Sunset Bridge (2 page)

“Oysters,” she said. “Wow. Raw oysters on the half shell. You got these out there?” She nodded toward the water.

“No, although they’re actually creating oyster reefs not far away, but—” He stopped himself, as if realizing another
environmental lecture wasn’t going to go over well. “These are from the panhandle, flown in yesterday morning to that little general store where we parked my pickup.”

“Oh…” She was thinking fast. “And you bought them without me even noticing.”

“You were off having your last encounter with gen-
u
-ine plumbing.”

She’d used up her pathetic store of chatter. She grinned wanly. “Thing is, Marsh? I don’t eat raw oysters. Smoked, sure. Fried and roasted, uh-huh. But I’ve never been able to, you know, swallow one that looks like that.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Um…nope.”

“All this time we’ve been together and I didn’t know that?”

“Why, would that be a deal breaker?”

“We made some kind of deal?”

He was joking, but the question hurt. They had never discussed their relationship or the way they felt about each other. Marsh, who was open about many things, was zipped up tight when it came to feelings.

“You’ve ordered them when we’ve eaten out,” she said. “I guess you just never noticed I ordered other things.”

“Guess not.”

“So you understand?”

“I understand nobody’s ever showed you how to eat one. You’re a foodie. You love everything. You’ll love these.”

He had gone to a lot of trouble, that was clear. Buying them, sneaking them on board, probably prying them open a little earlier, while she was recovering. The oysters were a gift, and he was proud of himself.

“I bet they’d be fabulous roasted in the campfire.” She batted her eyes at him, but he didn’t buy it.

“There’s nothing like a
raw
oyster.”

“I think we could agree on that.”

“You eat snails.”

She could see this mattered. “Not raw.” Still, as ornery as she felt, she didn’t want to spoil the dinner for him. “Tell you what. I’ll try one just for you. To show what a good sport I am and how much I appreciate the effort.”

“Great.” He headed off in the direction of the tent.

She’d hoped agreeing would be good enough, but clearly that was not to be. He returned with a miniature bottle of Tabasco and a pack of soda crackers.

“You can do it a couple of ways. Just stick the shell against your lip and slurp it down. Some people chew and some don’t. Swallowing it whole makes no sense to me, because where’s the taste?”

She didn’t bother explaining that she was going to be a swallow-it-whole kind of gal.

“And the other way to do it?” she asked, hoping for something that involved tossing it over her shoulder for good luck.

“Shake some Tabasco on it. Throw it on a soda cracker and nibble away. Your choice.”

“I’ll take mine straight.” She sent him a glorious smile, as if she was planning to enjoy herself. If she had to do this, she might as well achieve maximum benefit.

“Attagirl.”

She was still smiling when he offered the plate so she could make her choice. She looked for the one most likely to slide down fast, because just looking at the platter made her throat threaten to close up shop.

She took what appeared to be the smallest.

“Hold it this way.” He showed her. “Now put it up to your lips and slurp it down.”

She remembered childhood and a nasty pink liquid she’d had to take for an ear infection. The family maid had sat on her feet and imprisoned her hands, and her mother had poured the liquid straight down her throat. She remembered gagging and retching and—

“Okay, here goes,” she said brightly. She tilted the shell, and something wet, cool and slimy passed over her lips and crossed her tongue. She was drowning. She was going to choke. She was
finished
. Thankfully, she realized that the oyster was finally slithering somewhere between her vocal cords and her bowels, and she was still breathing.

She opened her eyes and licked her lips. The taste reminded her of putrefying bait at Randall’s, her local grocery.

“So what do you think?” Marsh asked.

She tried to come up with something that didn’t begin with profanity. She nodded slowly. “I think…I think maybe it’s not my thing.” She nodded again, more emphatically.

“Oh, you’ll learn to love them. Next time we’ll try just a drop of Tabasco.”

She held out her hand. “Now.”

“Now?”

She curled her fingers and flexed them. “Now, please.”

He handed her the bottle, and she shook a fair measure into her palm and licked it clean.

“I’ve never seen anybody do that,” he said.

