by Ginny Baird
Now, Heath saw that hope had been a fairytale. But perhaps he’d known this for a while. Though he’d witnessed friends falling in love, Heath had always reflexively guarded his heart. It was like an instinct he had, survival of the fittest. And the best way to survive involved keeping himself under control and his emotions in check. Those were precisely the characteristics that had served him well in building his business, taking the bank from its meager beginnings and transforming it into the international financial institution it was today.
The solitaire’s stone glinted in the light as Heath compared it to the unusual beauty of the battered Chianti bottle. He picked up the bottle and surveyed it carefully. The peeling label said the wine was from an area of Italy he recognized. It was a Tuscan varietal and a very good year. Whoever had been drinking this had really known their wines. Or perhaps they’d simply gotten lucky. “You’ve certainly taken a beating,” he said out loud. “But it looks like you did your job.” Inside the bottle, the scrolled-up missive leaned sideways. On closer inspection, Heath noticed it was bound together with a small piece of string.
His eyes darted to the needle-nose pliers he’d withdrawn from his toolbox earlier and placed on the table. Heath intended to use those to carefully extract the note from the bottle, in case it didn’t easily spill out once he’d uncorked it. He considered the bottle a moment more before pressing his thumbs against the cork. Son of a gun, it’s wedged in tight. He tried again from another angle, then nabbed a dishtowel from nearby and tugged. The person who’d driven this cork in must have used a sledgehammer!
Heath stood and strode to a kitchen drawer, extracting his trusty corkscrew. The high-end apparatus never failed him, and it made easy work of the reticent Chianti cork. It popped loudly, its din resonating throughout the kitchen. Heath grinned, eagerly anticipating what the note might say. Hopefully it was written in jest, like Caroline surmised. Heath certainly hoped a person wasn’t legitimately shipwrecked somewhere. If this was a true cry for help, he’d have to bring it to the attention of the Coast Guard.
He leaned forward in his chair and carefully tipped the bottle upside down over the table. The rolled-up note slid toward the bottle’s neck then became stuck at a weird angle. “Needle-nose pliers to the rescue,” Heath proclaimed, picking up the instrument and gingerly plucking at one side of the little scroll.
It took a few different maneuvers, but Heath finally pinched together the top edges of the scroll, compressing them just enough so he could…very slowly…withdraw it. Aha! The head was born! And then—whoosh! The rest of the scroll slid out gracefully, its string only snagging for a brief moment against the narrow bottle lip.
“Well, here’s the moment of truth,” he said to the ring box as if it could answer. Then he slipped off the narrow piece of twine and unrolled the paper.
Heath flattened the wrinkled page out on the table and read the contents. As he did, his heart skipped a beat.
SOS!
Mend my broken heart.
If you’re smart,
If you’re sexy,
If you dare…
IrishLass@...
Heath glanced again at the glistening solitaire on the table, finding it impossible to believe that just hours ago he’d been prepared to ask Caroline to marry him. Caroline had never dared Heath to do anything. She’d never pushed—or challenged—him. In all their time together, Heath had convinced himself that was a good thing.
But if playing it safe was so wonderful, why then did Heath’s pulse pound harder as he tried to fathom who had written this note? Was she smart? Was she sexy? Did she live in Ireland? This Irish Lass certainly seemed adventuresome, whoever—and wherever—she was.
Yet the most telling thing about her message was the earnestness of her admission. Irish Lass hadn’t pretended to be brave or invincible. On the contrary, she’d shared a very personal truth. Some unworthy cad had broken her heart.
Heath viewed her exquisite penmanship, thinking she must have taken care with this note. It was deceptively short, yet the emotions behind it ran deep. Perhaps she’d been at her wit’s end, and had given up. Maybe she’d just needed someone to talk to, yet nobody had been there…except this old Chianti bottle.
Heath’s gaze returned to the bottle as he considered it anew. “Just where in the world did you come from?” He’d probably never know. The mystery of this message in a bottle was bound to remain unsolved.
