Turtle Soup

by Danielle Thorne

  Byron seemed to go on endlessly. Just as it seemed the evening would take a turn for the droll, someone passed him a very large plaque and the audience sat up straighter in their seats. He held it up. "This year's recognition for the best contribution to our mission, the community, and to the world."

  A wave of tension swept over the room and Sara realized it was an important award for all of the organizations trying to forward their causes through the aquarium. "This handsome award goes to Jack Brandon and the Brandon Sea Turtle Foundation."

  A crashing round of applause resounded with supporting whoops and whistles of agreement. For a moment, Sara though Jack was just going to sit there but Conner reached across her and pummeled him on the shoulder. "I knew it," he cried. Both men quickly embraced and Jack walked up to the stage in amazement.

  Jessica was smiling from ear to ear. She threw Sara a look that seemed more triumphant than surprised, and Sara couldn't help but wonder if she had anything to do with it. He couldn't possibly need any of her help. Everything Jack Brandon touched turned to gold.

  Once the crowd settled down, Jack, who had been standing at the podium studying the plaque, cleared his throat and leaned down to the microphone. "Being as we're the new kids on the block," he began, and a smattering of applause went around the room, "this is a huge accomplishment for our little organization."

  He hesitated as if at a loss for words then seemed to get control. "We decided a long time ago, that we would do whatever it took, go wherever we had to go, to get the message out. The creatures that we share this planet with are our family, and there is no doubt no matter how you feel about politics or global warming," he shook his head unconsciously, "that our family is in trouble."

  Again the crowd went wild and he had to wait for it to settle. "Thank you for this," he said and Sara could hear emotion in his voice, "for supporting and recognizing our efforts at sea, and for allowing us to conduct research and educate the public here in Atlanta, and around the world."

  He walked quickly off the stage as the audience applauded him one last time. Several people stood up and shook his hand as he passed. Sara was surprised to see moisture in Conner's eyes. He smiled and blinked it away. "Attendance has risen since we set up shop."

  "You guys do great things," she mustered. The humility of Jack's speech had dumbfounded her.

  Conner took a breath and nodded. "It's still nice when someone notices."

  After Jack returned to his seat, the rest of the table congratulated him. Sara thought she saw a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks. He shrugged it off and got back up to find a drink. Conner motioned to the dance floor. "Dance?"

  "Absolutely." Dancing would be a relief. He led her to the dance floor. "I'm not much of a waltzer," he admitted when a classical piece echoed its first refrain.

  Sara laughed. "Let me guess, salsa or funky chicken?"

  "Funky chicken, definitely."

  He gave her a twirl and then brought her back close. "Know what I like about you? You're flexible."

  Sara laughed. "I'm not sure that's something I would want you sharing with other people."

  "I mean you're easy to get along with."

  "So they say."

  Jack moved across the glossed floor with Jessica. They seemed to sparkle under the spotlights. Sara watched them unguarded, and a disconcerting pang of envy nudged her in the stomach. Conner followed her gaze.

  "He's not that hard to get along with if you give him a chance."

  Sara put her cheek to Conner's. "Why would I want to do that?"

  "Well for starters, he wouldn't leave you at the altar."

  Sara's mouth dropped open in insult.

  "You have to get past the Brandon thing."

  "I don't have a problem with the Brandon thing. It's his crutch."

  "You use what you have to work with."

  "And what do you have to work with?"

  "I'm the best."

  "As I've said before, if I ever need a diver I know who to call."

  "And I will dive right in."

  Sara laughed loud enough to make Jack miss his step. Their eyes met and she held them until Jessica spun him out of sight.

  "So about diving," Conner began. A tango started and he groaned. They settled for a bench overlooking the ballroom instead. With a fresh drink in his hand, Conner continued. "I'll be helping the instructor with the next dive class. He's a good guy."

  "My sister dives. It's something I always wanted to do but I haven't been able to get up the nerve."

  "You need to take some time out of the kitchen."

  "I don't know about that. If you saw my books you'd understand."

  "It's a new business," Conner said, "It takes time."

  "I've only got a few months to turn it around."

  "The water would take your mind off of it."

  "You really think I can do it?"

  He gave her a squeeze and she promised to think about it.

  It was after midnight when he dropped her off at Ellen's car. Sara gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. She determined not to notice any disappointment and with a surge of relief wasn't sure she saw any. "Goodnight," he said sweetly. "Monday!" He pointed a finger. "Seven o'clock and don't be late."

  Chapter Seven

  Sara's decision to take the dive class seemed more difficult to make than investing her life savings into a deli. Ellen encouraged it, hauling out all her old equipment. After a small family meal, Sara put on a swimsuit and threw the used dive bag into the back of the Blazer.

  The drive to the aquarium went by too fast. Conner had told her to come in from the back and from there an aide led her upstairs to a pair of heavy doors. They opened into a cavernous room with a salt water pool in the center. Along one wall dangled black vests and canvas belts, along another, air tanks lined up like soldiers. Sara took in the public showering area and the small flight of steps that led up to a glass office. She found herself taking them two at a time after a diver pointed her up to the office where class would be held.

