by Liz Johnson
That did not bode well for winning her over.
“I’m sure you will do your part,” he said.
“Good.” She pursed her lips to the side and twisted her hands into the front of her shirt. “What’s my part?”
“‘Check the boat,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a breeze,’ he said.”
Meg mumbled to herself as she strolled across the wharf to her dad’s boat the next morning. She’d have preferred starting about four hours later, but there was no way she’d let it get back to Oliver that she wasn’t up for early mornings. Besides, she’d never seen the water look quite so enchanting, rippling beneath a golden veil. Its gentle fingers crept closer with each wave, shuttling light into the darkness.
“Meggy Whitaker? That you?”
She jerked around at the sound of her name. Little Tommy Scanlan stood about twenty-five meters down the dock on the top rung of the ladder leading to his own boat. He’d inherited his license at the age of twenty-one. Despite the thirty years that had turned him from a skinny boy to a round-bellied fishing elder, the nickname remained. But Meg couldn’t bring herself to call him that.
“Hi, Mr. Scanlan.”
Little Tommy put his hands on his hips, low and casual. “It true what they’re saying?”
The gossip mills generally were true. Only because Victoria was too small of a place to hide much for long. “What are they saying?”
“Your dad selling out?”
She shook her head. He wasn’t selling out. He was . . . he was keeping his word. In sickness and in health. That’s what the vows said. He’d cared for his wife for a lot of years in health. Now he was doing the other.
Little Tommy shrugged as he climbed onto the wharf, rocking his boat and the water of the cove. “Well, tell him I know of a buyer if he’s interested.”
“Thanks, I will.” That was what she was supposed to say. What she wanted to say was that he already had one too many people interested in his legacy. But Little Tommy was already out of sight, disappearing into his shanty.
Between the cement jetty and the rocking boats, the water shifted and swayed. She stumbled against the movement she could see and feel in the pit of her stomach, even though the dock remained steady. Everything else seemed unstable.
She held a deep breath, trying to find something unmoving to focus on. She turned until her gaze caught the red-and-white lighthouse in the distance at the mouth of the river. There. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Pressing a finger to the spot behind her ear, she made sure her motion-sickness patch was still in place. She adjusted the copper bracelet designed to put pressure on just the right spot to keep her from tossing her breakfast overboard. Then again, she hadn’t eaten anything that morning. And not just because she’d chosen to hit her snooze button a few extra times. Because it was better to get on a boat on an empty stomach. She hoped.
But so far, the empty stomach, motion-sickness patch, and bracelet hadn’t made a bit of difference. And she hadn’t even stepped foot on the boat yet.
Her stomach took another dive, and she bent over, leaning against her knees. Just as her stomach tried to heave, a large hand thumped her on the back. She screamed. He laughed.
Flinging herself around and forcing her stomach into submission, Meg glared at Oliver. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t really think I was going to let you check the boat on your own.” He stared at her for a long second before adding, “Did you?”
Well . . . yes. It was her part. She was doing her part. He’d finished inventory without her. She could check the boat without him. She remembered most of the steps from her childhood. How to turn on the engine, check for leaks, stuff like that. How hard could it be?
Maybe her face gave her away, because his suddenly broke out with a smirk. “Do you even have a boating license?”
Her hands fisted at her sides as she marched to the metal ladder and lowered herself onto the Pinch, shoving any symptoms of seasickness aside.
Oliver followed her. “You look a little green there, Meggy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Ah, but Little Tommy Scanlan said he’d seen Meggy Whitaker.”
“Yeah, well, you want me to call you Ollie?”
His smirk withered as he followed her aboard. “Not particularly.”
“Then we’ll call it a deal.” She didn’t bother with the specifics. She was pretty sure he could read them in her glare.
Oliver ducked his head and nodded toward the helm in the partially enclosed cabin. “Should we take her out for a spin?”
Her stomach threatened to revolt, her hands and knees quivering. She had to get this under control. She had to. She had almost two months of fishing ahead, and if she couldn’t stomach it, there was no way she’d win this competition.
“Sure.” She forced out the lie. “Let’s go.”
Narrowing his eyes on her, Oliver turned on the engine, and the whole boat shuddered to life. The low hum drowned out the sound of the waves and of her gasping for fresh air.
“Hear that purr. Just like a cat,” he said, petting the silver wheel.
No. Cats were safe and sweet and comforting. This boat was not like a cat.
Maybe once they started moving, she’d be all right. Yeah, she just needed a strong breeze in her face. And this silly patch behind her ear to kick in.
Oliver walked to the dock and freed the ropes that had been holding the boat in place before pulling the round orange fenders onto the end of the deck. The moment he turned the boat away from the dock into the cove, Meg’s stomach did more than threaten. It waged a full-on revolution.
Rushing to the port side, she leaned over the edge. Please don’t puke. Please don’t puke. But no matter how many times she repeated the mantra, her stomach still rolled like she was on a dinghy in a hurricane.
“Whoa there.” Oliver’s hand found the corner of her shoulder, squeezing gently. “You okay?”
