Brine (14 page)

“I should go talk to him,” Ishmael said.

“He’s better off alone for a bit,” Maggie said.

Allen and Diane were crossing the lawn.

“But he’s upset.”

“Trust me. He needs to cool off before anyone goes in there,”

Maggie said.

Ishmael looked uneasily toward the dock house. Diane rushed down the ramp, Allen in tow.

“I brought towels!” Diane proclaimed. A waft of sunscreen and perfume came down the dock with her. “What’d we miss? Something about a crab pot?”

Ishmael stood, two legs restored, and wrapped a towel around her waist.

Allen walked straight to Ishmael.

“Ish—you okay?” he asked.

“Well, excitement’s over. Nothing to see here,” Maggie said, putting a hand on Diane’s back, guiding her back toward the ramp.

“We should be getting back up to the house. Another storm’s on the way.”

“Well, hold on—what about—?” Diane stumbled, not wanting to leave the dock.

“I think we should give these two a moment alone,” Maggie said. Ishmael called after them. “Maggie, I’m sorry we didn’t get to—”

“That’s the least of my concerns,” Maggie said, gently corralling Diane off the dock.

“We’ll be up there in a few,” Allen said. He watched Diane and Maggie leave the dock. Turning back to Ishmael, his eyes were desperate. His hand gripped her arm a little too tightly.

“Hector told me about your mother, Ish. How they’ve sent word out for her.” He exhaled, examining her expression. His shoulders relaxed. “I thought that was her in the water.”

“My mother?” Ishmael smiled, butterflies loose in her ribcage at the possibility. She bit her lip to contain the sudden rush of hope. “No, it wasn’t her.”

“I just wanted a chance to talk to you first. Because if it was your mother—I wouldn’t want to—”

He looked her in the eye. He seemed nervous.

“I just wanted to mention the people on
land
who love you.” She looked back at him.

“Like me,” he said.

She bit her lip and took a deep breath.

“Look—Allen, you’ve got to know that I have no idea what comes next these days. But whatever I choose to do, you can’t expect—”

He moved closer and gripped her upper arms.

“I know that,” he said. “I know. What I’m trying to say is—” He dropped his arms and stood straighter.

“I love you,” he said.

His voice remained strong.

“And I know you don’t love me back.”

Her heart plunged at the truth. She was grateful he had spoken the words.

He stepped back and faked a smile.

“And it’s okay. I’ll live,” he said. “But I want you to know that I will always love you. Always.”

He turned and walked away. He crossed the lawn back to the house. Ishmael was alone on the dock.

She sighed, rubbed her stubble of hair. A breeze ripped through the trees, and the scent of honeysuckle filled her nose. She breathed deeply, grateful for the sweetness in the air to lighten the heaviness she felt in her heart. She readjusted her wet shirt and knelt to gather the rest of her clothes from the dock. She stood, startled at the sight of Hector standing at the top of the ramp.

“You hungry?” he asked.

Damn straight, she was. She’d only eaten a cinnamon roll and a handful of blackberries all day.

Hector leaned into his forearms on the railing, and the creases of his muscles revealed themselves like ripples on a perfectly iced cake. His eyes were docile, relaxed. This was Hector. Her childhood friend, suddenly and mysteriously dangerous.

He put a hand on her back when she reached the upper dock. “Figured we could both use the company,” he said.

After all she’d been through, after all she now knew, the touch of his hand on her back was comforting. Like she was back in the water, her mind clear, her worries temporarily evaporated.

Perhaps she was a fool, but she followed him off the dock.

THIS WAS A DIFFERENT ROOM FROM THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Posters, maps, and newspaper clippings still blanketed the walls, but books were shelved, the bed was made, the table was set, the furniture straightened. After the cool rain, the windows were open. Curtains fluttered against screens in the fresh breeze.

“Here, take these.” Hector held out some dry clothes.

She couldn’t read his expression, but he didn’t seem apologetic or guilty.
Did he not remember last night at all? Not even a dim recollection?

