Just This Once (3 page)

“You’re right,” Hannah answered, chagrined. “I do trust
you—both of you. Old habits die hard, I guess. Thank you for pointing that out.”

“Oh no,” Emery groaned. “Are we going to have to hug now?
Would you get out of here and go on vacation already? We’ve got it. Get out.”

“I was going to work on those sales projections,” Hannah
protested. “They want them tomorrow, so I thought I’d knock them out before I
left tonight. My plane doesn’t leave till tomorrow afternoon.”

“Give that to me,” Beth ordered. “I can do them, and turn
them in on time too. Didn’t we just
talk
about this? Here you go,
backsliding already. You go home and get packed. Have an early night and relax.
You don’t want to rush onto the plane all stressed. That’s no way to start a
trip. Who knows, maybe you can even go shopping tomorrow for some cute vacation
clothes.”

Hannah laughed. “Recall if you will that I work at a
clothing company. And that my sister works at the best department store in the
Bay Area. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you how much I’ve treated myself.”

“Which means, what,” Emery asked caustically, “you bought
yourself a new swimsuit and a pair of sandals? You know you need to expand that
wardrobe, girl.”

“No, Joan Rivers, I went out and bought all kinds of actual,
real new clothes, so quit being so snippy. And before you ask, no, they aren’t
earth tones, black, white, gray or, heaven forbid, navy blue. Pretty, girly
clothes. So there.”

“I’m certainly glad to hear it,” he responded. “I keep
telling you, you’ve got to stop fighting your looks. You look like Rapunzel.
OK. So go with that. The Wicked Queen called, and she wants her wardrobe back.”

“Emery,” Hannah sighed. “You know that if I dressed in the
colors you like—OK, the colors I like too—nobody would take me seriously.
Rapunzel doesn’t get many jobs in the corporate sector. Whereas the Wicked
Queen . . .”

“Yes, Cruella de Vil has the big car and the flourishing fur
business. I just hate to see you damping it down so much. When you get back,
show me what you bought, OK? Better yet, take me shopping with you next time.
I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you for a long time. I’ll catch you in a
weak post-vacation moment when your defenses are down, and look out, world. I
promise, I’ll keep you professional. But I do think you could expand your
horizons a little now. You’re not a beginner. You don’t have to wear black to
be taken seriously anymore.”

“You’re my guru, Emery. And I’ve been listening to you,
don’t worry. I did think about your suggestions when I picked my vacation
wardrobe. I figure, New Zealand is a brand new country where I can be Rapunzel
for three whole weeks if I want to. And I won’t have to impress a soul with my
cold-hearted professionalism. Doesn’t that sound great?”

“And now,” Hannah said, handing over the sales projection
file to Beth, “If you’ll really take care of this for me, I’m going to take
your advice and get my beautiful storybook self out of here.”

 TriStyle Woman had become her real home in these past seven
years, she realized with gratitude as she drove home, light with relief and
anticipation. She had poured her own blood, sweat, and tears—sometimes literal
tears, she admitted—into the fledgling company, but it had been worth it.

But now it was time to think about other things. She parked
her trusty Civic outside her small apartment building, and hurried into her
much-loved, tiny one-bedroom with its view of sky and trees, and its
half-packed suitcase.

Full of Rapunzel clothes, she thought happily. For the new
me.

She didn’t feel much like a new version of herself, let
alone a princess, two days later. The twelve-hour overnight flight from San
Francisco had left her physically and mentally rumpled. Being squashed into a
middle seat in the 747’s central aisle, smack in the middle of the Economy
section, was no recipe for a restful night. The crying baby in the row ahead
hadn’t helped either. Even in her exhausted state, though, her heart lifted when
the plane touched down and the flight attendant announced, “Haere Mai—Welcome
to Aotearoa New Zealand!”

Hannah looked eagerly out the bus window as she rode into
the city, through green hills and past neat, tidy houses. Of course, she’d
known it would be summer here. But it still came as a shock to take off in the
gray drizzle, and arrive to look over an expansive, sparkling harbor full of
boats, under a blue sky with just a few puffy white clouds, the sun shining in
the brilliantly clear air.