Clearly not. But she couldn’t admit that to him. Oliver Ross was not going to make her feel any worse today. She would not get sick in front of him. Not today. Not ever.
She pinched the bracelet at her wrist, hoping it would shift to the right spot and hit the pressure point that was supposed to keep her head and stomach—and everything in between—from doing exactly what they were currently doing.
Dragging in a deep breath through clenched teeth, she shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine.”
But his hand came back. She could just see it out of the corner of her eye, no matter how hard she tried to focus on the glassy blue surface before her.
He brushed her hair off her shoulder, tucking her ponytail safely behind her back, his blunt fingers grazing the line of her jaw. Probably an accident. She hoped it was anyway, because it added another sensation she couldn’t name to the neighborhood already in revolt.
“If you’re going to chuck your breakfast, best not to get it in your hair.”
Okay. Definitely an accident. But that wasn’t why she shot him a glare that would have made her students shrivel.
His eyebrows lifted as though he questioned the wisdom of going on. “I’d rather not have to smell it for the whole ride.”
Using her elbow and most of her forearm, she shoved him back. “I’m not going to chuck my breakfast.” She cringed even as she said the words and her head took a carousel ride.
Holding up both hands, he took an exaggerated step away. “Okay, okay.”
“I just need a minute.”
Oliver said something else, but she couldn’t hear it through the ringing in her ears. He sounded like the adults in cartoons. “Wha-whaaaa. Wha-wha.”
Her head spun, her heart pounding.
“Meggy?”
“’M fine. And don’t c-call meh that.” Her tongue felt too thick as she swung her head back and forth. That didn’t help anything. Stumbling along the side, hunched low, she bumped against the railing and nearly lost her balance as a gentle wave caught the bow of the boat.
His giant arm hooked around her waist, steady as a tree and nearly as big. The carousel began to slow down, and she hated that she couldn’t help but sink into him. Just a little bit. She wouldn’t stay for long. She just needed something steady, something stable. And no matter how much she hated to admit it, that’s exactly what he was.
If she happened to notice the clean scent of his soap, well, that was just a hazard of being on the boat with him. And if she spent a few seconds wondering how he could possibly smell like sunshine when the sun had only just peeked over the horizon, well, some questions should be pondered. No scientific discovery ever came from not asking questions.
The muscle in his forearm jumped, and his warmth hovered near her ear. “You’re all right, Meggy.”
She pivoted in his embrace and, putting both hands on his chest, shoved with all her might. “I told you not to call me—”
She didn’t get to finish as he stumbled backward. And fell right over the side of the boat.
six
Meg threw her hands to her mouth and ran toward the rail as Oliver hit the water, the splash from the impact knocking her back. Shaking off the displaced drops, she leaned forward and peered into the depths below. He disappeared beneath the surface, the bay too dark yet to see even a few inches into the water.
The churning in her stomach disappeared, immediately replaced by an even less pleasant sinking sensation.
“Oliver. Oliver!”
Please, God. Please don’t let me have killed him.
She didn’t always like him, but she didn’t want him to drown. And besides, he was supposed to teach her the ropes of the business.
He had to know how to swim. Every kid on the south shore did. It was in their blood, deep in the marrow of their bones. The water called to them every summer—to their dads too, every fall.
So why wasn’t he swimming? Why hadn’t he surfaced?
Maybe he’d hit his head on the boat. He could be unconscious. Perhaps his breath had been knocked out of him when he hit the water, and he couldn’t move.
A million scenarios danced through her head—every one of them more terrible than the one before. It was all her fault.
She was going to have to go in after him. It was that simple.
Grabbing the heel of her neon-orange sneaker, she yanked it off. It landed with a thud on the deck, quickly followed by the second. She barely gave her clothes a thought as she stripped off her sweater. She couldn’t afford the drag, especially if she was going to have to pull Oliver from the bay. Her undershirt was plenty decent. At least it would be until it got wet. She shivered as the wind blew hard against her.
Bracing her foot on the railing, ready to jump into the water, she tried again. “Oliver, where are you?”
All was silent until Little Tommy Scanlan’s head poked out from the helm of his boat. “Everything okay down there?” he called.
Yes. No. Maybe. She didn’t have a clue how to answer him, and she’d wasted enough time. How long had it been? Seconds? Hours?
Shutting down every other thought, she jumped in. The water swallowed her, surrounding every inch of her. It rushed up her nose and into her ears, saturating her clothes and pulling her down, down, down.
She opened her eyes, and they burned. She couldn’t see anything anyway, the water murky at best. A beam of light pierced the surface, illuminating every particle in its sweeping path, then disappeared. The lighthouse.
She thrashed about, grabbing and reaching for anything that might feel like Oliver.
Please, God, let me find him.
But every grasp of her hands came back empty. Her lungs felt the same. Aching and straining for air.
Finally she hit the bottom, her feet sinking into the red clay. With all her might, she pressed off and soared through the water. When she broke the surface, she gulped in deep breaths, flinging the sodden strands of hair out of her face.