Thankfully, the worst of the taste was now gone, even if part of her tongue seemed to have gone with it. “I wanted the whole experience.” She had problems shaping the words.

“I’ll stick the rest of your oysters along the edge of the fire to roast.”

“Right.”

“You’re a trouper.” He bent over and kissed her forehead.

She hadn’t wanted the wine, but now she sipped a little anyway, to keep her tongue from swelling to twice its size and to rid herself of the last vestiges of oyster slime. Her stomach was performing circus tricks, and she struggled not to reverse the oyster escapade. She breathed deeply and swallowed hard.

Marsh hummed as he cooked. He was a marvel in the kitchen, and apparently at the campfire, too. He slung a grate over coals that had burned down, propping it on three logs he’d nestled in the sand. He grilled chicken breasts, sliced eggplant and zucchini and buried prebaked sweet potatoes in the ashes.

While he cooked he chatted, and if he realized how little she was contributing, he seemed to understand.

By the time she had eaten a little cooked food and they had cleaned up, she felt better. The air had cooled considerably, and the oyster was history. Marsh gauged her lightening mood and suggested a walk.

“Not a long one, though,” he added. “It’s about to rain.”

“Maybe you’ll be wrong.”

“I prepared. We’ll stay dry. Ground cloth, trench, whole nine yards.” He took her hand. “Besides, I like the idea of cuddling and listening to raindrops pattering on the roof. We can zip our bags together. What do you say?”

“You’re such a romantic guy.”

“Just with you.”

They strolled hand in hand along the water’s edge. They had seen other boats, but no one else was camping on the
key tonight. She thought she glimpsed lights halfway to the horizon and envied the sailors in their comfortable berths. Exhaustion? Anxiety? Hormones? Everything seemed to be pooling under her feet and sucking her down.

“You want to tell me what’s been bothering you?” he asked. “Something’s going on.”

She was not about to discuss the possible onset of menopause with Marsh. Nor was she going to ask how he felt about her and where their relationship was going. That took courage and patience, both of which seemed in short supply this weekend.

She settled on the third concern that had been gnawing at her. “I had bad news right before we left.”

He stopped and faced her. “You didn’t say anything.”

“There’s not much to say. Seems both the water system and the septic system at Happiness Key have to be replaced in the near future. And with all the changes in the laws since they went in originally, plus the environmental considerations, the cost is going to be enormous.”

He whistled softly. “I knew it was coming, just not so soon.”

“You knew?”

“We did have to check out the property before we agreed to the easement.”

“We” was Wild Florida, who had convinced Tracy to agree to a conservation easement on her property, for which she received tax and other benefits. In return, Wild Florida received assurances that another piece of Florida would be protected from extensive development. Happiness Key might be a small community of five shabby cottages on twenty-five acres, but it was in a strategic location surrounded by other protected properties. She’d met Marsh because of that.

“I don’t know how I’m going to pay for it unless I take out a mortgage. And who knows if I can get one?”

“I could help,” he said without hesitation.

Tracy had known he would offer, but her mind was made up. She’d spent the first decades of her life letting other people take care of her. That wasn’t the way she planned to spend the rest of it.

She squeezed his hand. “Thanks, but this is my problem.” She debated whether or not to tell him the rest, then forged ahead. “The contractor who made the evaluation offered to take the whole place off my hands.”

“Does he know about the easement?”

“Sure. According to the documents, he can build on the foundations of the old cottages and renovate the ones that are still standing. CJ drew up some plans, remember? This guy thinks people will pay big bucks to live there, even without a lot of square footage.”

Marsh was silent. She knew what he was thinking. Wild Florida had been generous in their terms, and now he was probably sorry. He didn’t want to see anything done to the property except maybe send the whole place back to a time when nothing had stood on it but trees and Florida wildlife.

“I know how you feel,” she said. “And I have my own issues. What would I tell the others?”

The others in question were her renters, three women she’d grown surprisingly close to since she’d moved to Florida. How would she tell them she was booting them out so she could avoid a mortgage?

“So that’s why you’ve been so—”

“Don’t go there, okay?”