Unless…he tried e-mailing her…
Heath pushed back in his chair, shaking his head at the crazy idea. What would he say? Hey, I found your SOS? This bottle could have been bobbing around in the Atlantic for years!
Well, okay, Heath conceded, probably not too many, given that the vintage of the wine was just six years old. That could mean that it was tossed soon after that particular batch of wine was bottled, or anytime between then and now. But if the bottle had traveled from Europe, it had to have been afloat for a while.
That would have to mean that Irish Lass had tossed it into the sea some time ago. She could already be married! Or at least engaged... It was also possible she’d forgiven the cad who’d broken her heart and they were living in wedded bliss with a baby in Dublin.
Heath heaved a breath, deciding he was reading too much into a simple note. He’d had a long day and hadn’t slept at all last night. He was tired, overwrought, and probably a little thrown off base by his sudden breakup with Caroline. Not that he regretted it entirely, though he did hate the fact that he’d hurt her feelings.
He picked up the note again, noticing it was written on a small piece of stationery. It appeared to be from a notepad, the sort stocked beside telephones in hotel rooms. The name of a Caribbean resort was embossed in gold letters at the top of the page.
Had Irish Lass taken the notepad home before tossing her missive out to sea in Ireland? Or, had she actually been staying on this island when she’d made her move? Heath considered the name of the place, thinking he’d never heard anything about it. Then again, there were so many remote islands in that part of the world, some of them privately owned and home to exclusive resorts.
For an instant he had the impulse to research the place on the Internet and phone the front desk. Yeah, right. And what would he say? Heath clearly couldn’t inquire about a brokenhearted Irish Lass who’d been a guest. Even if the hotel could, by some wild miracle, identify her, they’d surely keep her identity confidential.
Heath sighed and ran a hand through his hair, deciding there was nothing more to be done. He rolled up the note and secured it carefully with its twine before returning it to the bottle and very gently inserting the cork.
His historic townhome was just a short block away from Forsyth Park in downtown Savannah and it was a pleasant evening out. He’d take a stroll and a have an early dinner at one of his favorite restaurants nearby before calling it a day. Perhaps, if they had it on the menu, he’d order a special bottle of Chianti to accompany his meal.
Chapter Three
Tara McAdams refilled Jeannie’s glass with the flavorful libation. She, and her best friend since the ninth grade, sat in a quaint Italian restaurant twenty miles from her hometown, which had no eateries of its own to speak of. Other than the places that sold fish. This part of Maine on Beaumont Bay and near Cadillac Mountain was known for its lobster, but every once in a while a girl needed her pasta.
“Say, isn’t this the same kind of Chianti?” Jeannie asked, indicating the bottle.
“The one from Enchanted Island?” Tara savored her swallow of wine, considering what a foolish act that had been. Not that she’d really believed it would amount to anything at the time. “Yeah.”
“Still nothing doing?”
Tara shrugged and set down her wineglass. “What could you really expect?”
“Well, I don’t know about you.” Jeannie gave a mischievous giggle. “But I was kind of hoping you’d hear from your Prince Charming, or something.”
“I guess there’s nobody that daring out
there anymore.”
Jeannie leaned forward and her dirty blond hair grazed her shoulders. “Or that smart and sexy,” she said in a whisper.
Tara wryly twisted her lips. “If he’s out there, he must be hiding.”
Jeannie’s gray eyes rounded. “Or married,” she said in low tones. “Maybe that’s the hold up?”
Tara hadn’t even considered this, that she could have unwittingly become a home-wrecker. “That would be horrible,” Tara hissed back. “Surely, a married man wouldn’t respond?”
“An engaged one might,” Jeannie commented.
“That’s nearly as bad.”
“I guess that depends on his fiancée,” Jeannie returned and Tara swatted her with her linen napkin.
“It’s never too late until you say I do, Tara.” Jeannie contemplated her wineglass a moment then took a sip. “Maybe it’s still floating out there—your bottle? Could be anywhere by now, you know?”
