by Liz Johnson
“Ready, ladies?” Oliver asked.
Meg nodded, and her mom did too, if cautiously.
Oliver stretched his arm across the back of the seat and turned to look over his shoulder as he backed out of the driveway. His fingers brushed Meg’s shoulder, and she froze, trying not to relive every moment of their last interaction. Every moment on the boat beneath the moon and stars. In his arms.
But the memory swept over her, like she was swimming in a sea of seltzer.
He pulled his hand away as though he hadn’t even realized they’d made contact. She forced herself to let it go, focusing on her mom’s bouncing knee.
“It’s nice to get out of the house, isn’t it, Mom? After being cooped up for a few days.”
Her mom nodded, but her gaze was pointed toward one of the air vents. Meg followed the line and then expanded her focus from the vents to the entire black dashboard—clean and nearly shining in the September sun.
She’d only been in Oliver’s truck once before, and she’d been so distracted on the trip to the hospital that she hadn’t paid any attention. Now she looked her fill. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but this wasn’t it. The floorboards were as neat as the seat, every dashboard crevice free of dust. Even a glance into the truck’s bed revealed only a chipped red toolbox and nothing more.
“What’s your favorite part of the beach, Mrs. Whitaker?”
Meg jumped at his question, but her mom didn’t seem surprised.
“The waves. When the sand disappears.”
Meg knew that moment well, the feeling when the outgoing waves pulled the sand beneath her toes back out to sea. It felt like she was going to be dragged right along with it out to the deep. She had to fight to stay standing despite the longing to see where the tides would take her.
But her mom wouldn’t ever know that surging joy again. There was no way she could stand on the shifting sand without falling, let alone hold her own against the rolling water.
Maybe this had been a terrible idea. Maybe Meg would only be making memories she’d rather forget. She wanted to remember her mom as strong and shining and filled with joy. But would she only regret this later?
The realization came too late as Oliver pulled into a parking spot beside a short boardwalk through tall grass that led to the sand. At least they were only minutes from home. If this went south, they’d just go back to the house.
Meg opened her door, and the smell of freshness, of water and earth and sky baked in warm sunshine, flowed in. Her mom immediately lifted her nose and inhaled, a lazy smile following.
“Sit tight,” Oliver said. “I’ll help you down.”
Meg decided that the offer wasn’t for her, so she hopped down on her own, nearly landing on his bare toes.
He was wearing thongs. She was too, but this was the first time she could remember seeing so much of him—from his knees down his hairy calves and well-shaped ankles to his solid feet.
“I’d have helped you down too,” he whispered, leaning past her to lift her mom to the ground.
Positioning himself on her mom’s other side, he looped his arm through hers. “Ready?”
Her mom nodded, and they took off for the bridge, Meg slamming the truck door behind them and scrambling to catch up. As they reached the wooden walkway, the sounds of life disappeared, fading into the gentle clapping of the water. Slow. Steady. Inviting.
At the far end of the bridge, her mom stopped, her foot raised but not ready to step into the shifting dry sand.
A few kilometers down the shore, there was a beach of red clay, rippled and rocky. The water had packed it tight. It might have been so much safer.
“Whoa, whoa.” Oliver held her back. “Bare feet only.” He knelt before her mom and slipped off her sandals. Looking up with a wink, he said, “Now don’t go running off without me.”
Meg’s insides turned into spaghetti, her chest expanding with something even bigger than she’d felt that night on the boat. His smile was for her mom, but it filled her like it was just for her. Like he’d come to this beach with her in mind. Planned this moment for her alone.
Meg wrapped her arm about her mom’s waist, and they took a careful step. And another. Then they paused to squish their toes in the sand. Her mom lifted her face to the sky, the afternoon sunshine enveloping them.
It took nearly twenty minutes to make it to the water, and her mom took the last steps faster, her toe catching on the sand. She jerked forward, but Oliver was right there, his arms looping around her shoulders and pulling her to safety even as Meg clung to her arm.
