The Summer Girls (8 page)

The following morning, the alarm on Carson’s phone sounded like bell chimes. She shot her arm out to turn it off before anyone else woke up. When she rose, she looked at
herself in the mirror, saw her blue eyes bright in her reflection, and realized she felt sharp, rested . . . and good. She wasn’t bogged down with the grogginess that came from her usual night of drinking. She’d gone to bed early to catch up on her sleep and this morning her head was clear and she felt a tingling of energy running in her veins. Spurred on by Mamaw’s advice to stop sulking around, Carson was determined to take the first baby step and get back into the water.

She stepped outside and was greeted by the moist, fragrant morning air. It felt warmer than the day before. She could trace the advent of summer as they moved closer to June. Soon, the water would be warmer, too, she thought with a smile. Inside the house, everyone still slept soundly. She went directly to the back porch, where her paddleboard was resting. Hoisting it under her arm, she carried it to the end of the dock, attuned to the creaking of the wood beneath her feet and the lapping of water against wood. The dawn still hovered at the waterline. Carson smiled. She hadn’t missed it.

Walking down the long wooden dock, Carson held her tall paddleboard with fidgety fingers, feeling the panic slowly rising in her chest at the prospect of entering the sea. It might have been just the cove, not the waves along the front of the ocean, but there was still wildlife coming and going from either place.

She cleared her throat as she faced the sea, opening her heart. “I don’t know how to fight this. I depend on you to help me.” She took a deep breath. “So here I am.”

There was nothing left but to get wet. Carson lowered
her paddleboard onto the water as she had countless times before. Her hands shook and her feet felt clumsy on the familiar board but she pushed forward. Once she found her balance on the sweet spot, she took a deep breath and lowered her paddle.
Just one stroke after another,
she told herself as she made her way away from the dock out into the current.

There was a peace and solitude in these early-morning paddling trips that was akin to meditation. She was just another creature making her solitary path along the waterway. The water level was low. White egrets stood along the grassy edges with enviable poise on their sleek black legs. A little farther up the creek, she spotted a great blue heron, majestic and haughty.

It was after six
A.M
. and still most of the windows of the houses along the creek were dark. Their occupants were sleeping away the best show of the day, she thought to herself. But she was glad for the isolation. It was a good idea to have a buddy watching your back when you were out on the surf. Here on the quiet waterway, however, she felt safe cruising along with only her thoughts for company. She focused on the steady rhythm of her strokes, left to right, left to right, and the rippling sound the paddle made.

She was making steady progress along the creek when to her left she heard a loud splash. Carson’s rhythm broke as she swung her head toward the sound in time to spot the tip of a dorsal fin before it disappeared underwater. She felt her heart race as her body froze, paddle in midair. Then she saw the gray dorsal fin reemerge a few yards ahead of her board.

Carson sighed in relief when she saw that it was a dolphin, and chuckled at herself for being so jumpy. Atlantic bottlenose dolphins roamed these waters. These estuaries were their home. She loved these whimsical creatures, never more than since one had saved her life. Carson dunked her paddle back into the water and pushed hard, hoping to see the dolphin again. Turning her head, she scanned the flat water until she spotted the dolphin emerging with a percussive
pfoosh
to breathe. She followed the graceful swimmer as it traveled farther down the creek; then it surprised her by turning again and coming back.

Carson stopped paddling and let the current drag her along like it would any piece of driftwood. The sleek gray dolphin eased alongside the board, this time tilting its body slightly so it could peer up at her, curious. Carson looked into the large, dark almond eye and had the distinct impression that this dolphin was checking her out. Not in idle curiosity, either. She’d experienced dolphins coming close to her paddleboard many times before. But this moment was surreal. Carson sensed—she knew—that there was
a thinking presence
behind that gaze.

“Well, good morning,” she said to the dolphin.

At the sound of her voice, the dolphin jerked its head away and dunked under the water.

Carson laughed at its capriciousness. How different looking into these eyes was compared to the shark’s. In the dolphin’s gaze she sensed a curious mind, not her doom. She couldn’t deny that she was as curious about this unusually friendly dolphin as the dolphin seemed to be about her.

The water level was slowly rising as the tide came in. The sun rose higher, too, and she was getting close to the end of the boundaries of the cove behind Sullivan’s Island. If she didn’t turn around, the tide would carry her out into the choppy waters of Charleston Harbor. She put her back into her strokes and pushed her paddle against the current toward home. It was hard work but good for that flat belly that seemed to spark Dora’s jealousy.

She was focused on the task when in her peripheral vision she spotted the curious dolphin again. It was discreetly keeping abreast of her, then shot ahead several yards before turning back. Carson smiled. The dolphin clearly was following her. Carson wondered if it was actually playing with her or just curious about the gangly creature who made such pathetic progress in the water while the dolphin was so streamlined and graceful.

By the time Carson reached the dock the thrumming of boat engines could be heard in the distance, signaling the end of her peaceful time in the cove. She climbed onto the dock and pulled off her paddleboard, shivering as splashes of chilly water struck her bare skin. Hearing another percussive whoosh, Carson dropped to her knees on the floating dock, raised a hand over her eyes, and squinted. A large gray head emerged from the water a few feet away. Carson didn’t move, not wanting to spook the dolphin. Bright eyes, smart and watchful, gazed at her from the water for a few minutes. Then the creature opened its mouth and emitted a series of short, squeaky sounds.

The dolphin closed its mouth, then tilted its head to peer up at her speculatively, as though to ask,
So now what?

Carson laughed. “You’re so beautiful,” she said to the dolphin, reaching out her hand.

Immediately the dolphin dove, lifting its tail into the air.