More than likely at the bottom of the ocean, Tara thought glumly. Who had she been fooling, thinking her desperate, far-flung measure might actually lead to something? She viewed the rustling autumn leaves through the restaurant window, as they turned orange and gold in the fading daylight. “It’s been over four months, now. Who knows if it will ever be found? And, if it is…?” Tara sighed heavily. “What are the odds of him being all those things I asked for?”
Jeannie grimaced sympathetically. “Might not even be a him. A woman could discover the bottle.”
“I’ve thought of that, too.” Tara twisted her thick dark hair into a coil and brought it forward over one shoulder. “I just wish…”
“I know that you do,” Jeannie said kindly.
“Pasta carbonara!” their waiter announced, appearing. He served Tara first then addressed Jeannie, setting down her plate. “And a garden lasagna for you.” Delicious aromas drifted from both of the steaming entrees.
After their waiter departed, Jeannie said, “That must have been fun, being on that island with your online friends.” She sounded a bit wistful, almost like she’d wanted to join them.
“Yeah, it was great. Fun to finally meet everyone in person.”
“Has anyone else heard anything?”
“Meg met a television producer!” Tara said brightly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! He was filming on Enchanted Island when her bottle washed up.”
“No way.”
“Way. It got stuck on the shoals or something and got carried back in with the tide. I hear they’re getting married.”
Jeannie sighed dreamily. “Well, I guess that’s one happy ending.”
Tara raised her wineglass. “Here’s to happy endings!”
Jeannie clinked her glass, then mysteriously said, “Speaking of that…” In one deft move, she withdrew the left hand she’d cagily concealed under the table. A new diamond sparkled on her ring finger. Tara gleefully clutched her hand, admiring the pretty stone.
“Jeannie! When?”
“Just last Saturday.”
Considering they worked side-by-side daily at the Happy Hearts Bookshop, Tara was amazed that Jeannie had been able to keep her engagement a secret. “And you didn’t say a word?”
Jeannie blushed hotly. “I didn’t want to mention it until I had the ring. Dave and I picked it out together this morning.”
“How lovely!” Tara leapt from her chair and hugged Jeannie’s shoulders. “I’m so happy for you. For you and Dave, both!”
But inside, Tara’s heart was breaking, because she was more certain than ever that her time would never come. Besides Tara, who appeared to be the sole holdout, Jeannie was the final one of their old high school group to become engaged, and she was marrying the last eligible bachelor in Beaumont. Not that Tara was interested in Dave for herself. He and Jeannie had been an item forever, and they were an ideal match. Tara was starting to fear that the perfect match for her only existed in some fantasy realm, like those portrayed in the upbeat romance novels she loved so much.
Tara was a sucker for a happy ending. So much so, she’d lobbied the Town Council to grant her a license to open a bookstore dedicated to selling only romance novels. She owned the store and Jeannie worked as her manager. Between the two of them, they kept the ladies of Beaumont and its surrounding rural areas well supplied with happily-ever-afters in all subgenres: contemporaries, historicals…paranormals and westerns… There was something for everyone at the Happy Hearts Bookshop. And there was someone for everyone inside each tale they sold. If only Tara’s truth mirrored her fiction.
****
Heath finished his after-dinner cordial at his favorite table beside the roaring fireplace. He’d enjoyed most of the Chianti with his meal and would be corking the rest and taking it home. A heavy rain was starting to fall outside, pockmarking the sidewalk beneath the streetlamp’s glow. Umbrellas bloomed and couples huddled together, avoiding the sudden downpour, as thunder boomed above.
One woman partnered with a tall slender man looked familiar. She laughed and turned to face her date, latching onto the lapels of his overcoat. Then she was kissing him wildly, as he held his big golf umbrella lazily askew. Rain splatter lightly speckled the lovers but they kept on kissing, lost in each other in the storm. Heath marveled at their spectacle, knowing they were oblivious to the rest of the world.
“Young love, huh?” his waitress said, setting the to-go bag containing his corked bottle of wine on the table.