To her disappointment, Auckland didn’t seem very exotic. After
all, though, her only real impressions of New Zealand were from watching
The
Lord of the Rings,
and she couldn’t really expect it all to look like
Lothlorien. Or Mordor, thank goodness. It didn’t even look very foreign, except
for the Maori place names. How in the world did you pronounce Papatoetoe?

She’d been told, though, that in order to see the real New
Zealand, she had to get out of the sprawling city in which almost a third of
the country’s four million people lived. The following morning saw her taking
her courage in both hands and picking up her rental car.

She only had to drive a few hours, she told herself
bracingly. People learned to drive on the left every day. Surely she could do
it as well. But by the time she had capped off her day by navigating the narrow,
winding roads of the Coromandel Peninsula, she was shaking with exhaustion and
more than ready to pull into her modest motel accommodation.

“You just sit there for a while. I’ve had enough,” she told
the little car with a sigh as she stepped out of it. She wouldn’t drive
anywhere again until the following afternoon. Meanwhile, she’d take a coastal
walk, explore the shoreline of the tiny town, and take herself out to dinner. And
look forward to her first ocean swim the next day.

Finding herself wide awake again at six after another early,
jetlagged night, she decided that there was no time like the present. Pulling
on her purple and red racing tank and sliding a pair of sandals onto her feet,
she grabbed her goggles, cap, and towel, made her way down the hill to the
beach, and stepped into the water.

And found herself caught in a rip that defied all her
efforts to swim across it to safety, the powerful outgoing current carrying her
inexorably away from shore and out to sea.

Stupid, she thought despairingly as she struggled against
the rip. Stupid to venture so far out just because the sea looked calm, without
checking tides and currents. No use thinking about that now, though. She had to
keep going. Strong and slow. 80 strokes. 90. Getting more tired now.  170
strokes. 180. She had been out in the water too long. Too tired. Keep swimming
parallel. Sooner or later she had to get out of this.

The world became focused on effort. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke.
Breathe. Parallel to the shore. Stay parallel. Stroke. Breathe. It finally
crossed her mind that she might not make it. She struggled to push the thought
aside. She was strong, she reminded herself. She could do this. She just had to
keep going. Swim. Stroke. Breathe.

She never knew how much longer it had been, but she could
feel that her strength was almost gone despite all her efforts. Dimly, she
heard a voice from behind her.

“All right there?”

She turned her head and saw him—a man in a kayak, looking
down with concern.

“I think . . . I’m stuck,” she gasped. “Can you help me?”

He held out the paddle to her. “Grab hold.”

She did, and felt her hand shaking. It took all her strength
to hold on, but she knew she wasn’t letting go. Not now. She felt herself
moving towards him as he pulled her to the side of the boat with the paddle.
One arm came out, grasped the back of her suit, and hauled her up against the
kayak.

“Hold the side,” he ordered. “I’ll take you to shore. You’ll
be all right now. I’ve got you.”

 She was vaguely aware that it was awkward for him to paddle
with her holding on next to him, but he managed somehow, moving quickly and
expertly towards the beach. Even when the boat neared the shore, she still
gripped the side for dear life.

He aimed the kayak squarely at the beach, paddled hard, then
coasted as the boat glided swiftly up to the shore, its bow grating on the
sand. He jumped out fast, tossing his paddle up onto the beach. Grabbing hold under
her shoulder with one hand, he hauled her easily onto her feet, braced her
against him. She would have fallen if he hadn’t been holding her, she realized.
Her legs were trembling—and the rest of her wasn’t much better.

He swore softly, then sat her down higher up the sand and turned
to his boat, pulling it out of reach of the lapping waves. She dropped her head
to her knees, utterly spent.

He reached into the boat, grabbed a water bottle, and held
it out to her. “Drink.”

She drained it, then gripped the empty bottle, just for something
to hold. The adrenaline that had flooded her body during her efforts was
leaving her now. Feeling sick and weak, she pulled off her goggles and cap with
shaking hands. Her heavy braid fell down her back, chilling her more, and she
hugged her arms around her body for warmth and support. She could see her
rescuer clearly now as he ran to a nearby pickup parked on the beach, grabbed a
towel, and returned in seconds with it. Pulling her up, he wrapped it around
her, then gently set her down again.  

