Dancing Tides

by Vickie McKeehan

  The judge finally looked up, removed her reading glasses and stared straight into Cord’s brown eyes. “That’s tomorrow, Mr. Bennett. You miss that meeting and I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest by six o’clock tomorrow evening. Are we clear here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, clear as rain.”

  And with one resounding tap of her gavel, Cord Bennett walked out of the hearing a chastised, but free man.

  “Do you think Nick will take me back?”

  Behind the wheel of his police cruiser heading back to Pelican Pointe, Ethan pointed out, “He didn’t fire you, Cord. He left the decision up to you. It seems you decided.”

  “Didn’t have much of a choice, now did I? You hit rock bottom the only place to go is…” he gestured with his thumb in an upward motion. “I bet that old Flynn McCready had my truck towed by now.”

  “It’s parked in front of my house.”

  “Thanks Ethan. And not just for that—for everything. Who is this guy that’s supposed to be my sponsor, this Pete Alden?”

  “Gosh, Pete’s been around Pelican Pointe for probably fifty years or more. Used to be a shrimper before he sold out to Clance Hopkins, had three boats that went out every day, seven days a week, the Ruby Tuesday and the Potted Shrimp. He sold the Moonlight Mile off a decade or so back and Porter rehabbed it into a research vessel. Now Pete spends his time working at the rescue center.”

  “Okay, so this old dude is my sponsor. Got it. What rescue center?”

  “Pete’s a character. He and Porter Fanning used to be best friends. Porter started the Fanning Marine Rescue Center.”

  “Wait. Fanning? I take it the Keegan woman is related to this Porter guy.”

  “Granddaughter. She runs the place now.” Ethan told him about Keegan’s recent loss and how she had been out on the Moonlight Mile searching for an injured animal in need. “She knows that bay like the back of her hand. The Moonlight Mile belongs to the center.”

  “So this Pete and the grandfather were tight. I guess it isn’t a coincidence that the names of the shrimp boats and this renovated fishing trawler are all Rolling Stones’ songs?”

  Ethan laughed and rubbed his chin as if considering that. “No coincidence. I guess Porter and Pete were big time Stones’ fans. They were certainly leftovers from the ’60s. As I recall Pete captained the boats for forty years or more before the fishing drastically fell off around Smuggler’s Bay.”

  “What can you tell me about the Keegan woman?”

  Ethan cocked a brow. “Interested in the redhead, are you?”

  “Who wouldn’t be? Since she saved my life I need to find a way to thank her for it. She could’ve waited for the paramedics to get there. I heard them talking. She didn’t. If she’d waited—I might not be sitting here now. You think I don’t know that?”

  Ethan took his eyes off the road long enough to give Cord a hard look. “I want to believe you had an epiphany in lockup last night but—”

  “I don’t know as I’d call it an epiphany maybe more like a realization that Cassie wouldn’t exactly approve of what she sees in me these days. Besides, I have to accept the fact that Cassie’s gone. I need to think about keeping my job and my place to live, do something with my life other than wish I had died that day.”

  “Glad to hear it.” But the Chumash shaman in Ethan, always fighting an energy from within, picked up on an underlying vibe he wasn’t sure was genuine. For now though, he determined it was nothing more than his law enforcement cynicism kicking in and decided to let it go. Over the next few days, he’d just have to wait and see, keep an eye on things and judge how serious Cord was.

  “So?” Cord prodded.

  “Keegan Fanning is about as rock solid as they come. She’s a hard worker, and does her damnedest to keep FMRC up and running every day. After Porter died, she had staffing issues. Interns transferred to other places, thought they could learn more elsewhere than from a girl. Plus, it takes an incredible amount of money to keep that place going. Porter was good at fundraising. She has huge shoes to fill in trying to replace not one grandparent, but two, who were fixtures at that place for decades. She lost both of them within a year of each other. She’s juggling a lot of balls in the air right now and lately seems stressed out—to me anyway.”