“All right there?” Oliver said.
“The . . . um . . . the . . . in.”
Meg froze. Her mom wanted to put her feet—or more—in the water. She began to shake her head, but Oliver was already there. “All right. But you have to hold on tight.”
Meg caught his eye and tried to wave him off.
“We’ve got this.” He motioned Meg to the other side, and they each wrapped an arm around her waist. Then they held on to her hands.
Her mom stepped forward slowly. When the water nipped at her toes, her eyes went wide and bright. Another wave caught them off guard, splashing cool water up to their knees and getting the hem of her pink Bermuda shorts wet. Then came the tug of the receding wave.
Meg felt the pull but fought it. Her mom didn’t have the same strength, and her feet began to slip.
“Mom!”
Oliver moved so quickly she didn’t even realize what he was doing, until he scooped her mom into his arms. Her chirp of laughter reached the tops of the trees in the parking lot.
Every worry melted away with that sound, and Meg reached up on her tiptoes to kiss her mom’s cheek. “I love you.”
“Me too,” she said.
Oliver caught her eye, his smile filled with joy and only a brief touch of sadness.
“Thank you.” She mouthed the words just as her mom wiggled to be put down.
They returned to playing in the surf, splashing each other, laughter abundant, joy even more so. The sun had almost reached the western horizon by the time her mom sagged into Oliver’s arms. Meg motioned to the truck, and Oliver scooped her mom back up.
They rode back in contented silence, her mom’s head lolling. Oliver parked by the side door and carried her back inside, where her eager husband was waiting.
Meg kissed his cheek, squeezed his hand, and then led Oliver back outside. Her cheeks still hurt from smiling as she closed the door behind them.
“That was brilliant,” he said, a near skip in his step into the side yard. “I had no idea she loved the water so much.”
“Honestly, I think she’s missed it.” Meg lifted her face, closed her eyes, and let the moment wash over her.
“You did a good thing today, kid.”
She nodded as she opened her eyes, her smile tilting as something new took hold of her. “You were right.”
He slapped a hand to his chest, his face contorting in comical surprise. “Who, me? Right? Who’d have guessed it?”
She shoved his shoulder, and he swayed away before coming back close to her, his dimples cutting laugh lines on either side of his mouth. A light in his eyes that she’d missed before outshone the orange sun.
Suddenly she lost all control of her faculties. It was the only explanation for why she shot to her tiptoes, grabbed either side of his face, and pressed her lips to his.
Oh dear. That was not what she’d meant to do. Certainly not part of the day’s plan.
No. No. No. Not good.
He froze, his lips warm but unmoving.
She thought they’d been on the same page on the boat, but he hated this. He didn’t respond at all. Nothing. Limp noodle.
Despite the flash mob destroying her insides.
She jumped back, eyes wide—but they couldn’t be any wider than his. He was still as stone, and she prayed for a tidal wave that would wash her away before he pulled himself from whatever trance she’d caused.
She’d meant to say thanks and wish him a good day. Instead, she’d lost her mind.
She’d meant to tell him he was a good friend. Instead, she’d thrown herself at him.
And he was not interested.
Idiot. There weren’t enough words in the English language to describe how foolish that had been, so in the absence of said tidal wave, she turned to bolt.
She didn’t even get two steps. His hand, so coarse yet gentle, gripped her wrist and spun her right back around to him. She would have slammed into his chest except that she pressed her free hand over his heart. His other hand snaked around her waist, pulling her in closer, deeper.
Breath catching in the back of her throat, she tried to look away, but all she could see was the strong column of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple. In all honesty, she wanted to flee the scene of the crime. But that didn’t seem a real possibility given the vise around her waist and the wall in front of her.
Then he took a breath. Closed his eyes. And kissed her.
She squeaked in response, but there was nowhere to go. Nowhere she wanted to go either, at least not anymore. So she sank into him.
