Seven Tears into the Sea (7 page)

Nana has a gruesome picture of a guest who tried to pet one. She makes people who express an interest in visiting the cove look at it. After that, most stay away.

Behind me I heard footsteps in the water.

Slowly I turned my gaze from the sea lions, and I saw him. Sun glistening on water can make you see things that aren't there. But he was only a few yards away.

He sat on a flat rock just outside the grotto.

My gaze swept the cove, trying to make sense of the fact that he hadn't been there just a minute ago. Okay, so I'd been sort of hypnotized by the beach, but why hadn't the sea lions reacted to his approach?

Maybe he speaks their language,
I teased myself. After all, in those old legends, selkies ruled as princes among the sea lions.

He was handsome enough to be a selkie. That's for sure.

His cut-off jeans were drenched. He had the blackest hair I'd ever seen. His bare feet reminded me of sculpture, and the corners of his eyes tilted. He wasn't Asian,
I didn't think, but he could be Italian or Greek. His nose might have been broken once.

The details quit coming when he moved.

He leaned back on arms braced behind him. He wore a lazy smile, and he was totally immersed in sunning himself. It was a good thing his eyes were closed, because I couldn't stop staring.

His sun tan was gold and so smooth, he might have been wearing fresh skin. I wanted to skim my fingers along that dip where his neck turned into shoulder.

What?
Why was I thinking about touching a stranger?

I tucked my fingers into my palms and locked my fists with my thumbs.

“You never called,” he said, and then he opened his eyes.

I drew a deep breath. In my mind, bells clanged like they do when the merry-go-round stops and you have to dismount from a purple horse. Fantasy over.

“That would be because we've never met,” I told him.

He looked astonished. “You don't remember?”

“I'd remember, believe me,” I said.

“It was here,” he said, trying to give my memory a nudge as he studied me with serious brown eyes.

“Here?” I asked. Although he had that peculiar Celtic rhythm to his speech, like the old folks along this beach, I really didn't think he was a local guy.

His description of “here” came with a vague gesture that took in the entire California coast. When he moved that way, sinews flexed from his forearm to his index finger.

I was doing it again, and I do
not
ogle strangers.

“When?” I asked, I guess because I wanted it to be true.

He looked down at the sand between his feet. This was not a hard question. He was either dumb or a really bad liar. I was beginning to work up some real irritation with myself and him when water dripped from his hair to his chest.

I tried to draw a breath, but it got stuck.

That dark gold tan flowed over his muscles and under the droplet. He must work out, because he had a really nice chest. In fact, he had really nice everything.

He looked up as if he'd finally formulated an answer.

I was so embarrassed he'd caught me staring, I got mad.

“You had me going there for a minute,” I snapped.

“Going where?” he asked, but the question didn't sound sarcastic.

All the sea lions had fallen silent, and I heard how sharply I'd spoken. He looked confused, so I softened what I'd said.

“It's not a very original pick-up line. That's all,” I told him. What if he wasn't a native speaker of English? He did have that accent.

My brain was working up more excuses for him when I noticed the way his wet hair clung in little thorn shapes to his cheekbones. Something about that stopped me. I recognized him. Almost.

His face lit with a puppyish joy. He flushed a little.

As if he could read my mind, he said, “I knew you'd remember.”

All this time he'd been sitting on that sun-warmed rock, but now he stood. He was taller than I'd expected. At least six feet tall. Muscular. And intimidating. When he moved toward me, I backed up a step.

He noticed. His eyes darted past me, as if he'd block my escape.

Not good, I thought, and a jolt of adrenaline made me hyperalert.

“I've got to go to work,” I said.

“Wouldn't you rather stay here?” His head tilted back, and he seemed to take in the blue sky vaulting over the red-brown rock walls. He got that same look he'd worn with his eyes closed, when he was basking, taking joy in the sun's warmth on his wet skin.

“It's my first day of work.”

He gave a “so-what?” shrug. Maybe he was rich.

When he reached toward my arm, the adrenaline rush returned. This was going too fast. It didn't matter how cute he was.

“They're counting on me,” I said.

He could have reached me, but his arm fell back to his side. He looked resigned and maybe a little disgusted.

As I started back up the trail to Mirage Point, I waved, then I heard him take a breath.

I knew he was going to say something. I kept moving, but I did look over my shoulder.

“Gwennie,” he called. “Will you come back this time?”

I took that steep path at a run.

How did he know my name?

All day, I wondered if he'd show up at the Sea Horse Inn.

He could be a guest I'd met there when I was a child. Or someone who'd attended Siena Bay Elementary school. It was possible I'd met him at a Northern California swim meet.

But the thing is, I would have remembered. I'm not the boy-crazy, crush-a-week type, but if he'd asked me to call him, I would have melted on the spot.

He looked like a competitive swimmer. My thoughts kept circling back to that fact, but it didn't feel right.

Something embarrassing, which made me glad no one could read my mind, was that I'd never noticed a guy's skin before. I actually thought about it as I set Nana's table with fine silver.

As I washed dishes after the guests had drifted away from breakfast, I replayed his brown eyes, which shifted expression from devoted, to playful, to predatory. Something about him wasn't normal.

I told Nana I'd work for her all day long to help her catch up on things she couldn't do with her injured leg. The truth was, I was afraid to walk back to my cottage.

Where was he? Who was he?

Yes, it was broad daylight, but what if he was waiting for me? What if that had been his footprint on my porch?

I wanted to ask Nana or Thelma if the leader of the Siena Bay pack was pathologically handsome. But I didn't.

