Swimming Lessons (9 page)

“Busted,” he said. He crumpled the empty package of chips in his hands. “So, we’re set then?”

“I guess so. I need at least one day to clean the house a bit before you come out,” she confessed.

“Don’t go to any extra trouble for me. You’re busy enough already, remember? Besides, I won’t notice.”

“That’s what men always say, but they always do notice a mess when it’s a girl’s house. Speaking of busy, you’re heading into the busy season with summer tourists. How are you going to manage the extra time to do this grant?”

“I just take it day by day.”

She smiled, liking that philosophy enormously.

Ethan looked at his watch. “I’ve got to do The Show. I have a new diver in the big tank and want to see how he does.”

“I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never actually watched the whole show.”

“Come on, then, if you have a few minutes. You’ll love it.”

The indigo gray walls and carpeting of the arena around the base of the Great Ocean Tank gave it a Jules Verne, undersea mood. He led her to an area of wood benches arranged like stadium seating. They sat behind
a group of school children, youngsters with parents, and older tourists. All eyes were on the two story tank and the great sea of fish that passed before them. While they were waiting, Caretta, the loggerhead sea turtle, swam by with its long, elegant flippers stroking. Several children jumped to their feet, pointing and squealing. Toy chuckled, feeling certain that the master show-turtle knew the commotion it caused whenever he swam by the exhibit glass window.

In contrast, the other star of the tank hushed the room when he glided by. The ten-foot Sand tiger shark’s black, fathomless eye saw all. There were other sharks in the tank, but the big one drew the most attention.

Ethan stopped writing in his notebook to watch the great shark as it passed. She looked over and saw the fascination in his dark eyes, and the respect.

“You worked with sharks in Costa Rica, didn’t you?” she asked him.

“For six years, with Randall Arauz. He knows more about sharks than anyone I’ve ever met. I was lucky to have him as my mentor.” He pointed to the row of boys and girls craning their necks and pointing to the big shark. “See how they all get a thrill to see the shark? That’s why the shark is such a big draw. He’s dangerous. Scary, like the bogeyman. All most people know of sharks is what they’ve seen from Jaws. I’m trying to change that, to teach them the truth about sharks. Most shark bites are cases of mistaken identity.”

He paused to watch as the Sand tiger shark circled by again. “I’m not a fan of those folks who take tourists far out in the sea then stick them in steel cages. They chum the waters so the tourists can get a thrill of a close encounter. It’s not natural. Tell me how that’s any better
than feeding the bears at Yosemite Park? Look what happened there. The bears learned to come close to the tourists and beg. Sharks are wicked smart. When we feed them in the tank we hit the wall three times and they come. Just like the bears in the parks, the sharks in the ocean will figure out that humans are feeding them—and they will come. It’s not a good scenario.”

“They’ll start hunting us?”

“Not hunt us, but mistakes will be made. It’s the sharks that are being hunted by us. To near extinction. Randall and I used to raid boats in Costa Rica and find hundreds of shark fins in the holds—some of them white, which is illegal.”

“Why just the fins?”

“Because the Black Market pays a premium for shark fins, and even though it’s illegal, the fishermen just cut off the fins and throw the rest of the shark back to sea so that they can make the weight limit at the dock. Each fin represents a dead shark. Thousands a year. We did our best with regulations, but money passes hands. It’s an old story.”

In the tank two divers slowly descended to the foreground. Immediately schools of fish began to circle them, some of the fish poking them aggressively. The sharks, however, circled past, seemingly disinterested in the humans.

“Well,
aren’t
sharks dangerous?” Toy asked. “I’d be nervous to go in that tank with them.”

“Actually, the sharks are the least of our worries in there. They’re puppy dogs compared to some of the other fish. Sharks are predictable. They have defined habits and swim patterns. It’s my job to stay up on those behavior patterns. I go in the tank every day, just to check things out. But I’ve also got eighty-five regular divers who are
watching and I depend on their observations. If any one of them notices a tight turn, or if a shark snaps at a food bucket, I pull that shark out of there.”

