Sea Fever (24 page)

ears.

This, then, was what Regina wanted for Nick. The net Dylan felt

closing so tightly around him could also be a web of support. Maybe the

gossip and aggravation, the friction and demands, were a tolerable trade-off for this sense of community. Of acceptance. Of belonging.

Or they would be, Dylan thought, if he were human.

* * *

When you lived for millennia in the sea, a few days to send a

message was nothing. But this once, the human technology that had

fouled the waves and roiled the ocean bottom would have come in handy.

Dylan tread water a mile offshore, his long, pale legs dangling like

so much shark bait, his balls pulled tight with cold. His human form was

another inconvenience that had to be endured. Details tended to dissipate

over distance in the water. Dylan needed his human brain to frame and

sharpen the images he sent to Conn.

Especially since the messengers he called would filter whatever

information he gave them the same way they strained the ocean for food,

keeping only what they could digest.

They came, their long, sleek backs and uneven dorsals occasionally

breaking the water’s bright surface: huge, slow acrobats of the sea with

mild, deep eyes and flukes as individual as snowflakes. Two males, a

female, and a calf, drawn by Dylan’s call. Not near, not too near. Their

weight could swamp him, their draft could drown him, the barnacles on

their sides could scrape him raw. Even the baby weighed a ton.

One of the males struck the water in greeting, and the wash broke

over Dylan’s head, sending a roll of amusement through them all.

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He surfaced, sputtering.

They did not question why or in what form Dylan was among them.

Among the whayleyn, presence— being— was enough. Their vast

acceptance surrounded him. Their collective concern enveloped him.

They circled, letting their song absorb his story, weaving his message into

the harmonies that knit together the Atlantic in the great deep blue, in the

clear cold dark.

Dylan had no idea how the words and images of his report would be

relayed to Conn, how “homeless” or “crucifix” transposed to notes in the

whales’ harmonies. But they understood the importance of the child-to-be. MOTHER LOVE FATHER CARE FAMILY JOY surged over him in

waves. Their song filled his ears like the surf; flooded his heart with

peace; floated with him to shore.

He stood in the shallows, heart full, mind emptied, muscles loose

and relaxed. Tossing back his wet hair, he scanned the beach.

And saw his father sitting guard over his pile of clothes.

Shit.

Dylan’s joy drained away like the waves frothing around his ankles.

They were locked in a lonely amphitheater of rock and sand, with no one

to witness their meeting but the spruce standing sentinel on shore and a

few wisps of cloud.

Bart Hunter sat with his elbow on one raised knee, staring out to sea.

Dylan waded from the surf. He could not avoid the old man. The

best he could do was ignore him. He bent for his jeans.

“She used to come here,” Bart said. “Your mother.”

Dylan didn’t want to talk about his mother, didn’t want to share her

memory. Particularly not with his father.

He jammed his damp foot into his pant leg.

“Not just with you kids,” Bart continued. “Before you were born.”

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Okay, Dylan really didn’t want to hear this. He hitched his jeans

over his other foot.

“She’d come ashore there . . .”

Against his will, Dylan glanced over his shoulder, following his

father’s gaze to his own route from the water.

Bart shook his head. “The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my

life, and she tells me she loves me.” He laughed in wonder and disbelief,

a sound harsh as a sob. “Me, who knew nothing but lobster and the tides.

I weren’t much older than our Lucy then. Left school in the seventh

grade. Never left the island at all. But she . . .” His voice trailed, lost in

memory. He did not use her name. He did not need to. There was only

ever one “she” for him, then or now.

“You stole her sealskin,” Dylan said, hard and cold. “You robbed her

of her life.”

“I gave her a new life and three children. It should have been

enough.”

“You robbed her of her self.”

“And didn’t she do the same to me? I never had a moment’s peace

after I saw her. She told me she loved me.” Bart’s voice cracked like ice

in April. “But how could I believe her? She being what she was, and me

being what I was.”

Dylan opened his mouth to argue, outrage hot in his blood. His

father was wrong. Had always been wrong.

And yet . . .

The words stopped his mouth, bitter and unspoken.

Didn’t Dylan believe the same? A selkie could not love a human.

Bart held his gaze, a sad recognition in his faded eyes. And then he

stared back out to sea. “Your brother says you need a place to stay. You

can have your old room if you want it.”

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* * *

Dylan came downstairs with his bag packed while Regina was

sweeping the floor. The grill was shut down, the front door was locked,

the day’s receipts were totaled . . . and another man was preparing to

walk out the door.

Regina looked from Dylan’s zippered duffel to his closed expression

and felt her heart clutch.

Get over it, she told herself. She should be used to men leaving her

by now.

Anyway, it was only for the night. This time. He’d be back in the

morning. He said.

Dylan looked around the empty restaurant. His brows snapped

together. “Should you be doing this yourself?”

His tone put her back up. Good. A fight would take her mind off her

fear of closing alone, would distract her from the low, achy pain in her

gut, would ease the loneliness that waited to swallow her when the door

shut behind him.

“You see anybody else to do it?” she asked.

Now he looked annoyed. “Your mother . . .”

“Was here half the night last night and all day yesterday. Anyway,

I’m almost done.”

Dylan set down his bag. “Give it to me, then.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Regina.” He gripped the handle just above her hand, humor in his

voice and temper in his eyes, hot and real and so close she could have

kissed him. “You really want to get into a tug of war with me over a

broom?”

