by Isabel Jolie
“Tate.”
“What?”
“I go by Tate.” She stepped forward, close enough that her coconut scent overpowered the stench of my sweat. I allowed myself one deep inhale, then backed up before she regretted standing so close to me. “I think you need to focus on the turtles.”
Chapter 6
Luna
* * *
The ocean waves rolled in, tranquil, low, and calm. The sun shone over the smooth waves, shimmering like stardust. I straddled my board, legs dangling in the warm Atlantic, lost in my thoughts, barely registering the families filling the beach as the sun rose higher in the sky. Without waves to catch, my mind wandered to our island newcomer.
Hooks for surfboards hung on the wall of his porch. It wasn’t a stretch to think he surfed. After all, his grandmother did. There weren’t many surfers out today. The surfing school that set up near Access 42 rescheduled morning lessons for later in the day, hoping for better waves. I scanned the beach, searching for him. Anyone who knew the island and wanted to surf would come here, to the east side.
Another surfer straddled his board, far off in the distance. Too far for me to make out his facial features. He appeared out of nowhere, and I stared, snapped out of my reverie, thinking it might be him. My fingers tingled, tempted to paddle closer. Tate’s attitude made it clear he had no interest in me, but that kind of made him more intriguing. The fallout from my last relationship made me a little gun-shy on relationships. But I had no problem crushing on a guy. Being on the lookout for a particular someone added a layer of excitement to the day.
A figure on the beach waved an arm back and forth while jumping up and down. I waved back and paddled in.
“No waves today, huh?” Poppy asked as I scooped to lift my board beneath my arm.
“Yeah. But we’ve had several good days in a row. It’s the way it goes.”
Poppy pointed at the unidentifiable surfer. “Is that the new guy?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
“Do you want to go down and see?”
“No.” How foolish would we look, gawking from the shore?
“But he might need your help on the house. He’s a potential client.”
I dropped my board onto the sand and wiped my face with the towel. I folded my towel and readied my beach bag. Once I had everything ready to go, I opened up, letting my excitement ooze out slowly in a controlled manner, like steam drifting from a teapot.
“He does need my help.”
“You talked to him?” Poppy squeaked.
“Yes. I stopped by. I told him I’d be happy to help. He doesn’t seem to really want my help. Maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t like help from a woman or something? I’m not sure. But he needs my help. His cottage is a full project. And he has zero renovation expertise.”
“So, wait, what’s he like?”
“He worked for Greenpeace. And he’s a marine biologist.”
“Oh, my god! It’s kismet.”
“I don’t know about that,” I told her, even though I absolutely loved that Poppy had the same thoughts I had. Two marine biologists living on the same small island. What were the odds? “But I’m going to help him with his house if I can.”
“Oh, I think you’ll help him with his house, all right.” She pushed on my side, and I shoved her back.
“He’s cute. That’s for sure. But he gave no signs of interest. Which is fine. It’s not like I’m boyfriend shopping.”
“Uh-huh. What thirty-five-year-old wouldn’t want to go for a twenty-two-year-old surfer girl?”
“You think he’s that old?” The tattoos and the longish hair had had me thinking younger.
“Yeah, I’d say so. I mean, he doesn’t have a dad bod, and his hair gives him a younger vibe. But, as you know, I have experience with older men. It’s the lines around the eyes. And the hairline that’s a tad bit higher. Gives the age away.”
“He’s very serious.” He could be older. Not that age was an issue, but I’d hoped he’d be more like me, maybe open to having fun. Nothing too serious. I didn’t have any experience with older guys, so I didn’t know how they worked. But the last thing I wanted was another Brandon situation.
“He’s an older dude. He doesn’t have the baby-smooth face of someone just out of college.”
“You’re an expert on judging age now?”
“Yes. I look at photos of men all the time. Admittedly, half the time I don’t think the men are posting real pics of themselves, but you know, when they send something other than a dick pic, you kind of study the photo. I mean, I do. You’re sitting there texting them…” She paused as I stared. “What?”
“Are you, like, doing sexting?”
“No. Well…maybe kind of. With some clients. You said you don’t judge.”
“I don’t. I’m not.” We reached my golf cart, and she helped me lift the board onto the top and strap it. “Hey, I love you no matter what. I’m only trying to better understand. As for Tate, no matter how old he is, he told me to focus on the turtles. At the time, I took it as a brush-off, but now I’m thinking maybe he just meant it as career guidance. I mean, the whole renovation side business is a big detour from my work at the conservancy. And, once school starts back up, it’s going to be a lot.”
“I don’t like that kind of talk.” Poppy wagged her index finger. “No, momma. You do you. If you want to renovate on the side, fix away. It’s a killer business on this island.”
“Yeah, that’s what my parents say.” My parents still lived in Sanibel. My mom’s diner pretty much took up all her time twenty-four-seven, but as a roofer, my dad always had odd jobs on the side. With so much free time during the day, it felt completely natural to me to look for an additional income source. The conservancy job fell in the awesome category on my resume but barely paid the bills. If they didn’t supply housing, I wouldn’t have been able to accept the position here.
