Beyond the Tides

by Liz Johnson

  He wouldn’t have minded a real workspace either, a shelter when there was rain. His dad had had a work shed behind their house when Oliver was a kid. But even now they couldn’t afford luxuries like that. At least they had a roof over their heads—a roof no one was trying to take away from them.

  “What are you doing here?” He wanted to bite back the words—or at least his tone—as soon as they escaped.

  Meg’s eyes flashed with something like sadness before she slipped into her steel coat. Armor was what she’d always worn in his presence. “Good afternoon to you too,” she said as she reached the grass and closed the distance between them.

  He ran a dusty, dirty hand through his hair. It was long and messy, and he shoved it behind his ears. Ears that had always stuck out, had always invited teasing from his buddies. “Right, yeah. How’s it going?”

  “I’ve been better.” She looked down at his work space, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. Then she took a deep breath through her nose before meeting his gaze again, shield back in place.

  “Listen, Meg . . .” This was it—his chance. But his tongue stumbled to get out the words. Finally he offered, “You want to talk about it?”

  Please say no. Please say no.

  They hadn’t had more than three civil words for each other in ten years. He couldn’t possibly say anything that would help the current situation.

  “Well, I quit my job today, so we’re stuck with each other through the season.”

  He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her to say, but that wasn’t it. There was no going back now. They were stuck in every sense of the word. But the way she hugged herself made him think that she was more upset about the ending of her teaching job than she was about having to spend a few months with him.

  He stabbed his fingers through his hair again, dislodging it so that it fell against his cheeks, brushing the collar of his gray T-shirt. “I’m sorry.”

  Her eyes flashed ice-cold. “About my job or being stuck with me?”

  “Yes. I mean, both.”

  She snorted. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was rich and genuine and almost made him smile. He’d wondered once if he had what it took to make her laugh, and the warmth in his chest told him it hadn’t been a worthless wish.

  He picked up the hammer just to have something to look at as he forced out the rest of what he needed to say. “I am sorry about your job. And I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me.” There. That was most of it.

  But not enough.

  “And I’m sorry about what happened—what I did—to your science fair project.” He looked up just in time to see her grimace, her facial features pulling tight as though she could see the same memory he did.

  They’d been in their high school science classroom, big windows letting in streams of afternoon light as teenage Meg carried a cardboard box.

  “Where’s your project, Oliver?” Mr. Greene asked.

  Oliver looked at his empty hands, embarrassed and angry. He turned and ran straight into Meg and her box, surprising them both. Meg dropped the box, and a wheeled robot tumbled to the ground. If she screamed then, he didn’t hear it. But when he kicked the robot to the wall, where it exploded into tiny pieces, her cry nearly split him in half.

  Every day since, he’d regretted it. Regretted the pain that had built inside him. The release he’d sought. The destruction he’d caused. But he hadn’t been able to put into words—still couldn’t—the depth of that anger, the source of that pain that had caused him to lash out.

  Everyone had said Meg was sure to win the provincial science fair with her robot that could retrieve necessities for the immobile. And it nearly guaranteed her a scholarship to some Ivy League uni in the States.

  He had ruined all of that for her.

  “Meg, I’m really sorry that I cost you those awards.”

  Her lips pinched together, her glare unwavering. “Then why did you do it?”

  With a shake of his head, he sighed. “Does it matter?”

  For a moment, he feared that she’d say it did. Holding his breath, he searched for some explanation. But if he could hardly be honest with himself, how could he be honest with her?

  “Just tell me that it wasn’t because of Susie Houseman.”

  “Susie?” He hadn’t seen or thought about their old classmate since graduation. “Of course not. Why would you think it was her?”

  Putting her hands on her hips, Meg said, “Does it matter?”

  His own laugh caught him off guard. “So what do you think? Maybe we could start over? Begin again?”

  A shadow slipped across her face, her eyes turning even more blue. She was silent for so long he thought she might not respond. Maybe she was already planning her getaway.

  Finally, barely moving her lips, she whispered, “We’ll see.”

  All right then. They weren’t friends exactly, but maybe they weren’t enemies either. She hadn’t explicitly said that she had forgiven him. But there was a chance. He’d call this a successful first step. Though the season hadn’t even started, he wouldn’t quit until Meg had truly put the past behind them.

  four

  Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

  Meg scowled at Oliver as she marched down the wharf, shoving her fingers through her hair and yanking it into some semblance of a ponytail. Good mornings started sometime after seven—nine during the summer—and did not begin with an obnoxious honking coming from her phone. Good mornings started with a sweet roll from Carrie’s Café, the big blue building across from the theater. They did not include devouring a fried egg shoved between two slices of stale toast while praying Kevin’s patrol car was still parked in front of his house as she flew down the street.

  And good mornings definitely did not begin with Oliver Ross and his lopsided smirk. Or those ridiculous dimples that had framed his mouth for as long as she’d known him.

  “I’m not late.” It was the only greeting she could muster this early. And the mocking tone in his words made her put up her guard.

