Top O' the Mournin' (25 page)

I leapfrogged from one level of rock to the next, exchanging pleasantries with other tour members, my gaze ranging in a wide arc in search of Michael Malooley. I whipped out my Canon Elph and snapped a panoramic shot of the waves that seemed to be breaking higher on the shore, a wide-angle shot of the formation that resembled a pipe organ, a classic shot of the New York skyline cast in stone.

Ten minutes passed.

Twenty.

I found the Wishing Chair, a wobbly horizontal stone that tourists used as a primitive rocking chair, and waited my turn to sit down and make a wish. Ira Kuppelman and Ernie Minch had become the official photographers at the site, so they were too preoccupied snapping pictures of the chair’s occupants to get into any trouble. After I took my turn and made a simple wish that Etienne and I would be able to spend one quiet evening together, I wandered over every inch of the causeway and finally found Michael leaning against an errant boulder close to the shoreline, smoking a cigarette.

I imagined the wise thing to do would be to hang back, stretch out on a rock, and watch him, but I’d learned something about myself that I hadn’t realized before I accepted my escort job. I’m not the “hang back” type.

“Top o’ the morning to you,” I called out as I approached him. He stared at me through a fog of smoke, neither acknowledging my greeting nor looking happy to be interrupted. “Quite a place you have here!” I stopped in a spot that I prayed was downwind of him.

He scowled at me and blew a mouthful of smoke into the air. “It’s not my place, but they tell me you tourists like it well enough.”

“It’s nice you decided to join us at the site. I mean, usually the bus driver waits at the visitors’ center and never gets to see the attraction.”

“Does he now?”

“But you’re a rookie. Maybe they forgot to tell you the drill.”

He took another drag on his cigarette and turned his head away from me to glance out across the North Atlantic.
Geesch,
this guy really did need to kiss the Blarney Stone.

“So…if you don’t mind my asking, what line of work were you in before you decided to become a bus driver? I used to be in phone solicitation before I became a tour escort.”

“Brilliant,” he said, throwing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel.

Hmm.
This was going well. Maybe I needed to change my strategy. “Do you live close to the ocean?”

“Close enough.”

“You probably know all about the tides then. I live in the Midwest, so I don’t know diddly about these things. Can you look at the ocean right now and tell if the tide is coming in or going out?”

“It would be comin’ in. Be high tide in about”—he checked his watch—“ninety minutes.”

“You see? That’s what baffles me. How can you tell? What’s the secret?”

“Tidal charts. They print them up in the paper every day.”

“HEEELLLLLP!” I heard someone yell in the distance. “HELP!”

I spun around, trying to locate the person in trouble. Heads turned. People froze. Fingers pointed toward the water. I looked in the direction they were pointing and visored my hands over my eyes.

“There’s yer problem,” said Michael Malooley, pushing off from the boulder.

“HEEELLLLLP!” echoed the cry again.

I squinted at a figure waving her hands frantically over her head. She was hunchbacked, wore a paisley scarf, and didn’t look to be injured, but the spiny black pinnacle of rock on which she stood was no longer surrounded by dry ground. It was surrounded by water.

Bernice had ignored the incoming tide. Now she was stranded.

“How would I be knowin’ that? I’ve never been here before.”

I did a quick double take. “The eighth wonder of the world and you’ve never been here before?” I held up my hand. “Let me guess. No curiosity about the place. Right?”

He shrugged his beefy shoulders.

I riveted my gaze back at Bernice, trapped on her little barnacle-encrusted island. I stared at the rough, foamy water enveloping the rock, the tangled clumps of seaweed floating in the water, the kite tails of kelp whipping around in the surf. Great. This was just great. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Hold on, Bernice! Someone will be right out to help you!”

“Hurry!” she yelled back. “I can’t swim!”

Like that was a surprise. Footsteps stampeded behind me. Gasps. Wheezing. “Is that Bernice?” panted Osmond Chelsvig.