  "Sara Hart, I've heard good things about you." Her instructor, a salt and pepper bearded man named Guffin, met her at the door.

  She gulped. "Don't expect much. I might be in over my head!"

  "That's the idea," he joked.

  Some of the other students in the classroom introduced themselves and she was relieved to find there were people of all ages with varying degrees of experience.

  Guffin wasted no time covering the first lesson before sending them down to change. They were going to try out the equipment from a three-foot deep shelf that ran alongside the deep pool.

  "Don't swim off the shelf!" Guffin warned in his authoritative growl, "or I'll yank you right back out of there."

  Sara was struggling to get into the vest that held the air tank, called the buoyancy compensator, when Conner finally made his entrance.

  "I was wondering if you were going to make it."

  "Feeding the sharks."

  Sara peered over the shelf and shivered inside of her black wetsuit. "I hope you're kidding. How deep is this place?"

  "This is just a practice pool. There's nothing in it."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  "Fifteen feet. But don't worry. That comes later." He strapped her in and helped her slide into the water, careful not to let the tank scrape the pool edge. "How do those fins feel?"

  "Fine, but the mask is tight."

  Conner gave the mask, which covered her eyes and nose, a hard wiggle. "It's supposed to be."

  "I can't breathe," she said and then giggled at herself.

  He rolled his eyes. "You're not supposed to. Try the regulator," he said in reply. He took the long hose with the mouthpiece and stuck it between her lips. "Don't bite down so hard."

  Sara took a long draw of the compressed air and tried to relax.

  "Now drop to your knees."

  At seventy-eight degrees, the water felt cold. As soon as it washed over her head, Sara was surprised to
find she couldn't take a breath. She waited but nothing happened except for a flash of her parents. They were trapped in their car as water flooded in from beneath the dashboard. Her chest screamed for oxygen and she shot to the surface.

  "Sara, you can't do that!"

  Sara spit out the regulator and gasped for air. "I was only three feet under, it's not going to kill me," she argued between gasps. Her parents had drowned in eight feet of water.

  He looked her seriously in the eye. "You can't panic. You have to stay calm." On the line opposite her regulator hose, he examined the pressure gauge. "Weren't you getting any air?" His hand went to the valve on the top of her tank to make sure it was open all the way.

  "I couldn't breathe," she said.

  Conner blew a stream of air from the release valve on her mouthpiece then put it in his own mouth. He took a steady breath then gave it back to her. "Try it now."

  "No," Sara said, pushing his hand away, "I didn't mean it wasn't working. I meant I couldn't make myself breathe."

  "Oh," said Conner, and a flash of impatience crossed his face. "The first breath is the hardest."

  "Stay standing up and just put your face in."

  Sara jumped at the sound of Jack's voice. He was standing over her on the deck with his hands behind his back. She suddenly felt ridiculous in the wetsuit with the fins and mask on. The bulky equipment made her feel like she was trying to be a pro at something she had no inkling of.

  Jack jumped down into the water beside her. He waved Conner off. "Go help Ryan with his fins."

  Sara saw them lock eyes and then Conner shrugged. "Whatever you say, boss." He grinned at Sara, "He's going to be your instructor in the long run anyway."

  "What?" Alarm raced through her. "You said you'd be here a few more weeks!"

  Conner shook his head. "Change of plan."

  "You set me up."

  "Poor you," muttered Jack as if he wished he were going instead.

  Conner patted him on the back. "She's all yours."

  Sara felt a tingling rush she didn't expect. She tried to grimace at Conner, but he swam away. Jack eyed her steadily. "Just breathe," he said and she bit her tongue and nodded.

  With Jack standing next to her, Sara knew she would go through with it, even if she drowned. She couldn't bear for him to think she was afraid or worse, want to know why. She stuffed the regulator in her mouth and tried again.

  She leaned over and put her face in the water. It was so clear she could see dark flecks mixed into the concrete of the bottom. The tips of her fins were bobbing up and down like lazy strands of anemone while she fought to keep her balance. Just when she couldn't hold it in another second she took a tentative drag and inhaled a blessed mouthful of pure air. An explosion of bubbles crowned her head when she exhaled, and with it, inexplicable gratification.

  After the first breath, the next came easier and she eventually found herself on the bottom. Through her mask, she felt like she was on the inside of an aquarium looking out. With each breath, she would bob toward the surface until she exhaled, and then she would sink back down again.

  Jack had hairy legs. He didn't have on a wetsuit but a pair of navy trunks and a tee shirt. Afraid he'd wonder what parts of him she was examining under the water she quickly looked away. Around her, classmates were swimming back and forth on the shelf, pointing at each other and grinning over their mouthpieces.

  It was relaxing, Sara had to admit, so relaxing that it took a tap on her shoulder to bring her to her feet again. Jack pulled her up by her underarms while giving instructions to the rest of the class. As everyone got out of the pool, he gave Sara a scowl and in a loud voice almost shouted, "You didn't check your gauges, not once."

  Stung, Sara made her way wordlessly over to the side. When his back was turned she picked up the gauge to check how much air she had left. The needle, she sheepishly saw, was hovering over red at the beginning of the danger zone. She'd completely lost track of time.