  “Never said you were.” Oliver let out a breath, nearly a laugh, turning toward the brightly painted shacks lined up in a row where the marina ended. Red and green and orange and blue, they seemed to be their own source of light against the inky sky.

  Every fishing license in the area had a shanty packed with gear and supplies. And even though it had all been inventoried and checked before being carefully packed away at the end of the last season, it was time to do it again. Time to make sure that the buoys would float and the ropes would hold. If a mouse had snuck past a trap during the summer and gnawed through a net, setting day was not the day to discover it.

  Meg stamped her sneakers against the red-dirt ground and rubbed her hands together. The sun was only a golden halo across the edge of the water to the east, and the wind off the bay was damp and cool. And she was wearing only jeans and a T-shirt. Stupid move. She should have known better.

  As he jerked open the door of the deep-green shack that Whitaker Fishing had owned for longer than her lifetime, Oliver’s broad shoulders bunched beneath a black sweater. Its neckline had been ripped at the side and sewn back together with lazy stitches. A frayed spot at the hem offered two loose threads that she longed to tug. Worn, but at least it was warm. She assumed so anyway, since he wasn’t shivering.

  Apparently he noticed that she was. Eyebrow raised, he asked, “You warm enough?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I have a jacket in my car.”

  She snorted. Not so much at the offer—which was surprising—but more at the mental image of wearing something that belonged to him.

  No one had ever called her petite. Not when she’d gotten her dad’s height and towered over the boys until almost graduation. But Oliver still had close to six inches on her, plus a lot of years of fishing muscles. He made her feel small. Which was calling into question their current power dynamic.

  She waved off the offer of the jacket and nodded toward the inside of
the building. “Let’s just get to work.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes shadowed and unblinking. His gaze made the hairs on her arms stand up. Or maybe that was the breeze. Please let it be the breeze. She didn’t have the mental energy to try to figure him out.

  Finally he turned back to the shack and reached inside. Light exploded into the early morning, and she blinked against the harsh, uncovered lightbulb. The morning sun across the bay had a way of embracing the earth, welcoming the day with a gentle invitation into warmth and light. The shanty’s single bulb glared like it was as happy to be awake as she was.

  When she finally managed to keep her eyes open, she squinted at Oliver, who held out a clipboard, a couple sheets of white paper fluttering on it.

  “Do you want to keep tally or evaluate the equipment?”

  She reached for the clipboard and pulled the pen from its holder without a word. No need to remind him that she hadn’t taken supply inventory since she was a kid. But she’d rather mark a wrong number on her sheet than miss a broken trap or frayed line. She’d let him be responsible for that.

  For now, anyway.

  He motioned toward a pile of bright green buoys, all painted with large numbers from one to forty-eight, in the same color her grandfather and his father had used to mark their traps. She followed Oliver deeper inside as he ran his long fingers over each marker, calling out only when there was a damaged piece. A broken hook. A faded number. A loose screw.

  After an hour, they’d identified three buoys in need of repair, and Oliver had set them to the side, likely to take them back to his front-yard repair station.

  “I can take care of those.” As soon as she spoke the words, she wished she could reel them back in.

  Oliver’s furrowed eyebrows spoke his silent question.

  Okay, technically she didn’t have the tools or expertise to fix the buoys. And she sure couldn’t go to her father to ask for his help. But neither was she entirely helpless. She did have a degree in mechanical engineering, after all. How hard could it be to fix a loose screw? Besides, she knew every captain in the area. Surely one of them would loan her a specialized tool if she needed it.

  With one hand at his waist, Oliver ran the other through his hair, all the way to its shaggy end. “I suppose. But your dad ga—er—lent me all his tools.”

  She shrugged as though it was neither here nor there, but the insinuation that her father had already made a decision and had begun passing the business to him brought a sour taste to her mouth.

  “How about we look at these”—he waved at the wall of wooden lobster traps—“before we decide? We can figure out who’ll take care of what when we know what needs to be done.”

  She nodded slowly, biting her tongue to make sure she thought through anything she might say before it had a chance to escape on its own. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to volunteer for her fair share of the projects. After all, they were taking home an equal portion from the catch. But if she took on a job and couldn’t figure it out, she’d look like a fool. Especially when there were regulations to abide by and rules she wasn’t sure she knew.

  She was not about to let Oliver Ross see her looking stupid. Dividing up the projects wasn’t exactly in line with her dad’s plan to make them work together, but she wasn’t worried about that.

  She strode toward the 240 traps stacked in neat rows. He followed, pulled a trap down from the top row, and inspected it. The brown wood had faded over the years from the sun and salt water, but it remained strong, its square corners firm and fixed.

  As Oliver tugged on the net, her phone rang. With a silent nod, she ducked toward the door. Oliver’s eyes followed her even as his sure fingers worked their way over the contraption.

  She hadn’t realized how musty it smelled inside until she inhaled the sharp tang of the salt water. Stepping from the harsh yellow light into the warmth of the sun, she said, “Hi, Dad.”

  “Honey, I don’t want you to worry.”

  That was guaranteed an opposite result. “What happened?” She practically snapped the words and immediately felt Oliver’s gaze find her. “Are you all right? Is it Mom?”