“It sure is,” choked out Alice Tjarks. “I can tell ’cause she’s wearing my scarf. MIND MY SCARF!” she bellowed at Bernice. “IT’S SILK!”

“What’s that water doing there anyway?” Osmond puzzled. “It wasn’t there before.” Observations like this are common among Midwesterners who are only acquainted with nontidal bodies of water, like town drinking reservoirs.

Tour members scuttled toward us. George Farkas and Nana and Tilly. Ira Kuppelman. Ernie Minch. Tom Thum. Ashley hobbled over the rocks on her crutches, her face pinched like a California raisin. Either she was really ticked off, or she was definitely showing signs of premature aging. Probably from sneaking too many smokes. Michael reached into his pocket for another cigarette and stuck it between his lips. “Whoever’s in charge, you’d best be fetchin’ the old girl back before the tide carries her away,” he said matter-of-factly.

I looked at Ashley. Ashley looked at me. “She’s all yours, sugar,” Ashley drawled. She regarded her cast sympathetically. “I’m not dressed for the occasion.”

Oh, sure. And I was? I was wearing flared leather jeans, a cashmere sweater with an angora cowl, and square-toed harness boots—none of which would be enhanced in appearance by a dip in the Atlantic.

“SAVE ME!” cried Bernice.

Nuts.
I sank down onto the nearest rock, yanked off one boot, then the other. I peeled off my trouser socks and tossed them into my boots. I marked my watch. I’d bought it new before leaving Iowa. Guaranteed to withstand water pressure up to two hundred meters. No amount of water was going to ruin this baby. It was called a dive watch. I gave it an affectionate pat. I’d learned at least
one
lesson in Switzerland last year.

I stood up with reluctance, grimacing at the undulating strands of seaweed and kelp littering the surface of the water. Yuck! I once saw a movie where the heroine got entangled in seaweed like that and drowned. That wouldn’t happen to me, would it?

Gooseflesh pricked my skin. I wondered if I had time to run back to the Wishing Chair.

“Hey, doll,” yelled Ernie Minch. “I hope you’re not gonna get those slacks of yours wet. Salt water does a real number on shoe leather. I can’t even begin to tell you what it’ll do to pant leather. It’s too painful.”

I looked down lovingly at my two-hundred-dollar jeans. I needed to write a memo to remind myself that…I HATE THIS JOB!

“Better take ’em off,” Ernie urged. “You probably dropped a couple of C-notes for ’em. You gotta think about protecting your investment.”

“But there’s no time!” Nana sounded panicky. “Bernice is about to drown.”

Ira Kuppelman checked his watch. “High tide’s at noon. If she doesn’t lose her footing, she’s good for another ninety minutes.” Ira must have read the morning paper.

“That gives you plenty of time to lose the slacks,” coaxed Ernie. He raised his camera to his eye and poised his finger on the shutter button.

“I am
not
taking my clothes off!”

“I can help with the rescue,” George Farkas offered, limping toward me.

I flashed him a grateful smile. He was sweet to offer, but with those steel-toed boots of his, he was liable to sink faster than the Dow Jones in a bear market.

“Thanks, George, but—”

“The ocean’s got an undertow. I learned all about it in the war. So I’ll try and hold on to you when you wade out there so the undertow won’t grab on to you and sweep you out to sea.”

Undertow? I’d read my
Escort’s Manual
from cover to cover. Never once had it mentioned the word
undertow.
I wondered if this would turn out to be a critical oversight.

We heard a deep roar heaving up from the bowels of the earth, then felt the rocks beneath us vibrate as a towering breaker crashed against the shore, raining spume and sea-water high into the air. I shot a quick look at Bernice. She was no longer standing but was flat on her butt, soaked to the skin, with her turban plastered against her face like a roll of prepasted wallpaper. “EHHHH!” she screamed, flailing blindly. Clawing the scarf off her face, she lunged sideways and anchored herself to a narrow column of rock, clinging to it for dear life.

