The House on Mermaid Point (26 page)

Maddie didn’t mind the traffic on U.S. 1 at all. In fact, the cars, the trailers with boats that many of them towed, the SUVs crammed with families, and the convertibles filled with partiers put her in a holiday mood and made her feel part of the excitement.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a full day, let alone three, to do anything—or nothing—that she chose. Determined to enjoy herself she’d taken the Jon Boat all by herself for the first time ever, traveling east and then north, staying in the channels just as carefully as a child might color within the lines of a favored coloring book, until she reached Bud N’ Mary’s. She managed to tie the boat up without problem and even exchanged nods and waves with a few of the marina’s regulars. One of the local guides gave her a tip of his baseball cap as she left the dock to retrieve the minivan.

She dithered happily about where to have lunch, finally deciding on an umbrella-covered table on the beach at Morada Bay. There she could people watch in pretty much every direction and still enjoy the view out over the bay, where boats navigated the web of canals that intersected the mangrove-covered islands like droplets of blood slipping through the veins of a hand.

She slipped off her flip-flops so that she could curl her toes into the warm sand and sipped a glass of white wine while she mulled over the menu. She allowed herself a second—and final—glass with her endive and blue cheese salad, which she followed with a bowl of grouper ceviche. Around her the festive mood, like the heat, continued to build. When she’d finished her meal, she followed the boardwalk out to the docks behind the massive World Wide Sportsman, then strolled through the art gallery, which led her into the back of the World Wide Sportsman’s two-story retail space.

The air-conditioning was a welcome relief from the heat and humidity, and although the store was jam-packed, it was a wonderland of a place, managing to be both a serious outdoorsman outfitter and a marvelous tourist attraction. She waited her turn to climb the wooden stair up to the restored “sister ship” of Ernest Hemingway’s famed
Pilar
, which was berthed majestically in the center of the store, then took her time admiring the gleaming mahogany and brass fittings as well as the framed news articles and photos. For one brief moment she pictured William Hightower ensconced in the wooden fishing chair reeling in a jumping game fish like Hemingway might have done. And she found herself wondering where Will and Tommy and Hud were right now, where they might be fishing, how the father and son were doing with each other. Most of all she wondered how long Will would be gone.

After that she stopped at the Trading Post, a local grocery and convenience store, where she bought only those things that she wanted to eat over the next few days: a small fillet and greens for a salad, a half carton of eggs, cold deli meat and a couple of hoagie rolls for sandwiches, a cantaloupe and a few other pieces of fruit. She lingered longest in front of the freezer case, both because the blast of frozen air felt delicious and because she’d decided to treat herself to the most decadent dessert she could find. She ended up with a pint of Talenti sea salt caramel gelato, after several women offered enthusiastic and unsolicited testimonials when they saw her considering it.

At checkout she reached for a
People
magazine, something she typically only succumbed to at the beauty parlor. When a quick skim of its headlines assured her there was no mention of Kyra, Dustin, or
Do Over
, she added it to her purchases.

She made it back to Mermaid Point without mishap, which she deemed cause for celebration. Knowing herself to be completely alone, she changed into an ancient two-piece bathing suit, yanked her hair into a high ponytail, and carried the magazine, a historical romance, and a can of Diet Coke out to the hammock. The rope molded itself to her body as she settled in the shady spot, enjoying its easy sway and the warm breeze off the ocean. She leaned the cold drink can up against her bare midriff and leafed through the magazine. An article about former
Friends
star Matthew Perry’s battle with addiction turned her thoughts to William yet again and served as a reminder that success and happiness rarely seemed to go hand in hand. She pored over shots of the actor’s seven-million-dollar Malibu beach house, surprised by what the estate had been converted to and marking it to show to William, who even in his absence felt woven into the very breeze that slipped over her skin and rustled the mangroves and palm fronds.

That gentle rustling joined with traffic noise from U.S. 1 and the buzz of the island insects. All of these sounds mingled with the whine of boat engines out in the channel and the caw of gulls wheeling overhead to create a soothing symphony that had begun to sound like home.

She fell asleep in the shade of the palm trees, one hand wrapped around the drink can, and only roused slightly at the sound of a boat slowing nearby. She’d already drifted off again when the crunch of a foot on a branch reached her. Her eyes flew open. She was the only person on Mermaid Point. She groped for her cell phone, sending the Coke can flying, before remembering that she’d left the phone on the arm of the nearby Adirondack. Until this moment it hadn’t occurred to her to worry about being here alone.

The hammock now felt more like a rope prison. She lay very still, unsure which direction the sound had come from. She couldn’t decide if she should flip herself out of the hammock as quickly as possible, hope she landed on her feet and not her face, and race for the cell phone so that she could . . . this was the part that kept her lying there immobile.

Another snap raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Her skin sprang up into goose bumps. She was way too close to naked in the ancient two-piece. She squeezed her eyes shut and understood the ostrich’s primal instinct; if there’d been a big enough hole in the ground she would already be burying her head in it.

A large shadow fell over her.

“Maddie?” William Hightower’s voice sounded inches away. When she forced her eyes open he was crouching down to retrieve her Coke can. Fear receded. Embarrassment at being caught in the skimpy bathing suit took its place.

“I thought people with Native American blood knew how to move silently through wooded areas,” she snapped. “You almost gave me a heart attack.” She had a brief internal debate over whether to sit up, which would pouch her stomach out further, or continue to lie there looking like a fool.

“Sorry.” He came out of his crouch and grinned down at her. “I failed stealth walking and woodcraft. I spent most of my teenage years trying to find the right mix of weed for my peace pipe.”