“Feel free to use the bathroom to change,” he said. “I’ll hang your wet clothes on the line.”

In the bathroom, she slid his dry cotton T-shirt over her head. The front advertised a shrimping business and had a picture of a large trawler with sweeping nets on the back. The pants were drawstring sweatpants, baggy and certainly not flattering. Looking in the mirror, she chuckled to imagine Diane’s opinion of this outfit. A familiar, pleasant scent filled her nostrils. His laundry detergent.

Clean, with a hint of spice.

She slipped back into the main room. “Smells great,” she said. His back was turned as he worked at the stove.

“Look, ah, I’m really sorry about your—about Joe,” she added.

He exhaled. “Me too. I kind of thought—” He shook his head. “Actually, no. Doesn’t surprise me. But it makes me nauseous. Nauseous and terrified.” He looked at her. “Can you do us a favor, though? Can we talk about anything else besides . . . that? I haven’t seen or heard from the guy in almost fifteen years. He’s screwed up my life enough at this point—I have no desire to let him mess up this evening.”

“Of course. Yeah, sure.”

He forced a smile.

“Hey, I’m not drinking, but would you like a glass of wine?” He started to pour the glass of red wine without even waiting for her response. “We’re having fish, but this is an amazing pinot. I’ll get you a glass of white with dinner.”

He lifted the glass of wine to her and smiled briefly before returning to his cooking. Ishmael sipped the wine, peering more closely around the room. For the first time, she noticed the painting hanging over his bed. It was hers.

“Whoa, how did you—I had that hanging in the Santorini Gallery.”

Your dad gave me that painting.” Hector didn’t even look up, busy in the kitchen.

She squinted. “My dad’s been gone over ten years.”

He paused in his prep work, choosing his words.

“Ish, your dad wasn’t exactly thrilled when you started sleeping with his best friend.” He looked over to check her reaction. “But that’s not the only reason he took off.”

She felt herself blush, so she turned back to the painting.

“So you know about me and Allen.”

“You and El Padre dated for what, four years?”

He tasted from one of the pots on the front burner and added more spices. He seemed totally relaxed. After the talk about Richard and Allen, she felt the opposite, so she took heavy sips of the wine as she approached her painting.

“I love your work,” Hector said. He paused and gazed at the painting with her. “This piece just gives me such a sense of looking up at the sun or the moon from underwater. You know what I mean?”

She’d never thought of that, but now it was so clear. Of course.

This painting in particular, mostly eggplant purples and peacock blues, gave rise to a single luminescent, crimson sphere. The gentle splattering of primrose yellow could have been the intricate foam of the ocean. Or dappled light reflecting off waves of pigment. The thick paint was dimpled at a specific angle, as if a strong wind had blown across the surface of the wet colorant and it had dried, held in place on the canvas. Proof of something so intangible as a breeze.

“I painted this one in the trailer park,” she said.

He smiled, apparently enjoying the chance to see the artist and painting reunited in his apartment.

“This was one of the last I painted there, before I got a real studio,” she continued, energized by the flood of memories. “There’s just something about the pieces I painted in the trailer park. They’re so raw.” She laughed softly. “I hadn’t been cooked by the art world yet.” She glanced back at him. “Make any sense to you?”

He nodded. “Absolutely.”

She sipped her wine, looking beyond her painting and into the past. “I wasn’t holding back in any way whatsoever. No commitments. No rules. Just unedited passion. An absolute
need
to create.”

He was staring at her.

“What? I’m talking too much, aren’t I? I’m getting too artsy for you.”

“No! No—hell no,” he said. “It’s the most I’ve heard you talk since you got here. I should’ve known this was the way to get you to open up. Talk about art.”

She felt her face flush. No one had ever taken the time to listen to her talk about her paintings. She moved to the couch and sipped the wine.

“I still can’t believe you have one of my paintings,” she said.