“Rest a bit. You’re all right now.” He squatted to rub her
dry with the towel, massaging warmth back into her cold, shocked limbs, watching
her all the while. She was barely aware of his attentions as she sat huddled,
head bowed.

At last, seeming satisfied that she was recovering, he pulled
the boat up toward his truck, took gear out of it—fishing gear, she realized
dully—and threw it in the back, together with his paddle. Then quickly hoisted
the boat onto a rack and strapped it down.

Once he had everything stowed, he returned to where she sat
on the sand and crouched down next to her again. She tried to smile, to thank
him.

“I’m sorry,” she said through teeth that still insisted on
chattering. “I’m all right now. Please, you can go.”

He stared at her, eyes intent on her face. “Nah. You’re not
all right. Not yet. Come on.”

Again he helped her stand, holding her as they walked the
short distance to his truck. He opened her door and gently settled her into the
passenger seat, then drove off the beach via a ramp and up to the road. He had
put the heater on, she realized. He must be roasting. The shakes were stronger
now as she realized how close she had come to drowning. She felt an alarming
urge to cry, and her breath came ragged as she fought it.

Her rescuer pulled into a seaside café, left the motor
running and the heater on, and said again, “Wait.”

Helplessly, she did as she was told. She didn’t think she
could have gone anywhere if she had tried.

He was back in a few minutes, holding out a tall cup. “Drink
this.”

She put two hands around the cup and sipped cautiously. As
she drank the hot, sweet tea, she felt the heat swirling down inside her,
warming her. He hadn’t asked her any questions, she realized, or talked to her
beyond those few commands. Just sat next to her, watching as she gradually
stopped shaking so hard, warmed by the heater and by the hot liquid inside her.

He seemed to be breathing more easily himself now, and she became
aware of how he must have felt as he saw her struggling and pulled her to shore.
Another wave of embarrassment overcame her at the thought. As soon as her teeth
were no longer chattering and she trusted herself to speak, she said, as calmly
as she could manage, “I’m sorry. I guess I wrecked your fishing trip. I’m OK
now, though. I can go. Thanks for everything.” Awkwardly, she pulled the towel
out from under her and held it out to him.

He smiled. “I’ve never met a girl who wanted to get away
from me so badly. Let’s go back and get your clothes. You can change out of
those wet togs, and we’ll get some food into you.”

“I just walked down from the place I’m staying,” she
explained. “It’s only my towel and sandals back on the beach. I’m OK now,
really. You’ve done so much already.”

“You need to eat something hot,” he insisted. “We’ll pick up
your gear, and I’ll drive you wherever it is you’re staying. You can take a
shower and change, and I’ll take you out for breakfast.”

“You have to let me wait for you,” he insisted as she
hesitated. “It’s the least you can do, after ruining my fishing trip and all.
You can’t leave me wondering if you’re all right, now that I’ve done my Good
Samaritan act.”

As he retrieved her belongings and drove the few blocks to
her motel, Hannah realized that part of the reason she had wanted to leave was
embarrassment at her own stupidity. She wanted to hide away, like a dog
crawling under the porch to lick its wounds. But the other part, she admitted
to herself, was him. She had hardly noticed what he looked like as he pulled
her to shore and helped revive her. But now, in the close confines of the
truck, she found him overwhelming.

Dressed in a T-shirt and shorts, he was a big man. A very
big man. Without the regular features of a model, but with a strong jaw and
cheekbones, his dark hair cropped close to his head, his was a face to be
reckoned with. In fact, he was the kind of man she’d normally shy away from. Too
rough-looking, and definitely too big. But he had been nothing but kind to her.
Besides, she still felt shaky, and his solid strength and competence gave her
comfort.

“I’ll wait,” he told her again when he had parked outside
the motel. “Take your time.”

Fifteen minutes later, after a hot shower, some scented body
lotion, and a rough towel-dry of her long, thick hair, Hannah was looking in
the mirror, thankful that she had had her fair brows and lashes tinted before
leaving on vacation, so she didn’t look completely washed out. It was
ridiculous to primp for him. This wasn’t a date. He was making sure she was all
right, that was all. But she still pulled on her favorite new sundress, a deep
primrose yellow printed with tiny purple and blue flowers, in a halter style
that made her feel like Marilyn Monroe, if slightly less curvaceous.