  For the rest of the drive Cord pumped Ethan for both fact and fiction about the redheaded mermaid lookalike with deep blue eyes. He learned all he could about the woman who fascinated him with her boldness, with her sense of right and wrong, and with how she’d instinctively jumped in the water to save a stranger.

  Ethan made him realize the woman’s work habits rivaled his. And he didn’t think that was possible.

  She’d grown up without her natural parents, something he could relate to but at least she’d had grandparents. They’d taken her in and stepped up to the plate to raise her.

  There had been no one to take that step for him, never had been—until Cassie. Cassie, he supposed, had filled that void. At one time he’d craved a family. He’d wanted grandparents, even a wayward uncle, maybe even a flighty aunt. But he’d long ago accepted the fact he’d been solo at an early age.

  Family. That word had a tendency to rankle him.

  The minute he got back to his truck, the first thing Cord did was head to the florist. He might not have had a woman in his life for a long time but he knew they liked getting flowers. Even though going inside a flower shop wasn’t where he wanted to be at the moment, it was something he had to do. In his mind there was no better way to say “thanks for saving my sorry life” than sending her a bunch of roses.

  But once he stepped inside Drea’s Flowers a familiar smell hit him and he knew this idea had been a big mistake. Unwillingly, he inhaled the scent of lilies. At least he thought it was the sickening, fragrance hitting his nostrils that had him ready to bolt back out into the street. On an empty stomach from not having eaten in almost twenty-four hours, he wanted to get his order placed and done with and get out of there.

  When he spotted the perky brunette standing behind the counter arranging long-stemmed white roses in a dark blue vase, he swallowed hard and gutted it out.

  He cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you know Keegan Fanning?”

  Drea eyed the man with open curiosity. He had the most gorgeous deep brown eyes and his long blondish hair made him sexy as hell, even if his face looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Scruffiness aside, she decided a customer was a customer. “Sure, I went to school with her from first grade on. Why?”

  “I want to send her roses. If you know her well, maybe you could pick out something for me you’re sure she’ll like.” He reached in his back pocket for his wallet and his credit card. “Those white ones you’re working on will do fine, or something else just as nice, whatever she likes.”

  The brunette’s eyebrows arched in unmistakable, curious fashion. She grabbed her order pad. “You want to send Keegan Fanning white roses? Keegan Fanning the woman who runs the rescue center, right?”

  “One and the same. Why are you so surprised?”

  “Well for one thing, as far as I know Keegan Fanning hasn’t gotten flowers since senior prom. Those were violets, a wrist corsage as I recall, had to be almost ten years back. Keegan likes the color blue. This arrangement here is for Myrtle Pettibone. It’s her birthday today, seventy years young. Her sister, Prissie Gates, wants to surprise her.”

  Cord didn’t hear the last part. All he knew was that violets were not pink like lilies. Lilies were Pepto Bismol pink and not blue. His hands went clammy, sweat popped out on his forehead. “Okay. Something blue then. Violets are fine. Look, I’m in kind of a hurry, whatever you pick out I’m sure it will work.” He needed to get out of there.

  Drea tilted her head to study the man. “What’s the occasion, first date?”

  Cord shook his head. One thing even a newb like him could count on in a small town was that one way or another, everyone sooner or later wormed t
heir way into knowing your business. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that by afternoon most of the nosy locals would be flapping their gums about the fact that he’d sent flowers to Keegan Fanning.

  “I want to say thank you.”

  Drea was beginning to get a better picture of this man. With her hand, she air-waved back at his chest. “Wait, you’re the guy she pulled out of the ocean last night.”

  “Exactly. Now—”

  “I’ve got just the thing for her.” With that, Drea disappeared into the back room.

  Annoyed, Cord stood there like an idiot, looking around the small shop. He noted lots of sunny yellow blossoms, lots of red roses, lots of sweet-smelling carnations, but he didn’t see a single blue petal of any kind. Violets were simple. Why couldn’t he just pick out a bunch of them and be on his way.