“Yeah.” He smiled up at his server, extracting a few large bills from his wallet and placing them in the slim leather holder with the check.
“Need change from that?”
“No, thanks.” Heath stood, his gaze once again flitting to the street-side window. The lovers had broken apart in laughter when they realized they’d both gotten sprayed. The man pulled a handkerchief from an inside pocket and gently dabbed off their clothing, before the couple walked arm in arm toward the restaurant.
Heath gaped in disbelief. He recognized them both. The man was a professional competitor, and it appeared he’d been trying to best Heath personally as well. Theirs obviously wasn’t a new relationship, and the woman was…Caroline.
She nearly bumped into Heath, jostling in the restaurant door while trying to avoid her companion’s wet umbrella as he closed it. “Heath!”
“I’m a little stunned to see you, too.” He slowly perused the man, keeping his countenance steady. “Will, this is an unexpected…surprise.”
Will’s neck reddened at his collarbone beneath his crewneck sweater. “It’s been a while, Heath.” He extended a hand but Heath declined the gesture.
“I guess you weren’t kidding,” Heath said to Caroline.
Her face flushed but her eyes were cold. “Three years is a very long time.” She shot a look at Will, who stood there stymied. He glanced from Caroline to Heath.
“You two are broken up?”
Caroline attempted to steer Will toward the dining room. “Of course.”
“Since this morning.” Heath summarily scrutinized Caroline. “That’s a mighty fast recovery.”
“This morning? Wait.” Will waved off the maître d’, and addressed his date. “You told me in September that—?”
“September?” Heath shook his head at Caroline. “Wow.”
“What’s that mean?” Will viewed Caroline suspiciously, and she began to stammer.
“I…I…just—”
Heath bowed their way. “I’ll leave you both to it.” Then he stepped out the door and opened his own umbrella. No rain could have felt more cleansing than the rain tonight.
There he’d been beating himself up over his poor treatment of Caroline, and she’d been the one catting around on him! A huge burden of guilt was lifted from Heath’s shoulders, and he felt completely free again. Free to do what he wanted.
****
A little while later, Heath sat at his kitchen table with two Chianti bottles: the one he’d brought home from the restaurant and the one he’d foun
d on Tybee Island. If he knew nothing else, he conceded that Irish Lass had excellent taste in wine. He’d enjoyed his Chianti tonight immensely. And, tonight wasn’t done yet, he thought, helping himself to another glass.
The older Chianti bottle seemed to be calling him, prodding him to open it once again and release the magic genie in a bottle, which was actually the scrolled-up note. Now that Heath was a free man, he could write to her. Simply for the fun of it and nothing more... Heath had never been to Ireland, but he wouldn’t mind visiting. If it came to that.
Heath took another slug of wine, noting he was letting his imagination run away with him. And that imagination painted a very different picture of a woman on a beach. She wasn’t stuffy and uptight like Caroline, but rather wildly free-spirited…running and dancing through the waves. In Heath’s mind’s eye, he could see her, and she wasn’t a blonde. She was a redhead. He squinted his eyes in thought, a different image appearing. No, not a redhead; a brunette, with rich auburn highlights in her hair.
She skipped through the shallows, her laughter tittering over the waves, and the musical sound lifted Heath’s spirit high among the billowy clouds. He leaned back in his chair, savoring the fantasy of a different kind of life, with a different sort of partner. Someone who honestly adored him, and whom he cherished in return. A woman he would follow anywhere. And he was chasing her down the shore…
The sea nymph laughed again then turned to glance over her shoulder. Heath was desperate to see her face and gaze into her eyes. Were they blue like the sky or dark like the mane that flowed behind her as she leapt through the surf? Perhaps even an enchanting shade of green? But as she spun toward him, Heath’s fantasy bubble popped and the entire illusion disappeared. He opened his eyes and shook his head, setting down his wine. And, in that instant, Heath knew what he had to do. It didn’t matter where in the world she was, he had to write to Irish Lass, simply to verify that she really existed.