“So, you’re responsible for the divers’ lives?”

“And the lives of all the fish. I lost twenty fish last month to that big predator,” he said, pointing to the tiger shark. “They’re night feeders so I count the fish when I come in the morning. It’s natural for him, but a problem for me.”

He pointed to a diver who was tossing food from a plastic bucket. While he fed the fish, the diver was speaking on a microphone to the audience, explaining what he was doing and describing the different fish as they approached him. Several large ones swam close, pushing their way to the food bucket.

“That diver is more worried about being bit by one of those pork fish than a shark,” he said. “But there’s always a second diver in the tank, watching his back.”

“What got you interested in sharks?”

“I’ve always been fascinated with them. They’re ancient hunters. Perfect eating machines. We’ve got our share of sharks around South Carolina. You’d be surprised just how many. We used to pull them out of our nets all the time.” He smiled. “You had to be careful or you’d lose a finger.”

“How did you end up in Costa Rica?”

“I’d done some research there on plants, got involved with sharks. I taught diving on the side to the tourists to earn a little extra money. It was a nice life.”

“Why did you leave?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“I’m just trying to figure out who you are. After all, we’ll be working together.”

“And what have you figured out?” His face was serious but his eyes were mirthful.

“I can’t say yet. You’re hard to pin down.”

“Precisely the way I like to keep it.” He clicked his pen, put it in his pocket and rose. “Well, the show’s over. I’ve got to talk to my diver.”

“Thanks for inviting me to watch. I enjoyed it. Very much,” she said, rising to her feet. “And thanks for your help with the grant. I feel like that diver in there swimming with the sharks. You’ve got my back.”

He tilted his head at that, amused. Then he lifted his hand in a wave. “See you tomorrow.”

Ethan arrived promptly at seven o’clock. He’d declined dinner but accepted dessert. Toy got the feeling that he was trying to maintain a professional relationship, and that having dinner together—even with a five-year-old chaperone—might be crossing some imaginary line.

They sat together at the kitchen table with coffee and a batch of iced, chocolate walnut brownies that Toy had made especially for him. Little Lovie was fascinated with this tall, dark-eyed man who came to their house. She joined the adults at the table with a book, some paper and a pencil, pretending that she was working, too. At times, she dropped her pencil and just sat with her chin in her palm staring at Ethan with her blue eyes intense, like the cat resting under her chair.

Eventually, Ethan put down his pen and folded his hands on the table. He looked at Lovie with a serious expression. “Do I have ink on my nose or is my hair sticking out funny?”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Little Love took the ques
tions seriously. “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’m just not used to a big man visiting in the house.”

Toy put her head in her palm with a sigh.

Ethan tried not to laugh. “No?”

“Little Lovie…” Toy said in warning.

“Only the repairman to fix the fridge when it was broken. Mama didn’t like him because he cost so much money.”

“I see,” he replied, all seriousness.

“And Brett, of course.”

Ethan raised his brows. “Brett?”

“He comes here all the time. Sometimes we go to his house, too. We love him,” she announced.

“Lovie,” Toy said, her stern voice at war with her cheery smile.

“But we do!” she exclaimed.

A pregnant silence followed this pronouncement. Ethan nodded his head, then picked up his pencil and leaned back over the table. “We should get back to work.”

For no one reason she could articulate, Toy felt the need to explain. “Brett is Cara’s husband. He’s like a father to Little Lovie and a big brother to me. She just adores him—we both do. We rent this house from them.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, the pencil twiddling between his fingers. “I remember now. I met them when you brought Big Girl into the Aquarium.”

“Right. Cara’s mother, Miss Lovie, is the older lady I told you about. She passed away five years ago. I used to work as a companion for Miss Lovie. That’s what first brought me to the beach house.”

