The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  As he worked his way away from the shore, risking to go only as far as he knew he could, he felt the open span of an early gray sky overhead and, for the first time in a long time, dared to question if perhaps he wasn’t doing so well with his own strength.

  His nursemaid had spent years teaching him that there was a place where greater strength could be found. When he was a boy, he assumed it had something to do with church pews and stained glass, but as he grew, he understood more deeply her meaning. Yet he’d wandered and strayed from that way of thinking. Something in him ached to return. To place his feet on the path that would carry him closer to the peace that had always lived in his nursemaid’s gentle face. He could hear her afternoon prayers now. Remember the hymns she’d hummed as they’d walked hand in hand through the park.

  But all that faded as he thought about how she’d chide him for swimming so far.

  If he’d had any strength to smile, he would have.

  His body was tempered to the chill of the sea, and out in the deeps of this choppy bay, he had just enough fuel to make it back to shore. Jonas dipped and somersaulted, coming up again in a new direction, heading for land. His arms burned, and his back felt as if it hadn’t a single stroke left when he finally touched sand again.

  Wading toward dry beach, he looked around for his towel, spotting it the same moment he spotted Rosie. He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit to having hoped she’d be here again, combing the beach for her treasures.

  With her profile to him, she was bent over near the edge of the froth, perhaps twenty paces away. The hem of a skirt was bustled into her waistband, making makeshift pantaloons and showing bare calves and ankles. Her pale feet pressed small prints into the sand. She seemed to be searching for something as she walked, bending every few steps to pluck a pebble or shell, giving it careful study. A few items she slipped into a canvas satchel that hung from her shoulder. Others, she tossed back to the wet ground. Her hair was pulled back with a strip of ribbon, the gentle coils of it spinning about in the breeze.

  Water still dripping down his face, Jonas ignored his towel to nab a perfectly whole shell from the gritty sand. He strode over without a word and dropped it into her bag. Rosie turned with a start. “Oh!” Upon seeing him, she pressed a hand to her heart. “Mr. McIntosh!”

  He smiled. “Seeing as we’re both showing so much skin, I think you can call me Jonas.”

  She chuckled, and it was so sweet, with her hand over her mouth, cheeks turning the shade of her name, that he finally had to chuckle as well.

  Then he sobered gently and squinted at her. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I dare say you shouldn’t have.” She looked about to right her skirts, cover her bare ankles, but he stilled her hand with his own.

  Gave a small shake of his head. “I promise not to look.”

  She smirked and tipped her head for them to walk on. Waves foamed about their feet, and low-hanging clouds kept the air cool even as dawn was breaking. He glanced over at her, content with this moment. When she crouched down and freed what looked like an old, rusted key, she turned it over in her hand. Rosie stood, and Jonas stepped a little closer, tipping his head nearer to her own.

  “That looks like something worth holding on to,” he said softly.

  “Yes. Worth saving.” She slipped it into her sack.

  They settled in stride once more. He bent occasionally for shells that seemed pretty, and while they were all quite similar to him, she contemplated each one as if it were highly unique. She saved them all, but what she seemed to prefer the most were odds and ends that bespoke humanity. A coil of wire. A piece of an old pipe. A bead that might have been part of a necklace once.

  “May I ask what you do with it all?” he said when she adjusted her sack to her other shoulder.

  Rosie fiddled with the edge of the canvas bag. “I just tuck it away. Use it for remembering.”

  “Where you came from?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I don’t know that I want to remember that.”

  He spoke the words as softly as he could. “Why not?”

  Opening her mouth, she looked about to answer, then said, “Let’s not worry about it now.”

  “Certainly.”

  He stepped on as she did, and when she glanced sideways, it was with a tinge of regret. “But I can tell you what I do wish to remember.” Her voice was both steady and fragile. “I hold these treasures close to remind myself that there are others in the world. Others who are lost. Or who hurt. Or even who wonder. These waters. This sea. It’s a bridge between us all. A reminder that we’re not alone.”