After waving goodbye to Poppy, I hopped on my golf cart and headed to Mr. Baird’s inner island job site, hoping to catch him. When I pulled up, nails pounding into wood filled the air.
Tony, one of Mr. Baird’s regular crew, sat on a piling, smoking a cigarette. He greeted me with his favorite smackdown. “Look-a-there, if it isn’t my favorite do-gooder.”
“Hey, Tony. Is Mr. Baird here?”
“He’s already moved on to the custom job on East Beach. But he told me if you stopped by to say you can have the discarded wood. You got a Habitat for Humanity project or something?”
“No, just helping someone.”
“Of course you are.” He smiled, but it came off as more of a leer. He had a rough look and an attitude to go with it. Tony referred to me with words that by themselves weren’t necessarily bad, but the way he said them made me feel like he felt the need to put me down. When I told him I was in grad school, he’d lifted his eyebrows and said, “Oh, you’re a smart one.”
I earned the name do-gooder when he learned I worked to save sea turtles, and he’d gone on about how I was probably one of those who fought oil projects that would lower our price of gas and raise the GDP.
Tony reminded me of my dad. He also chose a life in construction, which gave him a lot of flexibility. If he wanted to take a day and surf, he could. But the similarities ended with lifestyle choices. My dad grew up in California and had a different world view than Tony. To my dad, working to help the planet was admirable. To Tony, environmentalists threatened the economy with their nonsense.
“Right this way, little do-gooder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Baird had me load up the wood for you. You can take the contractor truck to deliver it. We’ll need it back by noon.”
“What? How much is he going to charge for it?”
“Sounded to me like it was free. That’s something you liberals love, right?”
I gritted my teeth as I followed Tony around the lot to the alley. The beat-up pickup truck was loaded down with boards, still p
acked in cardboard boxes. It could be enough for Tate’s whole downstairs. It seemed too good to be true, so I pulled out my phone.
“Mr. Baird, this is Luna. Tony said you’re giving me this wood? It’s still in the packaging.”
“Yeah, take it. The client already paid for it, and I don’t have a good place to store it. We’re booked solid with custom jobs for the next year. Besides, you’re always helping me and not charging enough hours.” He was right. I hated charging for a partial hour here and there.
Buzzing with the excitement of delivering an awesome gift, I pounded on Tate’s door until my knuckles throbbed. The door cracked open, and Tate stood before me, damp hair tucked behind his ears, wearing only board shorts. I focused on the cerulean blue of his irises to avoid gawking at his ripped tan chest. His gaze cascaded from my face and down. I felt it, the sensation tickling across my skin like water droplets drying in the sun. At that moment, it registered that I still wore my bikini. Living on the beach, wearing a bikini became as natural as flip-flops, and I thought nothing of it. But Tate’s gaze brought on a new level of self-consciousness.
I swallowed and wrapped my arms around my waist. “I have a surprise for you.”
He blinked rapidly a few times.
I pointed behind me at the dilapidated pickup. “Mr. Baird gave you the wood I was telling you about. If you want it. I need to unload it, though, so they can have the truck.” The island forbade automobiles, but contractors could have them and use them when needed.
I skipped back to the truck, eager to show him the boards. The color ordered would be perfect for his cottage, if he liked the gray flat sheen. The heat of his gaze on my back had me self-consciously tugging on my bikini bottoms. They had gathered up, possibly giving me a wedgie. Of course, my mom, beach baby hippy woman, used to always tell me we should never be ashamed of our bodies. She went to nudist beaches, and when I was a kid, she hardly ever put me in a bikini top. I pleaded for a top the summer after my fourth-grade year. It was a bathing suit at the beach. No big deal, I reminded myself, as my fingers tugged on the fabric.
I opened a box for him, and his gaze slowly transitioned from my ass to the box. His facial muscles didn’t move, making him difficult to read. He reached out and ran a finger over one of the boards.
“He’s giving them to me? Why?”
I explained.
“I can pay him. I don’t need a handout.”
“I know. I really think it’s just a good timing kind of thing. He doesn’t have ample storage and shipping them back to Southport is a hassle. And he’s a good man. He’s not looking to double charge for the same item.”
He tugged on his chin, and those piercing blue eyes waffled between the boards and the cottage. He exhaled. “Thank you. Much appreciated.”
He picked up one of the long, heavy boxes, and I rushed to get the end to help him. Within ten minutes, we’d emptied the flatbed and stacked the wood in his golf cart house without sharing a word.
“I was thinking I could bring dinner by tonight, if you like. I could share those plans I’ve done. Talk about colors. I could come up with a project outline for you. I can also give you the lowdown on the island contractors.”
“Over dinner?” he asked as his gaze traveled over my top. The fabric was still damp from my morning swim, and the way the thin material stretched over my breast highlighted the outline of my nipple, something I hadn’t realized until that exact moment. My face heated, and I curled my toes in my flip-flops.
“Do you eat meat?” I asked, as much to direct the conversation as anything else.
The summer heat ticked up, and I lifted my damp hair off my back, seeking a breeze.
The corners of his lips shifted upward ever so slightly. “How old do you think I am?”
“Ahem, I don’t know. Early thirties, maybe? Why?”