I gulped. I winced at the seaweed. I winced at the thought of an undertow. Lake Lucerne in Switzerland was one thing; the ocean was a whole other matter. I felt my knees wobble. I considered George’s offer. I got an idea. “George is right!” I said in a quick rush of breath. “Maybe we could form a human chain—you know, everyone holding on to everyone else, so no one”—specifically me—“will get swept away by the undertow.”

“Like a conga line,” said Nana. “I like conga lines. Only the last time I was in one, I wasn’t in such good shape, and I threw my back out.”

“I like the Chicken Dance myself,” said George. “Too bad we only get to do it at wedding receptions.”

“I tried teaching the Chicken Dance to a group of Polar Eskimos decades ago,” Tilly recalled. “They did remarkably well, considering none of them had ever seen a chicken before.”

Alice Tjarks marched to the front of the crowd. “The line forms behind me.”

“I hope y’all signed your release forms!” Ashley sniped as the little group fell into line behind Alice. “If any of y’all gets hurt, Golden Irish Vacations will not be held responsible. That means, you can’t sue! You got that? We are not liable!”

I was happy to see Ashley so concerned about the welfare of the tour guests.

“If you’re wearin’ good shoes, take ’em off,” barked Ernie as he untied his shoestrings. “Letting the salt water at ’em is the same as introducing ’em to cancer.”

“We have to go barefoot?” asked Osmond. “I’m not sure that’s the best thing for my corns.”

Barefoot? I almost leaped with excitement. What a brilliant idea! Ernie Minch may just have put this mystery in the can for me. “Ernie has a point!” I reiterated. “Don’t take a chance with your good footwear. Get rid of your shoes and socks.”

I watched Ira Kuppelman wiggle his feet out of his Bass Weejuns. Hot damn! This was almost too good to be true. Now, if I could just get a closer look. Jackie’s husband stood apart from the crowd, watching the shoe-shedding activity like
The Lion King
observing his minions. “You’re not joining us?” I questioned.

“Crabs,” he said.

I wasn’t sure whether this was his opinion of the people in the group or if he was confessing to a personal hygiene problem. “Excuse me?”

“There are crabs in the water. I’m not about to lose a finger to a crustacean. My hands are my livelihood.” He sheltered one hand in a protective gesture against his chest. “I’m sure you can understand why I don’t dare take any chances.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to Michael, who was puffing nonchalantly on his cigarette, looking aloof and detached. I clapped my hands at him. “Let’s move it. Chop-chop,” I said, salivating over his shoestrings. “We could use a hand from you too.”

His already florid complexion grew redder. “Bugger off.”

Okay. I was really sorry his ancestors had been abused, demeaned, and shunned, but that was no excuse for bad manners. “Maybe you need some help,” I said, squatting down and pulling on his shoestrings.

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!” cried Bernice. “HELP ME! THIS ISN’T GOING TO LOOK GOOD ON YOUR EVALUATION, EMILY!”

Clop-clop. Clop-clop. Clop-clop.
“Stay where you are!” someone’s voice echoed in the distance. I looked up to find Jackie racing pell-mell across the rocks from the direction of the Wishing Chair, hair flying, arms pumping, shoes clacking, dress hiked up to her hips. “I’ll save her!” She stumbled slightly on some loose stones, hopped one-footed, kicked off her shoes, then charged toward us like the human version of Road Runner. “Don’t worry about me!” she yelled, as she bounded past. “I was a member of my high school swim team!” Displaying an uncanny amount of athletic grace, she
jetéd
over a tidal pool,
pirouetted
onto a flat shelf of rock,
relevéd
to her toes, then—

KERPLUNK!

I knew about the swim team, but she’d kept the ballet lessons a real secret. Wow. She could execute some great moves.

Michael tapped his foot against my hand. “Seein’ as how Sheena has come to the rescue, I’ll be thankin’ you to tie my lacin’s back up now.”