  It took great effort to pull his gaze from her face, but Jonas did it briefly. Just long enough to glance at the sack draped over her shoulder. He nodded—the only response he could muster beneath the depth of her sentiment.

  He hadn’t thought of it that way in a long time. He’d learned to see the sea only as a foe. As something to wrestle against. Now he was thinking of stained-glass windows and the words she’d slipped into his pocket.

  Be patient.

  He glanced heavenward. For what? He thought of asking Rosie, but she mentioned that it was time for her to get back to the hotel. He stayed beside her as they headed toward the resort that now seemed tiny with the spread of open beach from here to there.

  An easy silence settled about them. Rosie’s face upturned toward the coming sun that surely wouldn’t be brightening this day long, not with the storm clouds rolling in over the water. Be patient. He saw it in the way she turned over the shells he’d offered her. The way she studied the key with a pinched brow—as if there were an untold story there. As if she could reach out and hand it back, this treasure that someone lost.

  Jonas glanced sideways at her, realizing afresh what she’d confessed to him to be true. That she’d lost something. The tender way she’d tapped the side of her head with both sorrow and grief. He must have contemplated this overlong, for she was asking him if he’d ever heard of a selkie.

  “A what?”

  “A selkie. Part human, part seal? It’s old folklore.”

  He smiled at the oddity of that. “Can’t say that I have.”

  She shrugged as if to lessen its importance. “Abner used to say that I was one.”

  Jonas tried to make sense of that, but then Rosie motioned up the beach some. “There, when I said I didn’t want to remember where I came from.”

  “Yes.” He bent for his towel when they reached it.

  “That was the answer Abner used to give me. Whenever he’d tuck me in at night, he’d kiss the tip of my nose and ask me to stay a girl for one more night. That even though the sea yearned for me to come back, and I to it, to stay a girl a little longer or he’d be the worse for wear with missing me.”

  An ache rose inside Jonas.

  “It’s one of the few things I remember. He would say it after we prayed for him and Esther and myself. Thanking the Lord for the family that we were. Sometimes after, I’d ask why I didn’t have parents to pray with me. Silly, I suppose. It’s just a tale. An old Irish legend of sorts. Something we played at so I wouldn’t be left to wonder.” She was watching the water with eyes that thirsted for it. That thirsted for what was lost.

  At the slight quake in her voice, he thought to cheer her. “So underneath all this”—he touched her chin for the briefest of moments—“you’re just a seal.”

  Her face turned toward him, a smile brightening it. “If I’m ever gone, you’ll know why.”

  “Then I’ll hope as Abner did.”

  Surprise dawned in her expression.

  “For you to stay a girl awhile longer.”

  Twisting her mouth to the side did little to hide her smile, but he could see how much she was trying to fight it. The sight of her that way, of her sweet innocence—all bathed in the sound and sentiment of her words—was so becoming that he forced himself to look elsewhere for the sheer need of it.

  “There’s som
ething.”

  He glanced that way. Sure enough, wedged into the sand was a broken piece of green glass. Jonas fetched it for her. Though just a fragment, it felt weighty and right in the center of his palm. It was smooth as satin—every jagged edge rubbed away.

  “That’s very pretty,” she said, peeking over his shoulder.

  Jonas held the piece of glass up to the weak light. Then he offered it over.

  “You keep it.”

  He dropped it into her satchel regardless. “But you spotted it.”

  She looked flustered. “I can’t keep taking things from you.” Pulling her bag around to her front, Rosie dug into it. “Not without…returning…the…” She scrunched one side of her face, still searching. “Favor.” She held up a broken pair of spectacles then slid one earpiece into the front of his bathing tank.

  “Very funny.”

  She laughed. “I find at least one pair a week. The bathers lose these all the time.”

  “Too bad they don’t lose things of more interest.”

  “Oh, I found a ring once!” Rosie touched his arm in such a familiar way that Jonas glanced down at her hand, then back to her face.

  “Yeah?”

  “I gave it to the maître d’, and he was able to locate its owner.”