  But when she came back she held a cluster of brilliant, bluish, huge purple flowers in her fist. “These babies are blue parrot tulips. I got them in yesterday. My parents own The Plant Habitat.” Eyeing his confusion, she added, “The nursery in town.”

  Cord nodded. “I’m familiar with The Plant Habitat. We mostly rely on growing our own seedlings in the greenhouse, but there are certain kinds of hard to grow vegetables we get from your mom and dad.”

  “I know. Asparagus is one of them. My dad’s got this reputation as a guru when it comes to developing hardy vegetables. He has a side interest though in flowers, specifically tulips. For years now he’s been on this kick experimenting, trying to grow his own kinds, trying to produce different colors other than the norm, you know, something other than red or yellow, something out of the ordinary. Anyway, these babies are the result.” She sat them on the counter and stood back proudly waiting for his reaction.

  As long as they weren’t lilies, anything would work. But Cord noted they did make a striking bouquet of blue without being frilly. The petals almost matched Keegan’s eyes. And they were long-stemmed like she was.

  “I’ll take ’em. Will you see that she gets them today?”

  “Of course,” Drea said amicably, reaching for his credit card. “She’s four streets over. I’ll have them there in thirty minutes or less.” The man hadn’t even asked about the price, making him, in her eyes, a one-of-a-kind customer. Before she swiped his credit card though, she asked, “You want them boxed or arranged in one of my clear stock vases.”

  Cord tightened his mouth, trying to decide. “Boxed, I think. That way she can display them in her own favorite container.” He didn’t have a clue if she had one or not, but it seemed to him he remembered women usually liked doing that sort of thing. They always had one special vase.

  Pleased with his decision, Drea sent him a wide smile and said, “Trust me. She’s going to love them. Here, don’t forget to fill out the card. Make it zing, okay. Keegan deserves something special.”

  On that suggestion, he totally agreed. So he took the tiny card in his huge hand and scribbled down his message, making sure it came from the heart.

  Keegan had started her day treating the sea lion pup she’d finally located on the beach last night barely alive, tangled in a mass of kelp. The little guy had suffered a six-inch bite wound that had pretty much left his rear flipper in shreds. From the teeth marks she could say with some certainty the bite probably came from a much larger predator like a shark.

  Thanks to Bran Sullivan showing up at midnight to do emergency surgery on the baby and a healthy dose of antibiotics, this morning the pup looked a lot more alert.

  “Well, don’t you look all chipper,” Keegan cooed at the sea lion she’d nicknamed Dodger because he’d obviously dodged becoming shark supper. She stroked his fur and added, “You look ten times better than when I first set eyes on you.”

  Keegan was in the process of doing a temperature and weight check when Abby bounced in between the row of large indoor cages. “How’s our newest patient?”

  “It’s amazing what a little TLC does along with some decent food. Isn’t that right, Dodger?”

  “Dodger?” Abby snorted at the nickname. “I suppose that’s fitting. How old do you think Dodger is?”

  “Has to be around eight months since sea lions usually breed no later than July. But his weight’s down and he looks much younger than that because he’s very malnourished and dehydrated. And he still acts like he wants to nurse.”

  “I could bottle feed him,” Abby volunteered. “And before you ask I already updated the website, posted all the new photos we took yesterday and did a load of towels.”

  “Okay.” Keegan smiled. That’s what she liked most about Abby. The girl was always willing to go the extra mile or attack some chore with what Keegan deemed her “Abby-Spirit.”

  “Thanks for the offer to bottle feed but I already got him to nibble on some crab meat.” When she saw the disappointment on Abby’s crestfallen face, she added, “Don’t look so down, you still get to monitor his food intake and…” She puffed out a breath. What the hell. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to make up a bottle and see how it goes. In about three hours he gets transported outside anyway.”

  “Cool. I’ll go make up the formula.”

  Keegan watched her go and shook her head. She wondered if she had ever been that bubbly and eager. Yeah, she had. At around ten she’d trailed after her grandparents like a baby duckling. It was also around that age she’d put ballet on the backburner for good and decided the rescue center held her future.