  Chapter Eight

  The city shimmered under a peach haze. Jack tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for the traffic to move and wondering at his hurry. Life was slower in the islands. Something about the scurry of urban living got into him like a contagion. Maybe it was because he was hungry.

  Food made him think of Sara. He'd enjoyed watching her in dive class. She was cute and she could cook, but she was too presumptuous for his taste. At first she'd assumed he'd fall down on his knees to thank her for picking up his planner. Then she'd expected him to go gaga over her little deli. And all the time she acted as if he wasn't a good person. Maybe the class would give him a chance to teach her something.

  He took a left turn, aware he would have to pass Turtle Soup taking this route home. Guffin had shamed him unmercifully for giving Sara a hard time about running low on air pressure. His stomach grumbled and he clinched the wheel. He could go home and eat a day-old sandwich or he could stop and see what the Chef of the South was up to.

  There wasn't a lot of bustle inside but then again there never was. No one was minding the register. The soup pots were gone, probably moved to the back, and most of the bread loaves had been covered. The smell of yeast permeated the air.

  Impatiently he searched for a little bell to get somebody's attention. Finding none, he began to pace, a lecture about her poor business practices forming in his mind. In the back a door slammed and the building seemed to sigh, as if put to sleep. "Great," muttered Jack. His stomach growled loudly and he put a hand on it to make it stop. Then he hopped over the counter and made his way into the back.

  There were mixers lined up on a stainless steel counter with paddles at the ready. A broom against the wall sat in a pile of crumbly debris. Jack made his way past a small office to a back door that hung slightly ajar. Concern that something was not right stirred in his chest.

  He pushed the door open carefully and saw her standing in the alley, her back to him. There was someone with her. She moved slightly and he saw over her shoulder the bent form of a bearded old man. He wore a dirty army jacket from the sixties. A dog danced around his legs, tethered by a rope. Jack watched until he saw the stranger take Sara by the shoulders.

  He sprinted down the alley with fists clenched. "HEY!" He came to a stop just in time. The man had Sara by the arms and a grin on his face that dropped off when Jack jumped between them. He grabbed the man by the neck and pushed him back several steps.

  Sara screamed, "Stop!"

  Jack froze, his eyes locked with the assailant's. The man was red and confused. A waterfall of fear tumbled over his face.

  "Jack," Sara cried again angrily. The dog had taken off with its tail between its legs. "What are you doing?" She turned on him, her hair whipping out, her expression horrified. "What's the matter with you?"

  A paper bag had tumbled to the ground, scattering several rolls. The homeless man had dropped a cup of soup. It had splashed up Sara's capris, staining her ankles with orange bits.

  "I thought," Jack began lamely, the realization of what had happened filling him with horror. The vagrant bent down and picked his bread up and Sara helped him put it back into the bag.

  "I'm sorry," she apologized, but he paid her no mind. He took the sack ignoring her apologies and patted her on the head as if she were a puppy. "Do you want some more soup?"

  Jack stood behind her watching helplessly. "I can get you some more," Sara said again, but the man grinned with his gums and muttered something about trees before walking away.

  "I'll see you tomorrow!" Sara called after him, cheerful, as if one of her patrons had not shot from the back of her store and attacked. The smile fell from her face when she turned around. "What is the matter with you?"

  Jack stepped back, wanting nothing but to escape. "It looked like you were in trouble."

  She stalked past him, her legs flinging bits of food in every direction. "Why don't you stick to saving turtles?"

  He followed her back into the store. "Pardon me, I thought you needed help."
r />   "If I needed your help, I would have asked for it."

  "Asked or screamed? Because a dark alley at the end of the day, usually isn't a place where you can ask for help."

  "What do you know?"

  "You think we don't have crime in the Caribbean?"

  "I've lived in this city all of my life. I know how to take care of myself."

  Jack was astounded at her naiveté. "You think because you're handing out cookies no one is going to give you a hard time?"

  Sara slammed the drawer to the register, a fistful of bills in her hand. "The only person who gives me a hard time is you."

  "Well I don't want to give you a hard time. You sure don't seem to need the business."

  Her face turned red.

  "Try not giving the food away. Sell it."

  "I don't need your advice," she spat back.

  He could almost see her back arched and every hair standing up. "You need something," he shot back, "because this isn't working for you."

  She looked like she wanted to slap him. "If you don't want anything, please go."

  "There's nothing in here I want."

  "Then get the hell out!"

  "Fine," Jack said, furious at her rudeness. He stalked through the kitchen past the freezer, the warm ovens, the Rubbermaid containers cradling cookies and brownies. "I wasn't hungry anyway!"

  He wanted to shake her by the shoulders. He wanted to tell her he thought the man was hurting her. Instead he slid over the counter and threw the front door open on its hinges.

  "Don't slam the door!" Sara cried, but the bells smashed into the glass with a shriek. He didn't look back to check the damage because it had already been done. Several pedestrians skirted around him on the sidewalk, eyes wide with suspicion. He slammed the car door, too. "Wonderful!" he bellowed at the steering wheel. He was starving.