Carson sucked in her breath and stared at the empty rings of water where the dolphin had been. A chunk was missing from the dolphin’s left fluke, like it had been bitten off. Carson rose shakily to her feet and stood scanning the water while the memory of the shark incident flashed through her mind. She recalled how the dolphin had sped toward the shark like a bullet and rammed into its side. The shark had seemed to fold into itself for a second, and just as quickly, it had swung around in attack. She’d seen the mighty jaws lurch for the dolphin’s tail as it tried to escape.

“Oh my God,” Carson gasped. This had to be
the
dolphin. The one that had saved her from the shark. Could it be possible? It made sense that the dolphin would come to the relative quiet of the estuaries to heal. Her mind went over the way the dolphin had looked at her, studied her, and how it had come back a second time to check her out.

The dolphin had recognized her.

She laughed shortly, stunned by the possibility. Her rational mind told her it couldn’t be true. But then again, why not? Like humans, dolphins were self-aware and highly intelligent.

Carson scanned the water of the cove. In the distance, against the blue-green water, she spotted the gray dolphin as it gracefully arched in and out of the waves. It was heading out into the harbor. Carson cupped her hands at her mouth and called out, “Thank you!”

M
amaw called an old friend and within the week Carson had a job as a waitress at Dunleavy’s, a small Irish pub on Sullivan’s Island. That’s how things were done on the island, where family connections were tighter than a tick on a dog. Carson had to swallow her pride, but in truth, she was happy to have the job.

Carson didn’t have savings, stocks—nothing. Her life on film crews had always been on the go, traveling from one exotic location to another. Some people couldn’t keep up the fast pace, but living out of a suitcase came naturally to her. Her father had never let the moss grow over them, moving them from one apartment to the next. So being here at Sea Breeze the last few weeks had been a nice slowing down. She was gradually getting back into the Southern rhythm.

And she had to admit she enjoyed working at the pub.

Dunleavy’s was a family-owned pub on Middle Street, a popular few blocks of quaint restaurants and small shops on Sullivan’s Island. The pub had great beers on tap, fresh popcorn, and homey decor. There were picnic tables and umbrellas outside where folks could sit with their dogs. Inside, beer cans and license plates decorated the walls and the screen door slammed when you walked in.

Carson worked the lunch shift and made decent tips, but even after two weeks she had a lot to learn. She was trying to carry one too many plates from a table when her hand slipped, knocking over a beer glass and sending it shattering across the floor. Thankfully the lunch rush was over and only a few patrons remained at the small wood tables, but each of the six heads turned toward the clatter, as well as the faces of her boss and fellow waitress, Ashley.

“Careful there,” Brian called out from his post at the bar. “Again . . .” he added with a rueful shake of his head.

Carson gritted her teeth and smiled at the manager, then bent to pick up the broken glass.

“What’s the matter with you today?” asked Ashley, rushing over with a broom and waste bin. “Step back and don’t cut your fingers. Let me sweep up.”

Carson leaned against the table. Around her the few tourists went back to their plates and a soft buzz of talking resumed.

“I’m the world’s worst waitress,” Carson whined.

Ashley chuckled as she swept. “Well, you’re not the best, but you’ve just started. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you bring a menu to that
guy who just sat down in your section,” she said with a nod of her head.

Carson reached over to grab a menu.

“Put on your pretty smile,” Ashley teased. “It’s Mr. Predictable.”

“Stop it,” Carson said with a smirk.

“He always sits in your section.”

“That means he likes the window, not me.”

“Yeah, well you don’t see his moon eyes following you when you walk away.”

“Really?” Carson asked, mildly surprised. Not that she should have been. She was accustomed to the glances of men, but her radar was off and she’d not registered this one. She turned her head to slyly check out the man in question. He was tall and lean, a little too angular, and had the slightly disheveled T-shirt–shorts–and–sandals look of a local. His hair was dark brown with curls that went askew under his cap. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes, couldn’t, for that matter, remember much about him.

“He’s not my type,” Carson said.

“You mean he’s not the cool Hollywood dream boy you usually hang out with in L.A.?”

Carson had told Ashley about some of the men she’d dated in L.A.—mostly actors and filmmakers. She got a kick out of seeing Ashley’s eyes widen, impressed with the roster of men who were either movie star good-looking or very cool. Mr. Predictable was neither.

Carson smirked and tightened the strings of her apron around her uniform, a green Dunleavy’s T-shirt. “Why don’t
you take his order? He’s more your type anyway . . . the scruffy good ol’ boy.”

Ashley sighed lustily. “He’s cute. But I’ve got a boyfriend. I’m off the market. Besides”—Ashley put her hand to her heart with an exaggerated expression of horror—“I couldn’t do that to the poor man. He’d be so disappointed if he saw me come to the table instead of you.”

“Well, he can look all he likes. I’m not looking for romance.”

“Honey,” Ashley said with a smirk before sauntering away with her broom and trash, “we’re always lookin’ for romance.”

When Carson approached the table the dark-haired man turned from the window to her. This time Carson looked into his eyes. They were a deep chocolate color that had the power to melt when he locked gazes with someone, as he did now. He was taking her measure, she could tell, as though he were surprised that she’d finally taken notice of him.

“Well hey,” she said with an engaging smile. She’d had a lot of luck with this smile over the years and expected results. “Nice to see you’re back.”

He arched a brow, amused. “Yeah, well, I like it here,” he said, withholding a smile. “Good food. Nice atmosphere.”

“Uh-huh,” she replied. “What’ll it be? Wait, let me guess. The black-’n’-blue burger.”

He glanced up to look at her from over the top of the menu. “You noticed?”