  So while Cord bought her flowers, Keegan dished out herring and rockfish to her ward of hungry patients. The brown pelican was a little cranky but if he continued to show no signs of parasites he’d be out of quarantine in another week.

  The pregnant otter she called Minnie, acted friskier than she’d seen her behave in a week. The young female had been found starving to death and X-rays showed she suffered from scoliosis, a fairly typical ailment due to poor diet.

  But today Minnie seemed more playful, swimming around in the water like nature intended.

  Around two-thirty Keegan’s cell phone rang. Her display told her it was Bran Sullivan. “How’s the patient I operated on last night?”

  “Alert, better.”

  “Good. Do you have room for another otter? This morning Clance Hopkins’ fishing boat netted one with a laceration to his head, looks like he met up with a boat propeller. I’ve sedated him, stitched him up and he’s ready for transport.”

  Keegan chuckled. “Since you’ve done the hard part I’ll be happy to take him off your hands. What’s his prognosis?”

  “Good. CT scan shows his head took a knock but he’ll survive with the proper TLC and bed rest. He might have trouble with his vision though.”

  “How so?”

  “The blade caught him right around the eye.”

  “Damn. Well, we just happen to have an extra bed. Want me to come get him now?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ve got a waiting room full of routine shots and abscesses.”

  “It’s hell being the only vet in town.”

  “I miss your grandfather, Keegan. I’m an old man. Don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

  “Believe it or not I’m trying to find you some help.”

  “You need to pick up the pace then. Because, girl, I’ve been ready to retire for two years now. Joy keeps at me about it, too. She wants to take that trip to Ireland I promised her five years ago. Ireland, Keegan. I haven’t had a damned vacation in three years and I haven’t been fishing since Christmas. I swear Joy would make the airline reservations tomorrow if I could find a vet to take over my practice that quick.”

  “Oh, no you don’t, I’ve got dibs on any vet who replies first.”

  Bran guffawed. “Then you better ramp up the effort because I’m seriously thinking of calling it quits by the end of the year.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll call one of those services out of the Bay and see if we might get lucky—maybe find someone looking to relocate to—Mayberry…west coast style.”

&n
bsp; After a few more minutes of conversation, Keegan hung up and went to look for Abby. She found her in the nursery with Dodger, bottle feeding him again. “I’ve got to run over to Bran’s and pick up another sea otter.”

  “Want me to go?”

  “Nah, looks like you and Dodger have bonded.”

  “He’s adorable, Keegan. Do you think we’ll be able to release him back into the wild with his tail cut to ribbons?”

  “Depends on how strong it heals. Bran did an excellent job with what he had to work with but let’s face it, without the tail strong and without being a hundred percent...he’ll have problems keeping up and foraging. Don’t worry. We’ll get Dodger into nice digs at a zoo or an aquarium. I should be back in half an hour or so. Will you get one of the rooms ready in here for a recovery? He’s sedated, but apparently he has a head injury around the eye.”

  “Oh, poor baby. Don’t worry. I’ll get everything ready.”

  Housed in a two-story Craftsman-style house, the Pelican Pointe Animal Clinic had a lot in common with FMRC in that both had been built in the 1940s and both were renovated to serve as a clinic.

  But there the similarity ended. Bran and Joy Sullivan had long used their residence as a workplace. Where Porter and Mary had tried to keep their profession separate from their homelife, Bran and Joy seemed to fuse theirs together and make it work.

  Located a block off Main on Crescent Street, the Sullivan house stood out from the others because of its bright blue-pastel paint job and the fact there were always cars in the driveway and therefore, a parking problem.

  The minute Keegan pulled her truck into the crowded area and came to a stop, Joy Sullivan popped out the front door to greet her. The cherubic woman with her red hair turning a stylish gray put a hand to her breast and said, “Are we glad to see you! We were afraid that sea otter would wake up and we’d have to sedate him again.”