Then she heard it—a laugh deep and rich and filled with humor.
She was going to strangle him.
“Oliver Ross!” She reeled toward his voice and found him hanging from the metal ladder off the side of the boat. “How . . . how . . .”
But any more would have taken breath and energy she didn’t have, so she set out to reach him with quick strokes, only to find his hand outstretched to her. Because the weight of her wet clothes was pulling her down—and only because of that—she let him haul her into the boat. Stumbling up the ladder and over the railing, she didn’t even look at him. Then she collapsed, her heart thudding against the deck.
“You okay there, champ? You looked like you were trying out for the Olympics.”
Rolling her head to see soaking-wet Oliver lounging beside her, propped up on his elbows, did not help her mood. He looked like he was in some kind of cologne commercial—damp hair tousled to the side, all casual and effortlessly sexy. Not that he was sexy.
“I was trying to save you,” she grumbled.
“Aww.” He patted the top of her head, and she whipped away from him. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“Oh, I don’t.” No need to tell him what she’d really been thinking. “But my dad doesn’t need another stress in his life, and for whatever reason, he seems to like having you around.”
“Well, next time, don’t worry about it. I know how to swim.” Sitting up, he reached for his shoes and emptied half the ocean out of one of them and the other half out of the second.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t surface, and you were . . .” She pushed herself up and flicked her hand in his general direction, trying to indicate the dark gray T-shirt clinging to every bit of him from shoulder to hip and the dark jeans now painted onto his thighs. If she noticed that fishing had done some nice things for his muscles, she couldn’t be blamed for that. Not when they were basically a museum exhibit at this point.
Shoving her fingers through her wet hair, she sighed. “I thought you were at a disadvantage, and you didn’t come up.”
“Sure I did. I was at the ladder.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You saw me jump in?”
He shrugged.
“You heard me calling for you?” Her voice rose half an octave.
He poked a pinky in his ear with a guilty grin. “Must have gotten some water in there.”
She wanted to push him in again. And this time she wouldn’t dive in after him. “What if I’d drowned?”
His eyes sparked with humor, and she could almost read the truth there. If she’d drowned, he wouldn’t have any more competition. But he managed not to say those words, which spared him another dip in the bay. Instead, his mouth shifted into a thoughtful frown. “I’d have gone after you.”
Her grunt asked if he was serious.
“Like you said, your dad doesn’t need any more stress right now.” He shrugged again. “Besides, the Mounties would have assumed I was guilty. Especially with my track record.”
That made her crack a smile. Partially because it was true, and partially because he was making a habit of surprising her.
Oliver pushed himself up, and it wasn’t until his shadow swept over her that she realized how late it had gotten.
“Guess we’ll have to test her later,” he said as he crossed the deck and turned off the engine.
The gentle hum ended, and Meg’s skin tingled where it had been trembling only a moment before. She nodded her agreement as she stood, her clothes still dripping and every gust of wind making goose bumps erupt across her body. She could put on her sweater, but it would soak through immediately too. So instead she hugged herself and tried not to think about how warm she’d been when Oliver had wrapped his arm about her waist.
“But we’re going to have to go out before setting day. You know—”
“I know.”
Setting day was only a little more than a week away. He didn’t have to spell it out for her. She’d been away for a few years, but nothing could make her forget setting day. She and her mom had lined up along the wharf with t
he other fishing wives—or fishing widows, depending on who was asked. She’d cheered and skipped behind the boats weighed low with lobster traps stacked far overhead. Her dad had always turned to wave at her just as he reached the open water, off to set every one of his 240 traps.
For most of the island, setting day was the first of May. For the southwestern shore, it was mid-August. Her dad’s license said Lobster Fishing Area 25 between PEI and New Brunswick. Of course, everyone knew that their real zone was much smaller than that. More than seven hundred fishermen shared the area, and every single one of them had an unofficial spot.
Wringing out the hem of her shorts, she said, “We can go out anytime.”
He snorted. “Excuse me?”
Flinging her hand in the direction of the open water, she sighed. “You know what I mean. To test the boat. Anytime.”
“Sure.” The singsong in his voice said he didn’t quite believe her.
“And next time—wear a life vest, okay?”
Oliver had moved to the dock side of the boat and was busy putting the moorings back into place. His head snapped around at her words. “I wouldn’t have needed one if you hadn’t pushed me in.” He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest where she’d shoved him. “Caught me off guard.” With a chuckle, he added, “Besides, I’m not the one who jumped in on purpose.”
“At least I had the forethought to take my shoes off.” She held up a sneaker before leaning against the railing and shoving her foot—wet sock and all—into it.
She cringed. He smirked.
But when he reached the dock, he held out his hand to help her up the ladder. She eyed it for a long moment, then slid her fingers into his. Before she could step onto the first rung, the boat rocked, and she clung to his arm for a brief second before dropping her hold. His eyes flashed, but he said nothing more as she scurried up the three steps and they walked around the shanties to the dirt parking lot.
When she reached her car, she opened her door. Oliver stood a safe distance away.