“Now the pieces are fitting together.”

“Since we’ve lost the train of thought, do you mind if we take a short break? I need to put this little one to bed.”

“Go right ahead. I’ll help myself to these brownies. The scent of chocolate has been driving me crazy.”

“Please, help yourself. If I have any leftovers, I’ll be the one that eats them.”

After Lovie was in her pajamas and brushed her teeth, Toy dimmed the lights in her room and tucked her into bed.

“I like him,” Lovie volunteered. “He’s nice.”

“You think so?”

“Mmm-hmm. He likes you, too.”

Toy couldn’t help but ask, “Oh, what makes you think so?”

“He looks at you a lot.”

Toy smiled in the darkness.

“Are you going to get married?”

“Don’t be silly. We’re just working together.”

Lovie mulled that over in her mind. “But you could get married, right?”

“Good night, honey.”

“But if you do get married, will he be my daddy?”

Toy reached out to stroke a hair from Lovie’s forehead. “Hush now. Good night.” Turning off the light, she gently closed the door.

When she returned to the living room it was empty. She spotted Ethan on the rear porch. He was leaning against the porch railing staring out at the ocean. She paused, struck by the novelty of seeing a man on her porch. It was a pleasant sensation, unexpected and surprising. She pushed back her hair and opened the screen door. It creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Ethan turned his head and his expression was relaxed and welcoming.

“I love the sound of the surf,” he said. She thought his voice carried the same deep resonance of the sea.

“I do, too,” she said, letting the door slip shut. She crossed the porch to stand by his side and look out. The sea was quiet tonight. It rolled in soft waves that were barely visible in the dusky night. “I leave my windows open at night and the rhythm of the waves lulls me to sleep like a lullaby.”

“Do you live alone here?” he asked.

“Yes, just the two of us.”

“What about Lovie’s father?” he asked, sounding cautious. “Is he still in the picture?”

Equally cautious, she replied, “No. Actually, he never was in the picture. Darryl, that’s his name, is a musician. He plays country rock. The guitar. He’s pretty good, too. Time was he played at most of the local clubs, but he always dreamed of making it big.”

She closed her eyes and breathed in the sultry, jasmine scented air. The emotions of that part of her history bellowed inside of her then waned, like the song of the insects singing in the night. Opening her eyes, she looked out into the darkness.

“I was young and he was ambitious. He left right after Lovie was born and we’ve never seen him since.”

He nodded in that easy manner of his yet he seemed pleased with her answer. He didn’t press with more questions.

“We should get back to work,” he said, reluctance in his voice.

“We really should,” she agreed.

But neither moved to leave the porch. They stood shoulder to shoulder, content to listen to the waves roll in and out, aware that their breaths matched its steady rhythm.

C
ara pulled her Jetta to a stop at the beach house, but she knew the bright light overhead was deceiving. She was, in fact, late for Flo’s dinner party. It was a special “Girls Only” dinner that Florence had been planning for weeks.

She’d been held up at her doctor’s appointment for the second in a series of hormone treatments. The therapy stimulated her ovaries and prepared her body for pregnancy. As she climbed from the car, her body felt too old and too tired to start this process all over again. She wasn’t sure if her blossoming headache was from the drugs or the angst.

It was a long and arduous process. She’d already had blood tests and ultrasound scans of the ovaries so the doctor could pinpoint the optimal time to harvest the eggs. Then Brett would go in to make a deposit to the sperm bank. They had gone through the rigmarole of treatment twice before, and each time Brett shook his head and muttered, “Whatever happened to a good ol’ roll in the hay?”

Whatever, indeed
, she wondered, trying to recall the last time she and Brett had made love just for fun, without taking temperatures, drugs or checking charts. Lately,
every aspect of her life seemed to be set by appointments on her daytime calendar.