  Jonas’s brow furrowed. “That was kind of you.”

  “It was a ruby, I think.” She held up the sea glass to the stormy sky again as if searching for light. He hadn’t realized she’d still been holding it. “It wasn’t as pretty as this, though.”

  He smiled at the sweetness of that. Of this girl.

  Rosie glanced toward the hotel, and Jonas did as well. It stood bold and sprawling before them now.

  “I should head in, or I’ll be late for my shift,” she said. “It would probably be best for me to go alone.”

  “Of course.” He slowed to a stop.

  “Thank you for your help.” She slowly stepped onward.

  “Anytime.”

  After turning the glass slowly between her fingers, she tucked it away. “You will be in my prayers tonight, Jonas McIntosh.” With that, she gave him a small wave then headed off, leaving him to ponder the mysteries of this girl and the way she was working her way into his heart.

  Chapter Eight

  Rain pattered against the windows of the sunroom. Though a large room that ran the length of the hotel, filled with patrons stuck inside because of the weather, it was more than a little stuffy. Still, it was the brightest spot in the hotel, even on a day such as this. Jonas slipped his finger into his tie and loosened it.

  Nearby, Oliver and Dexter were bent over a chessboard, a few children watching the game. A pawn was lost to a bishop, and one of the children leaned nearer. Oliver winked at the small boy. Oakes sat beneath the windows in the center of a wicker love seat. He was swathed in the rapt attention of two young ladies as he told a story from school that Jonas was certain was only half-true.

  Newspaper in hand, Jonas read another column of the business section, his mind a million miles away. Hotel staff came and went, trying to keep guests comfortable and happy. Jonas ignored the grumbling from patrons over the fact that thunderheads had rolled into the midst of their holiday on the coast. Jonas and his teammates had lost a day of rowing, but that was often the way of it with the sport.

  After reaching the end of another article, he glanced around. In the far corner, a man played an upbeat lick on a grand piano. Promenaders moved back and forth in front of the dewy windows, watching the sky. Children lay sprawled on the floor, spinning tops or dealing cards. Babies dozed in the arms of nursemaids, and women leaned toward one another, swapping gossip. Gentleman discussed business, some stepping out to smoke cigars or while away the afternoon in the billiard room. Jonas folded his paper, thinking nine-balls wasn’t a bad idea just now.

  “Some tea for you, ma’am?”

  His ears perked at the sound of Rosie’s voice just behind him. Still seated on his wicker bench, Jonas dipped his head and folded his paper once more.

  “And some pastries?” Rosie said to whomever she was serving. “The macaroons are excellent.”

  “Oh, thank you,” came a woman’s reply.

  Then Rosie’s hurried whisper: “But don’t take the ones on the left because I dropped those.”

  Jonas coughed to cover up a rising chuckle then saw a hint of a black dress and white apron just like all the others, except this time it was Rosie who edged among the crowded vacationers. She paused in front of Oliver and Dexter, and though her smile was for them, it swept all the stuffiness from the room.

  “And something for you gentlemen?” she said respectfully. As if they hadn’t met before. As if she hadn’t ducked under Oliver’s arm and into their room yesterday.

  “Thanks.” Oliver leaned forward and studied the delicacies on the silver tray that she lowered. Then he whispered, “Your left or our left?”

  Jonas grinned, and Rosie quickly turned the tray so that only one end was in reach.

  The redheads each took a miniature quiche, and she plucked up chocolate straws and handed them over as well.

  “You can thank me later,” she said.

  “We’ll thank you now,” Dexter answered.

  Her eyes were bright, smile almost bashful as she stepped away. Dexter lifted his gaze to Jonas, and Jonas gave him the warning look that suggested he find a different girl to flirt with. Dexter chuckled and went back to his chess. Smiling himself, Jonas rose.

  Since sitting there watching Rosie would do no one any good, he headed out of the crowded sunroom. Best to keep busy.