“Richard kept tabs on his famous artist daughter. When he heard your stuff went into a legit gallery, he called the place and they emailed him a few images of your stuff. But I think your dad looked only at dimensions—he bought the biggest one.”

She sat forward. “My dad knows about the internet? Wait— no, correction—my dad knows what a computer is?”

“Ish, your dad’s a really smart guy. He chooses to live the simple life. He’s not forced to.”

“That was not a cheap painting.”

“He has some funds stashed away.”

She sat back. “How can I not know all this stuff?”

“You were a little lost in your own world. And rightly so. You’d lost your mom. And you had an antisocial dad. Then you spent all that time at the coffee shop. You were, what, sixteen when you started working there? You were so immersed in that job. It’s no wonder El Padre fell in love with you.” He checked something in the oven and then added. “Your dad used to come to my soccer games while you were at work.”

“My dad.”

“He also helped coach football one season.”

“Football?”

“Ish, your dad was six foot five inches and pushing two-fifty. He wasn’t an expert on the game by any means, but he knew how to keep us fit. He trained us. We won all-state that year. He had us in incredible shape.”

She gaped and then sat back.

“I feel like such a . . .” Her voice trailed off. She wasn’t ready to admit her fault in the distance between her and her dad.

Hector donned a mitt and pulled a tray from the oven.

“The painting came in this gigantic crate,” he said. “Richard had to send it to Leon’s produce stand since all Maggie’s got is a PO box. Arrived two days before my thirtieth birthday.”

“Typical that Richard sent birthday presents to you and not his own daughter.”

He turned from the pot he was stirring.

“I thought that might make you mad. It shouldn’t.”

He turned back to the stove.

“It was just that one time. And I honestly think your dad wanted to support you. But what was he going to do with a painting?” He pointed at the wide canvas over his bed. “Hang
that
in his camper?”

“Unbelievable. I didn’t know my dad had it in him.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea about your dad,” he said. “When we were growing up, all the
groms
used to worship him. And I was right there with them. Your dad was like our hero. He was quiet, sure, but he surfed the biggest, gnarliest swells that came through Encinitas, even when his beard was nothing but gray.” He looked up in honest reverence. “I’ve never seen anyone read the ocean like he did.”

He turned back to his cooking, a dishrag slung over one shoulder. The towel was a prop that seemed familiar to him, evidence that he was comfortable in the kitchen. He dragged milky-white strips of fish through a batter and breadcrumbs and then placed the fillets into a pan of oil. The pan hissed each time he added another strip.

“So, what’s next for Ish Morgan?”

He asked his question in a friendly manner, but she was caught off guard. She set her glass down, welcoming any movement that prolonged her answer.

“Not too sure,” she said, ignoring his gaze. She wondered if he had overheard her conversation with Allen. A nervous laugh came out before she could stop herself. “Got any suggestions, be my guest.”

He waited a moment and then said, “You’re tough. And you’ve got the whole aquatic thing down. I guess I just assumed—”

“You saw me last night, didn’t you? In the water.”

“I was pretty hammered, but bits and pieces have come back to me. Luckily.” He turned to her. “By the way, speaking of last night, did I—?”

He caught her gaze and saw the answer in her eyes.

“And so you saved me?” he asked.

She tried to play it cool, but she found herself fidgeting.

“I thought I’d dreamt all that,” he said. “I thought I was having some sort of fantasy about you—us—I mean—”

“Yeah. Yes. You did—I did. I’m pretty sure I—well, I—I guess I saved your life. I mean, you fell off the dock and—”
Ishmael! Pull yourself together.

“Did you resuscitate me?” he asked. “I feel like such a dumbass. Look, I’m really sorry. Here—maybe this will get me some sympathy.” He parted his hair to show her a large knot on his head. Then, he lifted his shirt. “I’m pretty sure that I also broke the bottle of liquor I was drinking. I’m assuming that’s why I have these cuts and scrapes all over me. Told Lena they were cuts from oyster shells, which most likely didn’t fool her for a second, but she played along.”

