have secured a summer holiday here all on his own. Though the notion was never flaunted, he carried himself as if he came from money.

  His look was regretful. As if he knew as well as she did that they shouldn’t be sitting here together.

  Then he said, “I’m not terribly fond of it.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head. “It’s my father’s dream for me, but I…”

  When he fell silent, she pressed the matter gently, but he just shook his head again.

  “Never mind. It’s a good career and will make a good life.” Jonas rubbed a thumb across his palm, looking lost in thought.

  He was holding something back, but she could see that he wished to change the subject.

  “About the boat,” she began.

  “Yes.” His brow eased. “That’s what I wanted to explain.” He smoothed his hands together, and they sounded rough and calloused. “It will be best to do it very early in the morning. Before sunup, when the sea is the most calm. Day after tomorrow all right for you? That will give us one more day to iron out some kinks.”

  “It’s perfect.” Rosie gave him a soft smile. One she meant with her whole heart. “Thank you.” The trip to the lighthouse always took half a day by carriage. A cost she could scarcely afford but one she splurged on the last Saturday of every month to spend a little time at home with Abner.

  To simply row across the harbor still needled fear into her. Ever since that night. But something was changing. A memory, perhaps. One worth fighting for. And she wouldn’t know if she didn’t try.

  Rosie described to Jonas how she needed to go just to the base of the lighthouse cliffs where there was a little dock and a set of stairs. The place where she had been put into a rowboat that fateful night when she was ten. Placed there against her will.

  How she remembered this, she didn’t know.

  Suddenly, voices drifted up from the stairwell. Jonas stood the same instant Rosie did. Her heart jolted, and she glanced around. Just the two of them, so near that they each took a step away from the other. Nowhere to hide.

  Rosie thought fast. “Sit,” she whispered, and when he did, she rolled her eyes. “Not there. Over there.”

  The voices drew closer, and Jonas moved to where she pointed. The place where moonlight puddled perfectly on a bench carved for two. She put the bottles of root beer beside him, tucking the half-empty one behind the full.

  “Well, Mr. McIntosh,” she said much too loudly. “If that’s all you’ll be needing, I’ll get back to the kitchen. The chef is no doubt preparing your celebration feast now.”

  Jonas quirked a brow.

  A couple stepped into the cupola, expressions expectant as if they’d heard her little speech from below. The man was dressed in dinner tails, and the woman on his arm wore a beaded gown and elbow-length gloves. They discreetly looked from Rosie to Jonas, and Rosie hoped they’d heard her.

  She dipped a curtsy to Jonas. “I’ll make sure everything is ready, and I hope your young lady is delighted by your engagement surprise.” She clicked her tongue. “You’ve chosen quite a spot. And on a glorious night, as well. I wish you both the best, sir.”

  The newcomers fussed over this romantic revelation, and Rosie left a very wide-eyed Jonas to answer their queries about his mystery lady. She hurried out and grinned all the way down the winding staircase, through the empty ballroom. All the way out into the star-bright night where she peeked back up to the tower, and just as she imagined the couple doing this very moment, she silently wished Jonas well.

  In the inner courtyard of the del, Jonas walked along the pathway. The four sides of the grand resort rose all around him, four floors of high-end rooms, all filled with polished wood paneling and ornate furniture. But here in the center of it all, it was a humble oasis beneath a night sky. Baby palms rustled in the crisp breeze; an owl hooted from a distant roofline.

  Jonas carried the empty soda bottles, the thin necks fitting easily in one hand. A souvenir from his “engagement” night, he meant to hang on to these. It wasn’t every day that a fella got to propose to the love of his life without having met her yet.

  Bowing his head, Jonas started up the stairs that would take him to the third floor. A cot awaited him, and this late in the evening, having missed supper to sit and ponder things he should never have been pondering, he was ready to give in to sleep and see where his dreams might take him. Would they take him far from himself? Far from the standards of society that kept him bound to a future that had been set in motion before he could even crawl?

  To be a lawyer—a noble career. But it was his father’s insistence that Jonas ta
ke up such an occupation. Lay aside any notion of his boyish dreams.

  As a lad, he’d wanted to be a carpenter, first. And then a seaman. When those notions collided into his father’s frowning face, Jonas thought he might try and pursue a variety of other occupations—all that might keep him outdoors, out in the great, wide world that he’d loved. But those hopes died one by one against his father’s insistence that Jonas take a position at a desk in an office. Something that didn’t include physical labor. Something that wouldn’t cause the breathing spells that had landed him in the hospital time and time again as a child.

  The weakest of the McIntosh sons, Jonas had gone to Stanford, taken the exams. Begun the early days of what his family hoped would be a long and prosperous career in law. And Jonas knew his place: get high marks on the exams and make it into a good firm. Then begin the life he was raised for, right after he pursued an eligible young woman of amiable standing and good fortune.

  Yet another dream that had never sat well with Jonas.

  Shifting the empty glass bottles to his other hand, he watched the ground as he walked. Lifting his gaze, he took in the sight of the maids’ quarters in the moonlight. It rose above the fourth floor as a large attic. The peaked roof was moonlit, and a window sat open as white curtains slipped out to play with the breeze. He paid attention not to the thin boards of the paneling or the closed little shutters. He imagined only Rosie somewhere there in one of the rooms.

  And in that moment he wondered what she would think to know that as the adoring couple had inquired about his fiancée to be, Jonas had had nothing but a picture of her in his mind. Nothing but her face as he described who they believed to be his young lady. His love.

  Chapter Seven

  Crash. And cold. Jonas held his breath as he dived beneath a wave, the salty water chilling his skin since he had a habit of never letting himself acclimate. Just wade out and dive. Get it over with. It was always easier that way. He rose for a breath then ducked under another wave just as it broke and foamed overhead. He surfaced and swam forward, taking a few strokes to find that smooth, easy rhythm, breaking it only to slip beneath the surface when a wave crashed and pounded. Stirring the sand, spurring him to swim beyond this place. Out into the great open where the sea was calmer, gentler. A feat that was always achieved by his strength and his strength alone.