  Down the hall, he saw that the billiards room was packed and thick with smoke, the latter of which could send his lungs into a fit, so he continued onward, heading toward the south exit. Out on the covered steps, Jonas watched the rain tap the manicured lawns. Beat and ripple the leaves of exotic hedges. Birds called to one another just overhead, where they were perched beneath the del’s logo, staying dry.

  At the edge of the platform, still beneath the overhang, a valet stood arguing with a delivery boy about a stack of crates that, according to the valet, should have been dropped off at the back entrance. On each wooden box was stamped PYROTECHNICS.

  “I see what you’re sayin’,” the delivery boy countered. “But these is the fireworks for the Fourth, and it was this or nothin’.” He motioned around the awning with a tattered cap, then toward the rain now finally lessening. “I had to get them off that wagon right quick when these skies unleashed. So you can help me move them inside, or we can stand here arguing about it some more in the damp air and all your rich folk can just skip their big display.”

  The valet glanced around as if all those rich folk had overheard that. Since it was just Jonas, he gave a friendly nod and left the safety of the porch. Head bowed, Jonas strode in the direction of the boathouse. The rain, just a drizzle now, dampened his coat, his hair. Angling toward the sea, he kept his sights on the building in the distance that mimicked the hotel itself. The square building with its white walls and red roof fed into the bay by a long length of dock, all alive with the motion of men battening down hatches on sailboats or securing oars inside dinghies and skiffs.

  Half-soaked, Jonas stepped inside and headed for the wooden quad that sat on its rack on the far wall. Near that hung netting and buoys. Two rental canoes sat parallel to one another. Jonas freed himself from both damp coat and vest then rolled back shirtsleeves to elbows. He ran an oar-calloused hand along the side of the hull of the quad, feeling salt and brine against the wood. His father’s boat, it had borne the man and his teammates thirty years ago at Harvard. Jonas felt a fool, but he had the grain of each and every board memorized, he’d spent so much time in their boathouse as a boy, sitting in this very vessel. Dreaming that he might be strong enough…

  In the storage closet, he filled a bucket with water, soap, and a clean rag. He dipped and wrung then smeared the rag along the lower boards. While the narrow shape of the boat was what he was accus
tomed to, the thin racing shell was a challenge out on this sea. Larger boats with higher sides would endure waves easier, but this was light, and any added weight would make the long distance more demanding.

  With tomorrow in mind, he tried to think of what would be safest for Rosie. Since the boys were getting accustomed to this boat, it was probably best to stick with it. The shell had borne them well so far, and he was grateful.

  He worked steadily, enjoying the cool, shifting air of the boathouse and the quiet it afforded. A few seafarers came and went, some tipping a cap to him, and Jonas returned the comradery. Sun glinted through the windows—clouds parting. Though he wasn’t finished, Jonas dropped the rag in the bucket. He strode toward the door, ducking around a rack of life vests, and out onto the deck where he leaned forward on the railing. The water glittered and rippled. Fish jumped. Jonas inhaled the cool air, savoring the way it calmed his lungs as only a sea breeze could do.

  In the distance lay the peninsula that stretched out, forming the bay. He could scarcely make out the shape of the lighthouse that rose at its tip. He squinted, trying to spot Rosie’s dock, but the bluffs were mostly a blur. Still, it wouldn’t take them long to get to the spot Rosie wished. It sounded as if this lighthouse keeper of hers made that trip now and again. And with the sun now showing its face, Jonas had a mind to see if the fellas weren’t up for an evening practice.

  Just to the lighthouse dock and back should be manageable enough, but a practice trip wouldn’t hurt. And he meant to find a smoother course from the far end of the bay where an inlet would allow them to disembark more safely with Rosie. Even get them to the lighthouse quicker and easier.

  Then in a few days, they’d face a different course entirely. One that would force them to face the break. If they managed to conquer that, the journey around the lighthouse itself would lead them past jagged rocks and open seas, a trip that took adventure—and danger—to new heights. Assuming his map was correct, it was three times the distance of even the longest collegiate race. A feat that no one had ever tried before because there was really no point. There was nothing to be gained in this trip they had plotted out.