She looked at his body and lost all concentration.

“Ah—yep, you broke it. The bottle. I, ah—I swept up the glass.” She had to pull herself together.

He stepped toward her, away from his cooking. “Did you get cut?”

“Only a little. It’s fine.”

He stepped even closer.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Really. Just a scratch.”

“I’m so sorry, Ish. You saved my life. I’m an asshole. I don’t know what to say. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior tonight.” He cocked a grin. “You’re seriously brave, you know that?”

“Brave?” She laughed, picking up her wine. “Think you got the wrong girl.”

“Pretty darn brave of you to swim back from Baja and ditch your fiancé,” he said, turning back to his fish on the stove. “Brave of you to travel across the country to find your long-lost grandmother.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t brave enough to call my fiancé and tell him the truth.” She lowered the glass from her lips. “Hold up— how do you know about Nicholas?”

“Maggie.” He turned back to his cooking and spoke over his shoulder. “I’m sure you know by now—Maggie knows all.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I should’ve at least told him I’m not dead.”

“I totally disagree,” he said, covering a plate with a folded paper towel. “Involving Nicholas would’ve only added more headaches to your plate. You’re doing the best you can.”

He pulled a few strips of fish out of the oil and put them on the plate with the paper towel covering.

“Not to mention, could you have trusted Nicholas with the truth? He never would have believed you—and if you’d shown him, he probably would have freaked out and left.” He looked at her. “No, Ish. You did the right thing. It took guts to do what you did. Sometimes the right thing just feels like the wrong thing.”

He turned back to the final pieces of fish still in the pan, adjusting the temperature on the stove.

“Let’s not forget that it was pretty damn brave of you to buzz your head. And you’re definitely pulling that look off.”

She gulped the remainder of her wine.

Was he flirting? Yes, definitely, he was flirting.

“So you know everything?” she asked.

“Pretty much.”

“Then you must know that I’m some sort of alpha female or something?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her from the kitchen.

“Yes, I do. And I also know you’ve survived enough to make most women crumble.” He smiled at her and added, “Basically—I know I’m impressed.”

She felt a tingle at the compliment. She lifted her empty wine glass to her lips to hide her smile. She was acting like she was in the eighth grade again: Maggie had warned her about this.

Whatever. That was the least of her concerns right now. She was busy appreciating that for the first time in weeks, her mind was clear, or at least not racing. Okay, okay—maybe it was the alcohol, but she felt comfortable. Safe. He knew everything. What a relief. To talk to someone who knew the whole story and who accepted her.

“Okay, so you’ve impressed me,” he declared, turning with plated food in both hands, “Now, hopefully, I can impress you.”

She walked over to the table. A fresh glass of chilled white wine was already poured. He took her empty red wine glass and pulled the chair out for her.

The food was phenomenal. He had prepared a meal highlighting the very best of local fare—a fresh tomato pie, cheese grits, delicately fried flounder, and a crisp salad with cucumbers and radishes from the garden. She went back for a second helping. They talked about his job at the boatyard and her paintings and reminisced about the trailer park.

There was an ebullient mood at the dinner table, and the conversation was lighthearted, flirty, and fun. She was clearly having a good time, and he seemed enthralled with her every word. She welcomed the attention after so many days stranded alone in her thoughts. They stood to clear the table, and she insisted on helping with the dishes. In the small kitchen, their elbows grazed one another; their shoulders touched. The simple contact of their skin made her heart flutter.

He glanced toward her. She tried to pull her eyes away, but he held her gaze. Outside, the rain poured in sheets, shielding them from visitors, pattering on the metal roof, blocking out all noises of the reality beyond the screens. Hector turned the water off and took her face in his hands. His fingers smelled pleasantly of soap. Citrus, with just a hint of lavender. His stare was cool and deep as a well.

She was suddenly overcome by lust, by how much she wanted him. The plate slid from her hands and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He pulled her in closer. Their bodies pressed together. His lips grazed her mouth.