She looked at her sides to see her hands clenched into fists. Every day she was so tense, her shoulders felt like they were held in a vise. She hadn’t had a migraine in a long time, hardly ever since she’d made the move to Isle of Palms. What was it her mother had told her whenever she was in such a state?
You have to live on island time, child. You need to breathe in and out with the tides.

Cara closed her eyes and breathed in, allowing the fresh sea air to flow through her lungs. Gradually her mind and body responded, like a dry sponge to water. She exhaled heavily, easing her hands open and releasing the pull of the dull ache in her head.

When she opened her eyes, she made a decision. If she was going to get through the ups and downs of trying once more for a baby, she might just as well be positive about it. No more nay saying and grousing. No more fists and frowns. She might be forty-five years old but she ate right, exercised and her body was primed. She set her chin, telling herself,
I’m going to have a baby
.

Behind her, a sporty blue BMW pulled into the driveway. The brilliant aura of red hair in the driver’s seat could belong to only one person.

Emmi cut the powerful engine and waved. “Hey, girl, wait up!” Her long legs stretched out like a can-can dancer as she climbed from the low slung car.

Cara grinned widely. “How can you stand having to climb out of that little thing over and over again? My knees would give out.”

Emmi grabbed her shiny gold leather purse from the side seat of the convertible and slung it over her shoulder. Her high heels wobbled as she made her way across the
gravel driveway. Emmi was wearing sleek pants of soft sage green and a gorgeous top of matching silk that slid sexily over her body as she moved. Cara was always a smart dresser, but tonight when she looked down at her simple black cotton slacks and white, scoop neck shirt, she felt like a crow beside a painted bunting.

“Don’t you look hot tonight. Why are you so gussied up?”

“It’s Friday night,” Emmi replied with a tone that implied that was all the explanation needed. When Cara looked puzzled she added, “I have a date after dinner. A dream of a man I met at the Gastro Pub last Saturday.” She cupped her mouth as though to whisper a secret. “He’s thirty-five if a day.”

Cara raised both her brows at that but didn’t comment. This was Emmi’s third date with a different man in as many weeks, and all of them younger.

“You’re a flaming Mata Hari and I’m using words like
gussied up
. What’s wrong with this picture?
I
used to be the one who wore great clothes and looked sleek and au courant.”

“Darling, you’re an old married now,” Emmi replied, her eyes glittering with tease. “I’m on the prowl. Besides, all this…” Her hand indicated her body and clothes. “It’s nothing a few hundred dollars at a salon and a boutique can’t provide.”

“Thanks. I feel so much better,” Cara deadpanned.

“At least I’m not the only one late for dinner,” Emmi said, slipping her arm through Cara’s. “Which means, I won’t be the only one scolded by Flo.”

“You’re always late. Flo will expect it from you. It’ll be me she’ll come after.”

“You’re right,” Emmi said with a squeeze of the arm. “Oh, goodie.”

“What held you up tonight?”

“I don’t know, nothing in particular. Getting dressed just always takes longer than I think it will. I used to drive Tom crazy with waiting,” she said with a short laugh.

“Even before that, remember how the nuns at Christ Our King gave you demerits for being late for mass? Your mama was fit to be tied.”

Emmi laughed with a whoop. “I was the Queen of Demerits! If I could’ve collected demerits like green stamps…. You, on the other hand, would have been the darling of the nuns. Always punctual, probably the first in line. Too bad you weren’t Catholic.”

Cara loved the sound of her own laughter after such a trying afternoon. Emmi’s ability to make her laugh—often at herself—was one of the things she loved most about her.

She opened the black, scrolled iron gate that led into Florence’s front garden. The Prescott house was at one time the prettiest house on the island. Set back from the road by a formal front garden and a carriage house, it had been the biggest on the Isle of Palms. Today, however, the newer mansions that lined Ocean Boulevard were easily double the size and twice as showy, a sign of the current affluence of the island. Yet, the Prescott house reflected the refined architecture and taste of an earlier era of beach dwellers.