  “I’m fine. I’m with your mother.” Her dad’s words were thick, exhausted. “She took a little tumble and hit her head.”

  Her breath suddenly vanished. Her arms tingled and her eyes burned. It took every ounce of her strength just to stay upright.

  Still, her words came out even and clear. “Where are you?”

  He paused for a long moment, and she could almost see him working through his options. “We’re at Queen Elizabeth.”

  The hospital in Charlottetown. He hadn’t told her not to come. He hadn’t said they were on their way home. He hadn’t said it was no big deal. It was a big deal. Everything with her mom was a big deal.

  “I’ll be right there.” She hung up before her dad could object. Or maybe before he didn’t. She didn’t know which would have been worse.

  Her trembling fingers barely fit into her pocket as she searched for her keys.

  Suddenly a large hand rested on her arm. “I’ll drive you.”

  Meg shook it off. “I’m fine.” She forced out the words, but they didn’t even ring true in her own ears. “I can make it.” She hoped. The tremors in her hands were increasing, but she had to pull herself together. She had to be strong, especially now. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. “Really. I’ll be fine.”

  “Please.”

  The gravel in his tone nearly buckled her knees. Or maybe that was the weight of all the worries that rested on her shoulders. Her mom’s health. Her dad’s sanity. Her own future.

  Steeling her spine, she took a step toward the parking lot, expecting him to stay where he was. “We have to get the inventory done.”

  “It’ll wait.” His breath ruffled her hair. He hadn’t kept his distance. In fact, he’d gained ground. She could feel his warmth down her back, his presence solid and reassuring.

  She hated him a little bit for that.

  “Really, I need to go.” So why weren’t her feet moving? And where were her keys? After shoving her hand deeper into her pocket, she pulled it out empty. She tried the other side and finally laid her fingers on the elusive keys. But when she clenched them in front of her chest, Oliver clamped his big hand over hers.

  His narrowed eyes were harder than an iceberg. Bluer too. “I know you’re fully capable of getting there. But I can help.”

  Her lower lip threatened to tremble, and she bit it just to hold it in place. “It’s my mom.”

  “I figured.”

  “She’s . . . she’s . . . ill.”

  He nodded slowly. “I know.”

  He ushered her toward his truck, opened the passenger door, and settled her into the seat. She felt like a sheep being herded, but she couldn’t do anything except try to prepare for what was ahead.

  Oliver took several deep breaths as his truck rattled to a stop in the hospital parking lot. Meg hadn’t said a single word the whole thirty-minute drive to the city. Neither had she crumbled. She’d sat up straight—her spine made of metal—the whole ride.

  But the moment he stopped, she sucked in a quick breath, flung her door open, and raced for the single-story entrance across from them. Oliver barely had time to turn off the truck and close his own door before taking off after her.

  He caught up to her just as the glass doors slid open, and she dashed to the simple cream-colored reception desk. “Sandra Whitaker. Where is she?”

  The receptionist eyed Meg carefully, then looked around at him. “Are you family?”

  “I’m her daughter.”

  Oliver nodded. That was true—Meg was her daughter. If the receptionist took his nod to mean he was family too, that was fine.

  Mama Potts would always be his mother. But Whitaker had given him the support of a true father, probably long before he deserved it. Oliver wasn’t about to be turned away. Not if he could be of help.

  Afte
r a long second, the receptionist typed something into her computer and then pointed down the sterile hallway and mumbled a room number. The light brown walls passed in a blur, the jarring scent of disinfectant not so easy to ignore. It coated everything, erasing the sweet salt of the sea air that had clung to Meg long after he’d locked up the shanty and they’d started down the road.

  Oliver followed her as she sailed into a room and then stopped short. Whitaker stood beside a hospital bed, a curtain on the far side dividing the room and blocking the view of another patient. Mrs. Whitaker lay on the bed. She was still and pale and so small beneath the nondescript blanket tucked just below her shoulders, one arm free. A white gauze bandage had been wrapped around her head, a pink spot on the right side.

  Meg made no noise except for a tiny gasp.

  When Whitaker looked up at them, his eyes went wide—well, as wide as they could beneath his drooping lids and bushy eyebrows. “Megan.” He sighed, reaching for her.

  She rushed to him, but whatever response Oliver had expected, he didn’t see it. Meg didn’t fall against her dad or release her emotions. Instead, she patted his back and squeezed his hand on her shoulder, her stiff upper lip never wavering.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Whitaker looked back down at his wife. “I was making breakfast, and I heard a terrible crash. She went headfirst into the corner of the nightstand. I didn’t even know she was awake.” He growled the last, his features pinched. “I had to call the ambulance. There was just so much blood.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. She’s going to be all right.” There wasn’t even a hint of a question in her words, her conviction so strong that even Oliver believed it.

  “I think the rug is ruined.”

  Meg offered him a tight smile. “Mom never liked that rug anyway. Maybe this is her way of making sure we get rid of it.”

  Whitaker managed a smile then as a young woman in a white lab coat walked into the room.