My fingers froze on his shoestrings. But…but…I was so close! This wasn’t fair! I pouted at the secrets that would remain hidden in Michael’s shoes before lifting my eyes to squint fiercely at Jack. That did it. I didn’t care how expensive his surgery had been or how short a time he’d had to enjoy it. I was going to kill him. I was freaking going to
kill
him.

“This here’s a picture of Jackie climbin’ outta the water after the big rescue,” Nana explained, handing the snapshot to Etienne later that evening. We were huddled together on one of the plush sofas in the lobby area, Nana and I on either side of Etienne and Tilly seated on a chair opposite us. “That thing danglin’ from her left shoulder is kelp. The thing danglin’ from her other shoulder is Bernice.”

It was seven forty-five, and we were waiting for the dining room to open. We’d been informed earlier that dinner would be delayed this evening because of the massive cleanup the kitchen staff had had to undertake after the food fight this morning. I was actually enjoying the wait. I was using the time to chill out with Etienne and talk myself out of coldcocking my ex-husband.

“There’s something real deceivin’ about that Jackie,” Nana continued. “She might look real feminine, but I mean to tell you, she’s strong as an ox. Girls today aren’t delicate like they used to be when I was growin’ up. Must be all the vitamins they pump into young people these days.”

I raised my eyes heavenward and tried not to bite my tongue in half. Etienne studied the photo. “I assume Bernice wasn’t paying attention to the tide and found herself stranded?”

“Yup. But it wasn’t her fault on account a the only tide we got in Iowa comes in a plastic container.” She handed him another photo. “This here’s Bernice shakin’ the water off herself. She coulda used a towel, but the closest thing we had to a towel was George’s handkerchief, and that turned out to be way too small. But at least it was clean.”

Etienne lifted the photo closer to his face. “Did she seek medical attention? It looks as if she sustained major trauma to her head.”

Nana leaned over for a better look. “That’s just her new hairdo. It don’t look too good wet.” She passed him the next photo. “I really like this one. This is where everyone started clappin’ for Jackie and congratulatin’ her on savin’ Bernice’s life. That Jackie was sure eatin’ up all the attention. Lookit the smile on her face.” Nana jabbed her forefinger at a far corner of the photo. “Ashley don’t look too happy here ’cause she was havin’ to hold herself up on her crutches and couldn’t join in the applause. See how disappointed she looks?”

Oh, please! “May I see that photo?” I asked, curious. Etienne handed it to me. I scrutinized Ashley’s tiny image. Disappointed? Huh! That look on Ashley’s face wasn’t disappointment. It was hostility, and it was being directed at Jackie. I guess ole Ashley wasn’t real thrilled about having to share the limelight. She looked as if she’d like to cold-cock Jack too.

“This last one’s got some real good color,” Nana said as she placed the final photo into Etienne’s hands. I glanced sidelong at a glossy print bright with a powder blue sky, cottonball clouds, slick black rocks, marine blue surf, and a streak of crimson snaking through the water.

“What’s this?” asked Etienne, pointing to the streak. “Red kelp?”

“Alice’s scarf. I don’t know if you can tell there, but it was real silk.”

Etienne smiled. “Exceptional photos, Mrs. Sippel.” He handed the prints back. “I obviously missed out on quite an exciting day. How is Bernice handling the stress of the incident?”

“She went shopping,” Tilly piped up.

I stiffened. Shopping?

Tilly continued in her professor’s voice. “A number of university studies have proven that in times of stress, an average woman can relieve more tension by visiting a mall than by taking tranquilizers.”

Not if the merchants wouldn’t accept her money. Uh-oh. I felt my stomach do a loop-the-loop. This could spell trouble. “Do you happen to know where she went shopping?” I asked nervously.

“Londonderry,” said Tilly.

I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Northern Ireland. Thank God. Her provincial money would be good there.