Across the garden was the carriage house that had once been the domain of Flo’s mother, Miranda. Though neither of them mentioned her name, Cara knew that both were thinking of the eccentric old woman who had charmed the girls as they grew up. Emmi linked arms with Cara as they made their way along the tabby walkway to the main house. Their thoughts were wan
dering back to the days when Miranda had invited the young girls into her studio to paint. Dressed in long flowing skirts and scarves, Miranda painted brilliantly colored landscapes that Cara remembered as almost frightening. Sadly, the paintings were treasured by few besides Miranda. Nonetheless, she painted and gardened and lived life with a passion all found contagious. Her passing had left a void in Florence’s life that was evident in the lifeless garden.

Florence Prescott had been Cara’s mother’s best friend and an adopted aunt to Cara growing up. Her father had rarely joined them at the beach house. There had been an unspoken understanding between her parents that this was their sacred time spent apart. Thus, summers at the beach were a bastion of female companionship—girlfriends and turtle ladies.

So many glorious summers were spent on Isle of Palms! Cara had spent nearly as much time in the Prescott house as her own. Flo and Miranda always had interesting people visiting, open cabinets filled with sweets, a fridge filled with Cokes, and closed mouths when it came to secrets.

As they climbed Flo’s front stairs, Cara was saddened to see that the old house was not as spit-polished as it had been when Flo was younger and took pride in such things. Mold peppered the porches, spider webs lurked in corners and beside the door, a wooden planter box looked pitiful half filled with broken shells, dead insects and sand.

Emmi dropped her arm and looked around the porch with concern. “The place looks a bit shabby, doesn’t it?”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“Is Flo all right? Her health is good?”

“She
is
getting older, I suppose. It’s hard to think of Flo as anything but vibrant, but it’s clear that she’s slowing down. It takes a lot of energy to take care of a house like this, especially in this climate. One season goes by and bam! The metal rusts, the mold is back, and so are the weeds. It’s a constant battle, believe me. And that’s without the storms.”

Emmi clucked her tongue as she looked across the front square of land that was fenced by a white picket fence stained brown in spots by well water. “Look at Miranda’s roses. They’re half dead and choked with weeds! This used to be Miranda’s pride and joy. She adored flowers, especially roses. Do you remember the garden parties? How we all gathered in the garden for sweet tea and sandwiches?”

“Remember how Miranda declared that everyone had to wear a fabulous hat?”

Emmi laughed. “Oh, I’d forgotten the hats! How could I have? We spent days—weeks—dressing up our hats with flowers and ribbons. Did anyone take a photograph?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then the memories are only in here,” Emmi said, tapping her forehead with a finger.

“And here,” Cara said, touching her finger to where her heart lay.

Emmi nodded wistfully. “Those were halcyon days. Why is Flo letting her mother’s garden go?”

‘I don’t think she cares much about gardening. The house was her thing. It was always Miranda who loved gardening.”

“Is it old age, lack of money, or lack of interest that engenders this state of disrepair?”

“I guess it just depends. For my mother, it was her illness and budget. For me, it’s lack of time.” Cara looked over the railing at her own beach house. Though in better shape than Flo’s, the trim was in need of paint and the trellis was being pulled from the wall by the weight of overgrown vines. When would she find time to work on it?

“I hear that. Speaking of time, it’s time to face the music.” Emmi raised the brass doorknocker fashioned in the shape of a sea turtle.

After three knocks, Florence swung open her front door, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel, looking as far from lonely as any woman could. Her white hair was trimmed short around her ears and a streak of flour branded her right cheek.

“Here you are! At last!”

“We’re sorry we’re late,” Cara exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t be. We’re having a grand ol’ time,” Flo replied in a boisterous tone that swept away their apology. She stepped aside and impatiently waved Cara and Emmi inside. “Hurry up. We don’t want to invite the bugs in.”