He was an expert at this, his lips firm and urgent, drawing her into something unexpected and wild. He was a riptide pulling her out to sea, and she couldn’t fight it. Not that she wanted to. It was the sweetest tide she’d ever known.
Releasing her arm, he cupped her cheek, his thumb gliding below her closed lashes, leaving a trail of electricity in its wake. It crackled and sparked, but she refused to open her eyes, only leaning further into his embrace.
Her pulse skittered, the rhythm strange and new. Only when she’d learned it did she realize that, beneath her palm, his heartbeat matched her own. He was lightning and she thunder, their stories so long intertwined.
Her legs turned to pudding, and she grabbed his shoulders, holding herself up even as he scooped her into his arms and up against the side of the house. They crashed into the wall hard enough to rattle a window. He gasped. She laughed. They both gulped in air.
His forehead pressed to hers, he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
Eyes still pinched closed, she gave the only response that came to mind. “Why?”
Oh dear. At this rate she’d become a scandal in no time. She was kissing her former nemesis against the side of her parents’ house, in view of God and anyone who happened to be driving by.
And she couldn’t make herself care.
“Because . . . I don’t want you to regret this.”
“Not going to be a problem.”
Hands on either side of her waist, he stepped closer, leaving not even a breath between them. Walking his fingers up her arm, he shot fireworks down to her toes. His hands were magic. She should have known it wasn’t Mama Potts’s cream that was so special. It was him.
For her, it was him.
“How do you do that?”
“Hmm?” His breath was at her ear, and she sighed as his nose pressed into her hair.
Make me feel like I’m going to melt and I don’t even care. But she couldn’t get her tongue to form the words, not with him surrounding her. The smell of wood and salt and the sea clung to him.
“You smell like my face cream,” he growled into her neck.
“It was mine first.” Her words were muffled against his shoulder, but she could feel the shaking of his laughter.
“Fine. But it smells better on you.”
“Agree to disagree,” she whispered.
Then she couldn’t disagree about anything as his lips dragged from her ear to her chin, his whiskers prickly, sending all of her focus there. To the point where they connected. To the point of fire. And oh, such sweet fire.
When his lips finally found hers again, she was lost. Adrift in the sea without a lighthouse. Except for him.
Because somehow he’d become that steady, faithful beam across the rolling waves.
Oliver needed to stop. He had to pull away. If he kept this up, he’d be addicted. And there was no endgame that saw them happy—saw them together.
But the more he drank from her lips—her sweet strawberry lips—the more he craved.
She sighed into him, and he was lost. He couldn’t care about the future or think past the moment. He could only hold on to her, enjoy every second for as long as it lasted.
Dragging his fingers down the bare line of her arm, he savored the silk of her skin. She shivered, and he did it again, remembering the whimper she’d made when he’d massaged Mama Potts’s miracle cream into her sore muscles. He’d give anything to hear her make that sound again.
Instead, she nearly purred, wiggling against him like she wanted to get beneath his skin.
She was already there. Already so much a part of him that he couldn’t imagine a morning without her.
It wasn’t the coffee she brought or the way her nose wrinkled when he scooped out bait from the bucket. It wasn’t the way she worked as hard as Kyle or refused to leave any part of the business to him alone. It wasn’t anything but her. Just Meg. Just who she was. The way she fiercely loved her mom and cared for her dad. The way she gave him a safe place to spill his secrets.
When the season was over, he’d have to settle for sitting behind her every Sunday, leaning forward, praying for just a whiff of her shampoo, a sniff of the woman she was.
It wasn’t going to be enough. It never would be.
As much as he wanted to hold on to her forever, to pretend they could go on just like this, he had to put some space between them.
As he pulled away, he caught sight of her shy smile, lower lip caught between her teeth. All he could say was, “Meg Whitaker, you’ve been holding out on me.”