When he moved to set the sandy can on the nearest chair, Maddie sat up hastily then slid off the hammock and onto her feet. She would have sold her soul for something to hide behind. If this were a sitcom she’d already be sliding behind the nearest large leafy plant. Or hightailing it back down the path to the houseboat, except that would expose an even jigglier and less attractive view of her. Note to self: never, under any circumstances, leave the houseboat again without a cover-up. She eyed the
People
magazine but it was nowhere near large enough to provide cover. “What are you doing back so soon?” she finally managed to ask. “I thought you all were going to be fishing and camping for two or three days.”

He watched her fidget with an amused smile that told her he knew just how uncomfortable she was. If she sucked her stomach in any harder she was afraid she’d pass out at his feet.

“I had the boat all ready when Hud called to tell me that he’d had a customer come into town unexpectedly for the holiday. When you guide for a living you don’t turn down manna from heaven.”

“And Tommy? Couldn’t the two of you have gone?” Worried that he’d done something to alienate his son, her breath whooshed out. Unfortunately, her stomach went with it.

“I hear what you’re thinking,” he said.

“Is that right?” She forgot about her stomach, and her rear, as she put her fists to her hips.

“You’re thinking I blew off Tommy when Hud couldn’t come.”

She managed not to speak but simply waited for him to continue just as she’d learned to do with Kyra and Andrew.

“I can’t say it wouldn’t have crossed my mind. But he was the one who called it off. He called even before Hudson, said he had a bad cold and I could hear how congested he was. But he sounded disappointed. And he asked if we could go some other time.”

“Oh. That’s wonderful.” She felt the smile break over her face.

“Yeah.” Will looked kind of pleased himself. “It doesn’t suck.” He looked her over not at all surreptitiously. “And now it’s just you and me here.” He winked at her. “That doesn’t suck, either.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to swim a few laps. But I caught a whole bunch of mangrove snapper out off Shell Key. And I’d be glad to make them for dinner tonight.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know if you’ve finished your cooking chart yet”—he grinned—“but I’m willing to go first—you know, maybe break in the pavilion kitchen.”

“Sure.” She looked down and then back at him. “I think I’ll just go take a shower and, um, clean up a bit. And I can bring a salad if you like.”

“Great.” He stood as if expecting her to leave first, but she waited him out, only turning once she heard him dive into the pool. As far as she was concerned, she’d already exposed far more unfirm flesh than any woman should be required to.

•   •   •

Maddie spent a ridiculous amount of time in the shower exfoliating and shaving and even longer in front of the tiny steamy mirror applying foundation, eyeliner, and mascara.

“Good grief,” she chastised herself, dropping the lipstick tube back on the counter unopened. “You’re not going to show up looking like you think this is a date!”

Before she could succumb to more primping or chicken out altogether, she braided her hair while it was still wet and pulled on jean shorts, a fresh T-shirt, and her flip-flops.

She arrived at the pavilion with a plastic lidded bowl of salad and a pitcher of sun tea, like some suburban soccer mom arriving at an end-of-season team party. She found William similarly attired, his hair wet from the shower, and a burner already lit on the outdoor cooktop. Two dinner plates sat on the counter.

“Do you have any problem with butter?” he asked, holding a cast-iron pan and a large stick of butter. “Or any food allergies? ”

“No. As you could probably tell earlier, I haven’t met a lot of foods I don’t like.” She sighed as she remembered how not dressed she’d been when he’d surprised her on the hammock.

“I’m glad you’re not one of those women who agonizes over just how many carrot sticks she should eat at one sitting.” He placed the pan on the burner and dropped the whole stick of butter in it with a flourish. Then dredged the fish fillets in what he called his “secret” seasoning mixture. “Physical perfection is highly overrated.”

“Can I quote you on that?” she asked, wondering if he could possibly mean it.

“By all means.” He laid the fillets in the sizzling butter.

She sniffed appreciatively. “I thought you were joking about the secret seasoning, since your ‘secret marinade’ was made by Wishbone.” She came closer and leaned forward to sniff more carefully. “Onion salt? Pepper? Paprika?”

“I refuse to answer on the grounds that it’s a secret.”

“I guess I need to give you credit for finding that box I packed with all three of the seasonings in your pantry,” she teased.

“Laugh all you will.” His good mood was infectious. “The fact remains this dish will definitely knock your socks off.” He took a second to mock-ogle her legs. “Or it would if you were wearing any.”

He’d set one of the small wooden tables for two—just a glass, fork, and napkin for each of them. A citronella candle flickered in the center. Looking for something to do with her hands, Maddie scooped ice out of the new undercounter icemaker, poured tea into each of the glasses, then set the pitcher on the table along with the covered salad bowl.

William placed a finished fillet on each of their plates, squeezed lemon over both, then carried them to the table. Seated across from him, Maddie dished salad onto their plates as if she were back in Atlanta, serving up one of a million meals she’d fed to Steve, Kyra, and Andrew. Only this was William Hightower sitting across from her. It was hard to imagine being any further from her old reality.

“Bon appétit.”
William watched her lift a first forkful to her mouth.

Her lips closed around the snapper. The fish dissolved in a rush of buttery sweetness. “Wow,” she said once she’d swallowed. “I would have found something good to say about the fish no matter what, just to preserve your fragile male ego. But this is really great.”

“Gee, thanks.” His smile was crooked; his tone dry.

“Sorry. That compliment was a little back-handed. It’s just that given those fourteen-year-old taste buds of yours, I wasn’t expecting anything quite so . . . I don’t know . . . grown-up and delicious.”

“Hmm.” One dark eyebrow sketched upward. “I kind of like that description. Grown-up
and
delicious.” He looked her straight in the eye when he said this and she felt a distinct flicker of awareness that she spent the remainder of the meal attempting to banish.