Inside, Cara was assailed with the mouthwatering scent of freshly baked cookies. “Don’t tell me we’ve missed dinner and you’re already on to dessert!”

“No, no, no.”

She followed Flo through the small front room crammed with antiques that had been in Flo’s family for generations. Miranda’s tasseled, paisley shawl was draped over the worn fabric of the sofa and countless figurines and photographs cluttered the shelves and table tops. Flo had complained bitterly about the clutter while Miranda was alive, yet after her death, Flo didn’t have the heart to get rid of a single piece.

It was this deeply sentimental side to the outwardly unflappable and brusque Florence Prescott that endeared her to Cara. As she followed Flo into the kitchen, her nose tickled with the dust and musk that hung in the air like ghosts.

Flo hustled with purpose to the kitchen in a hurry to get back to the small baker standing on a wood chair in front of the kitchen table, rolling a ball of cookie dough in her palms. The child’s head turned to reveal a gamin face, her wide grin exposing a missing tooth.

“Hi, Auntie Cara! Want a cookie? They’re real good.” Little Lovie’s face was also streaked with flour, as was her shirt and most of the floor in a three foot radius around her.

Cara broke into a grin. “They smell heavenly.” Her stomach was growling and it occurred to her that she hadn’t had lunch that day. “I’m starving.”

“Come on, then,” Flo said, pulling out a white wooden chair from the table. “Sit yourself down. You too, Emmi. We’re waiting on Toy so you’re not late. In fact, you’re early. Do you want wine or would you like to join Lil’ Lovie and me and have a tall glass of cold milk?”

“I’ll take that wine, thanks,” Emmi replied, setting her large pocketbook on a chair.

“Coffee would be great,” said Cara. “But I wouldn’t mind some of that milk in it.”

Cara sank into the chair beside Little Lovie with a soft groan. She felt strung out after the doctor’s and it was the first time she’d relaxed all day. Beside her, Little Lovie was licking dough from her fingers.

“That’s the best part,” Cara told her.

“Want some?” Lovie stuck out her hand.

“I’ll wait for my cookie, thanks.”

Across the room, Flo was opening cabinets in search of dishes. “We’re all running a little behind,” she announced. “But who’s watching the clock, anyway?”

Emmi looked at Cara, then her watch and shrugged. She reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone, then walked to the foyer for a private conversation. After a few minutes she came back in. “No worries. I cancelled my date.”

Flo was stunned. “You had a date? Tonight?”

“Just drinks after dinner. Since things are running late, I don’t want to rush my time here. I broke his heart, I’m sure.”

Flo couldn’t seem to get this straight in her mind. “But, you had a dinner date with us. It’s already after six. When would you have met your gentleman? At eight? Nine?”

Emmi reached for the stack of plates from Flo’s hands. “Who knows? Maybe ten. The night is still young. Besides, it’s what happens after drinks I’m interested in.”

Flo relinquished the plates in stunned silence, then cast a guarded glance at the child across the room.

Cara held back a grin and gave Emmi points for silencing Flo on any subject. Yet she felt again that sense of unease at Emmi’s new aggressive attitude toward men and sex. She wasn’t a prude but it was unlike
her
Emmi.

Emmi caught her watching. “What are you doing, sitting there like the Queen of Sheba? Aren’t you going to help?”

“I should,” Cara said, leaning back in the chair, “but I don’t have an ounce of energy left.”

“I’ve got enough pent up energy for both of us, so relax,” Emmi replied. She sighed, pausing her setting of the table to let her gaze slide across Flo’s kitchen.

Flo may have relinquished the rest of the house to her mother’s tastes, but the kitchen was her own. She loved to cook and had completely gutted and rebuilt a kitchen to her liking. Light poured in from large windows and skylights overhead. The walls were white bead board, the cupboards were pine, and the counters were thick white marble, dotted at the moment with two dozen chocolate chip cookies. Flo scooped two of these with a spatula and placed them on a plate with neat and precise movements.