Instead, I put my anxiety to good use. I washed windows for Nana and didn't glance up when I did those on the seaward side of the Inn.

My only break was when my parents called, having waited a record twenty-four hours to check on me. I told them Gumbo and I had made it through the night just fine.

Of course I didn't mention Gumbo's hallucination at the window or the guy in the cove, so when I talked to Mom, she admitted they were going away for a week, camping in Colorado. They hung up happy as they could be without having me in sight.

After that, I spent two hours on my knees in the sun, sanding weathered boards on the widow's walk, because Nana swore that the rough footing had
caused her to trip. I didn't look toward the Point.

By the time I finished, I was sweaty, dirty, and I'd worked the craziness out of my system. The guy I'd talked with wasn't abnormal; he was foreign.

Next time I saw him, I'd ask where he came from. And that would be that.

It never occurred to me that I wouldn't see him again.

Cooled by lazy overhead fans, the inn was an oasis after my hours outside.

“These jeans will never be the same,” I apologized, as I met Nana in the kitchen. I'd borrowed a pair of her old jeans to do chores, and the knees had gone from white to cobwebs.

“Nor you either, by the look of you,” Thelma said.

My eyes were still dazed by sun glare, but I noticed my arms were sunburned and my hands blistered. I'd pinned my hair into a knot, but most of it had fallen down.

I was in no condition to serve tea, but it was nearly four o'clock.

“Those jeans were destined for the rag bag anyway,” Nana said. “And you've just enough time for a quick bubble bath.”

I'd opened my mouth to protest when she said, “I'll draw it for you myself, and I promise you'll find it quite restorative.”

Since Nana believed in the power of herbs long before aromatherapy had been invented, I wasn't
surprised that the collarbone-deep bath smelled tropical and lush.

Her room was on the sea side of the house, so even in the little tiled bathroom, I could hear the waves.

Limp with relaxation, I still managed to climb out, towel off, and find the dress Nana had laid out for me.

It was one of those dresses that's infinitely adjustable. Kind of counterculture looking, but cool. Made of crinkled ivory cotton, it had random sparkly stuff like confetti on the skirt, and the top left my arms bare. For once the muscles left from my days as a diver didn't make me look manly, just fit.

It nipped in at the waist and swirled around my knees.

My wet hair could have used some work, but there wasn't time. Looking in Nana's mirror, I fluffed it with my fingers. Mom called the color “red amber.”

Before it could fall into high-humidity waviness, I pinned it up.

Knowing Nana wouldn't care, I poked around in her makeup. I smoothed on Hushabye Blue eye shadow, a little mascara, and transparent lip gloss, and decided I looked all of seventeen.

That guy—who knew my name even though I didn't know his—had looked older. Maybe nineteen or twenty.

I slipped on the sandals I'd worn this morning, twirled the skirt, and smiled at my mirrored self. Except—I couldn't see her. Sunlight streamed in from
the seaside window, creating a dazzle on the mirror which made me squint.

I blinked and turned away, still grinning. Who could blame me for feeling glad there'd be no one waiting up for me tonight and for feeling a little bit wild?

Serving tea turned out to be easier than yesterday, and I actually looked at the guests. There were only five of them today.

As I peered up from my tray of sugar, milk, and lemon slices, I decided the woman whose hair was sprayed into a brass-blond helmet must be the one Thelma was saying snide things about yesterday. Mister and Mrs. Heller, that was it,but I wished I could remember what she'd said about them besides the fact that the husband—the balding guy had to be him—seemed nice enough.

I liked the other guests better, though I'm sure Nana didn't want me prioritizing them. Still, the three English teachers guessed that I was about to be a senior, asked if I liked English, and warmed me with approving smiles when I said literature was my favorite subject.

They sat together on Nana's couch, though it was a tight fit. They were all a little overweight, but not in a bad way. They looked comfortable and happy. The fluffy blonde and the one with short black hair bracketed the one with faded reddish hair and glasses.

They were joking and helping themselves to chocolate éclairs when I realized they could be Mandi and Jill with me in the middle, about forty years from now. Except I couldn't see Mandi going on a road trip which ended at a Shakespeare festival.

“Mrs. Cook's promised to tell us a myth,” said the teacher with the black hair. “I hear she knows dozens.”

“She does,” I said proudly. “She's my grandmother.”

“What a fortunate girl,” said the bespectacled one.

I agreed and refilled her teacup.

Nana sat in a wing chair in the parlor, playing hostess. Her purple, paisley skirt draped to the floor, covering her walking cast. With her many-ringed fingers and wispy hair, she looked like an elfin queen.

I worked as I listened, refilling teacups and passing trays, always wondering if that boy was nearby.

When Nana settled back in her chair, the parlor grew quiet. Her eyes rested on the Inn's green lawns, which rolled down to the beach, sending back echoes of the waves. She told the tale as if she'd heard it many times and memorized it.

“Long ago on these shores, there lived a fisherman's daughter named Larina. Though she was a sunny, healthy girl, everyone knew she was destined to be a spinster.

“Not that she wasn't kind. She took hot tea to fishermen as they mended nets, huddled against harsh winds. She was friendly, too, tolerating the bellows' hot breath
to keep the blacksmith company as he mended her mother's cooking pots. And Larina was patient, for she could be found chatting as best she could with the shopkeeper whose never-ending stammer made villagers eager to escape his company.

“But Larina saw most men as brothers and they, in turn, considered her a sister. Still, she counted herself content—until she learned the way of true happiness.

“One night a dream compelled her to walk down to the darkling shore …”