She thought about it. “No.”

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“All right, then.”

With a sigh, she released the broom. He swept the floor. She erased

the day’s specials from the board.

“Thanks for taking Nick out on your boat,” she offered. “It was all

he could talk about all night.”

“We had a good time.” Dylan emptied the dustpan into the trash.

“I’ll take you out tomorrow.”

Regina wiped her chalky fingers on her apron. “Can’t. I have work.”

“You can’t work all the time.”

He followed her back to the kitchen and hung the broom in the mop

closet. That closet . . . Regina suppressed a shiver.

Dylan frowned. “You look done in.”

“I’m fine. Tired.” She dragged up a smile. “Morning sickness seems

to be hitting hard and early this time around.”

“You are sick?”

His instant concern should have been gratifying. But she didn’t want

him hanging around because he felt sorry for her. “I’m fine,” she

repeated.

“Is it the baby?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Worry sharpened her nerves and her voice.

“I have cramps, okay?” Guys hated cramps. “I’ve had them all day.”

“Tell me what to do,” he said.

If she had to tell him, what good was that?

“Nothing. I’ve seen the doctor. I don’t need you to play nurse.”

He looked at her steadily. Silent. Willing. And completely clueless.

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Emotionally arrested at thirteen, she thought. No one to teach him.

To touch him. Ever.

She sighed. “I could use a hug.”

He put his arms around her, awkward as a boy at a sixth-grade

dance.

She let her head drop on a man’s strong chest for the first time since

she was three years old. She wasn’t used to leaning on people. On men.

She closed her eyes. He smelled like the sea.

They stood in the center of the kitchen, lightly linked, until by

degrees their breathing meshed and matched, until he’d warmed her with

his body. She’d observed before that his temperature was hotter than hers.

Gradually, her fears and worries, her annoyance and loneliness,

slipped away. Her heartbeat quickened. His chest expanded. She could

feel his erection growing long and hard against her stomach. Her hands

fisted in his shirt at his back.

“I have something for you,” he said.

She smiled without opening her eyes. “I noticed.”

His amusement stirred her hair. “Not that. Not only that.”

He eased her away from him, patting his pockets like another man

searching for his keys or a lighter. Eventually, he found what he was

looking for and pulled it out: a fine gold chain with a single pearl

suspended in a glowing twist of metal.

A single, really beautiful, very large pearl.

Regina sucked in her breath. She put her hands behind her back so

she wouldn’t snatch it from him. She’d warned Nick repeatedly about the

dangers of accepting gifts from strangers. Not that Dylan was a stranger

any longer. But . . .

“Take it,” he said. “You need a chain to replace the one that was

broken.”

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“A chain, fine. This is . . .”

Too beautiful. Too much. Too painfully reminiscent of the kind of

gift a man gave a woman he loved.

“It was my mother’s,” Dylan said. “It may have power to protect

you, as your cross protects you.”

“Oh.” Her hands itched for it. “That’s very . . . practical.”

His eyes gleamed. “I hoped you would think so.”

She dug her crucifix from her pocket and threaded it on the chain

with trembling fingers. The rounded pearl and the glowing cross slid

together with a faint ching.

“Thank you,” Regina said. “It’s beautiful.”

She looked at the two charms lying together in her palm and then up

at Dylan. Two bright spots of emotion burned on his cheekbones.

“I need your help to put it on.”

“I can do that. Turn around.”

She did, lifting her short hair out of the way. She felt the fumbling

brush of his fingertips and then a warm, brief touch that might have been

his mouth. Her heart moved into her throat.

“Well.” She swallowed. “I guess you should go now.”

Stay, her heart whispered.

“I could stay,” he echoed quietly behind her.

She wanted him to.

“No, you can’t. I told Nicky he could have a sleepover tonight.”

“Then you can have one, too,” Dylan said so promptly she laughed.

“Wrong.”

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Even if Nick would buy that argument, even if Regina were willing

to ignore her own long-standing rule, there was no way she would expose

them all to the comments of freckle-faced ten-year-old Danny Trujillo,

whose instincts were honed by his mother’s love of gossip and whose

conversation, like the video games he played, carried a M-rating for

blood and gore, sexual content, and strong language.

Still, Regina half expected— hoped— Dylan would argue with her.

Instead he walked her through the kitchen and up the stairs, waiting on

the landing outside her apartment as she unlocked her door like a nice

boy seeing a girl home after a pleasant evening out.

At least, Regina imagined it was like that. She’d never dated nice

boys.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said politely and kissed her good

night.

He didn’t kiss the way she imagined a nice boy would kiss. He

backed her up against the door, plunged right in, and took her along for

the dive. He used his tongue, his teeth, and the friction of his body,

pulsing his hips against her, making her shake and ache and want. When

they surfaced, her blood was pounding, her head was spinning, and he

had a wicked glint in his eye.

“Sleep well,” he said.

* * *

“Dude,” Danny complained. “We’re dying here.”

The two boys lay on their stomachs in front of the TV, a bowl of

fried pizza dough covered in cinnamon sugar between them. Their faces

were sticky. So were their game controllers.

Nick hit Pause, and the legions of terror surrounding their embattled

warriors froze. “Sorry. I thought I heard my mom.”

“Yeah. So?”

Nick chewed his lip. “So, why doesn’t she come in?”

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