She laughed—the rich, sweet sound he always had to work so hard for. If this was work, he’d sign up for a lifetime of it.
No. That was future thinking. He could think only of the present.
“You’re one to talk, Ross. If I’d known you could kiss like that, I’d have made you make up for my robot years ago.”
“Gladly.” He shoved a hand through his hair and tried not to stare at her. Long, tanned limbs in jean shorts and tank top, leaning against the house with one knee bent and a foot pressed to the wall behind her. Her long blonde hair, which he’d grown accustomed to seeing confined to a tight bun, hung loose over her shoulders. She looked just like she had in high school, relaxed and peaceful, all the world for her taking.
She could do anything. Why would she settle for the life of a fisherman? He knew why she wanted the business at that moment. But how long would she want it after her mom was gone? Maybe she was chaining herself to something she didn’t want for the sake of a legacy. Maybe she wasn’t being fair to herself.
“We’ll be back on the water in the morning.”
With a nod, she pushed away from the wall. “Thank you, Oliver. For what you did for my mom—and for me—today.”
“Anytime.” He hated that he meant it.
eighteen
Meg hadn’t been on a date since her last semester at school. Charlie Bunting had been a graduate student too. Philosophy. He’d taken her to a poetry reading where they’d sipped bitter tea, and she’d said exactly six words. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
He hadn’t called her for a second date. Thank goodness. Dating wasn’t exactly her forte. Which was fine, since this was most definitely not a date.
But as she pushed open the white door of Carrie’s, the two-story blue home that had been converted into a restaurant, her stomach swarmed with butterflies.
“Hey, Meg,” Carrie called, her hands filled with dirty dishes. She huffed a strand of curly brown hair out of her eyes. “Come on in. Sit anywhere.”
Meg scanned the tables, looking for a familiar face. They were all familiar—neighbors and church members, store owners and actors she’d seen on the little community theater stage her whole life. All finally taking a breath and a break after a busy tourist season. And most treating themselves to Carrie’s
famous pot roast.
But she didn’t see shaggy black hair and bright blue eyes among them, so she slipped into the far seat at the nearest empty table and watched the door. The steady buzz of conversation rose and fell as she tapped the toe of her sandal against the center pole of the square table.
Carrie reappeared, dishes gone and a washrag in hand. “You haven’t been here in ages. How you been?”
She scrambled for a response that didn’t include falling asleep on the sofa because she was so tired. Or skipping meals because procuring food was harder than being hungry. So she went with simple. “Really busy.”
“But you’re not at the school anymore? Jenna said she has Mr. Wilkey for science. She said he’s terrible, and they really miss you.”
Meg tried for a smile. “Oh, I’m sure he’s doing his best.” But even she knew that wouldn’t be enough. Jenna had been one of her prize pupils the year before. Her love of physics and calculus was unmatched by her peers. Though Jenna was teased by her classmates, Meg had always encouraged her to do what she enjoyed.
But she’d closed the door on that. She’d chosen her family’s legacy. She’d made the right choice.
She was pretty sure.
“Jenna is a very smart girl—she’ll do fine.”
Carrie offered a curt nod, but even the freckles that covered her cheeks looked sad. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Um, I’m waiting for—”
The bell over the front door jingled, and they both turned toward it. A pretty woman entered on a cloud, floating across the floor. Back straight, nose high, she could have been one of the new generation of princesses. It wasn’t unheard of for British royals to make their way to the Maritimes. Even Kate and William had visited the island once on their Canadian tour.
But when the woman turned, Meg recognized her. Not royalty. Violet Donaghy. She wasn’t related to Oliver’s family, but she might as well have been. Her past was certainly a question. One the old biddies in town wanted answered, and one they’d never been able to.
All that was truly known was that she was a talented artist, her pottery some of the best on the island. Mama Potts had taken her in as her own, and together they’d built a blooming little tourist shop along the highway. But Violet had never blended into little Victoria by the Sea.