“Look, we’ll talk this over another time. Right now you’re
too wiped. Let’s get you to bed. It’s been a big day, and I can hear you falling asleep on your feet.”

She let him lead her back to their campsite and was glad she had when rain began to fall. She brushed her teeth quickly in water he poured for her, then splashed a little on her face, forgoing anything more extensive.

When she got inside the tent, she saw that while she’d readied herself for bed, he had zipped their bags together.

“Crafty, aren’t we?” she asked when he came back a few minutes later. “You think you’re getting lucky tonight?”

“Nah, I think you might need a good back rub and a warm body next to yours.”

She was touched. Tears actually sprang to her eyes again, and all her insecurities flooded back. She cleared her throat. “If the tent starts to flood, I’m sleeping on top of you.”

“I’ll leave the flap up and live in hope.”

Despite his words, he zipped up the flap, adjusted the zipper, then crawled in with her. With the flap closed, the tent was dark, but it was a backpacker special, and the space was so small, he was beside her in two seconds. His arms went around her, and he pulled her close.

“We’ll take it easier tomorrow,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to wear you out. You’re such an athlete, I figured you’d love it here as much as I do. But you don’t have to. I just appreciate that you tried.”

She turned over so she was facing him. She could smell soap and toothpaste, and she reached up to stroke his stubbly cheek.

“It’s beautiful. I mean that. Really. It’s just…I’m, you know, just out of sorts.”

“Been there, done that, every single month of my marriage.”

She laughed a little and hoped he was right. “Maybe that’s it.”

“Can I do anything to make you feel better?”

She found his lips in the dark and kissed him. “Just forget I fell in the water, and complained about the chiggers and the no-see-ums and stubbed my toe on a scorpion—”

“Your secrets will be safe with me.”

“Am
I
safe with you?”

“No question.” His arms tightened around her. “Now, go to sleep, okay? And don’t keep wiggling like that, or I can’t guarantee what’ll happen next.”

“Let’s conduct an experiment.”

“Trace, you realize what you’re doing?”

“We’ve still got a few hours until this day’s over. Let’s end on a better note, okay?”

“I guess, if it makes you happy, I could oblige.” He kissed her, missing her lips and finding her chin instead, then moving lower.

“You can always…be counted on…to do what’s right, can’t you?”

This time he found her lips, and for a long time there was no need to say anything. Sure this wasn’t in the cards, she hadn’t bothered with her diaphragm, but Marsh, ever hopeful, took care of the birth-control angle. Wrapped in his arms, the rain falling faster on the tent top, she forgot everything else and let him take her to a place where there were no more questions.

Afterward, he pulled her close and rested his head against her hair. “I’m not sure which was better. That, or fishing you out of the water this morning without tipping the canoe.”

She tried to laugh, was willing to, but suddenly the tent whirled and undulated, and since they’d just indulged
themselves, she knew the sensation was not pent-up passion. Tracy tried to sit up, but for a moment, she was so disoriented, she wasn’t sure which direction to try.

“Marsh…” She swallowed hard and managed to claw her way out of the sleeping bag and his arms.

“What’s wrong? Need a bathroom trip?”

She was very afraid that what was wrong wasn’t going to wait for the hike to the Porta Potty. She pitched forward and began to crawl toward the flap—at least she hoped that was where she was headed.

“Trace?” He sat up, too. “What’s the problem?”

She couldn’t speak. Wildly, she felt along the tent flap, praying she could find the zipper pull. Just as she was about to despair, she found it and managed to inch it up until air poured in, along with cool splashes of rain. She continued crawling until she was out and up on her feet. Then, bent over and clutching her abdomen, she stumbled toward the water.

She made it just in time. The entire night’s meal vanished into the waves.

She was still heaving and gulping air when Marsh joined her. “Here.” He held out a towel, although it wasn’t much help. Rain was falling steadily, and she was soaked.

“I’m…sorry,” she gasped. “That oyster!”

“You think it was the oysters?” He sounded incredulous.

“That raw one tasted…awful. Maybe I got a bad one.”