“I’m thirty-five. And you said you’re twenty-two?”
“Almost twenty-three.”
“You’re too young for me. You get that, right?”
“I wasn’t asking you on a date,” I blurted, my cheeks flaming as mortification rose. But I also didn’t quite understand. “Why does age matter?”
“It’s not a chronological age thing. It’s a life age thing. And trust me, you never want to be as old as I am.” His gaze wandered briefly down my body once more, and he shook his head before responding. “You need to be hanging with the college crowd, Luna. If you want to help me with the renovation, I’d appreciate the help, and I’d be happy to let you put it in a portfolio. I get that you’re building a business. But dinner implies something. And showing up at a man’s door in what you’re wearing, asking about dinner, that’s inadvisable.”
I felt an overwhelming urge to respond with a yes, sir, but I held it inside and swallowed it down. “We’re casual on the island, Tate. If that’s a problem for you, I’ll keep it in mind. When would you like to get together to discuss your project?”
“Any time after you’re dressed works for me. I’ll be here.”
“After…got it. I’ll be by later.” I spun around so he wouldn’t see my grin as the implications of him being uncomfortable in my bikini-clad body set in. He did find me attractive. My interpretation of his gaze had been spot-on. I called out before climbing in the truck, “Hey, do you surf?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“East Beach.” His serious look returned, and I took it to mean he was trying to figure out where I was going with my questions.
“I’ll keep an eye out for you. And I’ll wear a surf top.” I actually always wore a surf top to protect my shoulders from the sun, but I’d taken it off once I reached my golf cart.
“Luna.” He said my name the way my father did when I’d done something wrong. He said it in a way that if he knew my middle or last name, I was sure he would have tacked them onto my name too.
“See ya soon, Tate,” I called, waving through the rolled-down window, the flow of air lending a temporary reprieve from the summer heat.
As I pulled away, my phone rang. One glance told me it was my sister. “Nova, what’s up?”
She sighed heavily into the phone, a sure sign drama would follow.
“I didn’t want you to see this somewhere on social.”
Oh, jeez. “What?”
“Brandon is dating Tory.”
“That sounds like it could be a reality TV show.”
“Are you upset?”
“Jesus, Nova. No. Brandon and I broke up two years ago. He can date whoever he wants.”
“Even your best friend?”
“Tory wasn’t my best friend.”
“She wasn’t?”
“No, she was one of my friends. And I haven’t seen her in ages either.”
“They looked like they could be serious.”
“Good. Good for them. Brandon wanted to get married and have kids. It was only a matter of time before someone scooped him up.” I almost drowned in guilt when I broke up with him. Him being happy would be a good thing. If only my family could accept our break-up. If I didn’t have a strong relationship with them, I’d suspect they loved him more than me.
“I guess it’s good if he’s happy. But I always wanted it to be you,” she whined.
“You like him that much? You marry him. I have no interest in spending the rest of my life in South Florida pumping out kids.”
“He’s a good guy. You know he still comes by and visits Dad each week. I don’t think he’s over you.”
“You just told me he’s dating someone else. We’re young. We get over things quickly. Remember Wally?”
“Wally who?”
“Exactly. Three months ago, you told me you’d met the guy you were going to marry.”
“Well, I was a little off on that one. But you and Brandon dated for ten years.”
“I’m not entirely sure you count elementary school. Anyway, where is this all coming from?”
Right then, a revving engine overpowered her response�
�a familiar engine sporting a tampered exhaust pipe.
“Oh, my god. Are you with him right now?”
“No. Don’t be silly. When are you coming home to visit?”
“Nova. I love you. Tell Brandon I said hey and tell Mom to call me when she gets a chance.”
Chapter 7
Tate
* * *
Tropical Storm Rita neared the Carolina coastline, and a dark horizon signaled heavy rain would soon arrive. The waves had amped up, and a few fearless surfers on East Beach hung tight to their boards, enjoying the accompanying adrenaline rush from the bombs mixed in with the chop. Once upon a time, I’d been like those guys. Fearless. The concept of death or injury was a vague notion of something that happened to others, to unlucky bastards or the old.
The plastic flaps to my golf cart flapped loudly in the wind as I coasted away, then down Wynd Road, on my way to pick up my friend. A lone surfer caught my eye, coming into view briefly between the houses. The guy was way too far out. On South Beach, where the waves crashed fast and hard. Not ideal surf conditions on a good day. I slowed down and watched, looking to see if I saw anyone else out there with him. I caught a glimpse of someone standing on the beach and pressed the accelerator.
The loud, billowing horn sounded, and I sped up. I parked in a spot at the same time the ferry glided into the harbor. Within minutes, my clean-cut friend meandered down the stainless steel plank in a pressed button down oxford, khaki shorts and leather loafers, chatting up one of the other passengers. He saw me, waved, and headed my way.
“Hey, man, so good to see you.”
“You too. It’s been a while.”
He slapped me on my back and shook his head, right as large, chilly water droplets rained down on us from above. We slid into the front seat as the sky opened up. Rain splashed our legs and covered the seat as we struggled with the zippers for the side flaps. We laughed with relief once we had it all zipped up.
