Tides of Hope (3 page)

“I said, are you crazy? This is not a recreational swimming area!” She had to yell to be heard above the hum of the engine and the waves slapping against the side of the boat.

“I'm fine,” he called back.

“You can't be fine! The water's freezing! And there's a bad riptide here. You need to get back to shore!” She flicked her hand toward the beach, as if shooing a recalcitrant puppy back from the edge of a busy street.

It was obvious she didn't recognize him. But why should she? His wet suit, swim cap and goggles left very few identifying features exposed.

As he bobbed on the swells, he considered his options. The path of least resistance would be to remain anonymous, ac
quiesce and retreat to the beach. That would be the smart thing to do. He'd been about ready to head toward shore anyway.

Instead, prompted by some impulse he couldn't identify, he lifted his goggles and settled them on top of the orange swim cap. “I can handle this sea, Ms. MacDonald.”

Her reaction as his identity became apparent was reward enough for his rash action. Seeing Katherine MacDonald shocked speechless was, he suspected, a rare treat.

Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

“I don't believe this! You, of all people, should know better than to swim in seas like this! Alone, no less! And you cited
me
for a safety violation?”

He'd known she'd come back with a zinger. She hadn't disappointed him.

“I'm trained to swim in worse conditions than these. And I'm well-equipped.”

She dismissed his explanation with a curt flip of her hand. “That may be true, but no one in their right mind would put themselves into dangerous conditions without cause. Do you have a death wish or something?”

For some reason, her question jolted him. He knew it was an exaggeration, meant to drive home her point, yet it left him feeling uneasy. And no longer interested in prolonging their verbal sparring match.

Pulling his goggles back over his eyes, he prepared to resume his swim.

The red-haired spitfire must have sensed his intent because she called out again. “I can't in good conscience leave anyone alone in these waters, especially in this weather.”

He checked her out over his shoulder as he treaded water, buoyant on the rising swells. She was still standing by the side of the boat, gripping the rail, watching him.

Ignoring her comment, he resumed his course, swimming parallel to the shore.

Thirty seconds later, he heard the hum of her boat behind him.

Craig kept swimming for two more minutes, the boat pacing him. She wasn't backing down. No surprise there, he supposed. And he didn't relish company on his solitary swims. Besides, he'd stayed out as long as he'd planned, and the cold seeping through his neoprene insulation was beginning to get uncomfortable.

Altering his course, he aimed for shore. Let Katherine MacDonald assume she'd won the battle. He knew better. Had she caught him at the beginning of his swim instead of the end, he'd have put up with the audience and she'd have found herself tooling around in the
Lucy Sue
far longer as she discovered he could be as strong-willed as she was.

That revelation wasn't going to happen today.

But he had a strong suspicion it was coming.

 

As the lieutenant changed direction and headed for shore, Kate let out a long, relieved breath. Good. Had he balked, she wasn't at all confident she'd have won the skirmish. Yet the rule-bound commander didn't strike her as the kind of man prone to capitulation. So why had he given in?

The answer, she grudgingly acknowledged, was clear.

He'd been ready to call it a day anyway.

Meaning her victory was hollow.

Kate planted her fists on her hips and watched as he surged through the swells with powerful strokes, doing her best to stifle the flicker of admiration fanned to life by his masterful physical control and his command of the water. Just because he was a good swimmer didn't mean he should be taking chances by venturing into hazardous seas alone. It was folly to feel invincible around the ocean, no matter how strong or well-equipped you were. And a Coast Guard lieutenant should know that. Taking him to task for his irresponsible actions had been more than justified.

The instant he emerged from the water, Kate once more swung the
Lucy Sue
to port and headed home. And as the boat plowed through the waves, she forced herself to switch gears and focus on the pleasant evening ahead. She and Maddie were planning to indulge in a pizza, followed by a movie of her daughter's choice. No doubt her current favorite,
The Lion King
. They'd seen it four times already, but Kate didn't mind. Cuddling with her daughter under an afghan, a cozy fire burning in the grate, was about the most comforting way she could imagine to spend a chilly evening.

Only one thing would be missing from that picture of contentment, she reflected, the salt from the spray reminding her of the taste of tears. Mac wouldn't be with them. How he would have loved an evening like that! With him, however, it would have been impromptu, a spontaneous celebration rather than a planned event. He'd had a remarkable gift for turning ordinary days into special occasions, his infectious
joie de vivre
and go-with-the-flow attitude carrying everyone along with him.

Kate could imagine what tonight would be like if he were here. Instead of pizza, he might suggest chocolate chip waffles. Rather than sitting on the couch, he might drag out their folding chairs, make popcorn and have them all pretend they were at the old hall in 'Sconset that showed family movies in the summer. And he might resurrect their vintage video of
The Sound of Music
and encourage them all to sing along, his off-key baritone and contagious laugh ringing through the house.

Life with Mac had been one grand adventure, Kate recalled, her lips softening into a melancholy smile. Flexible, agreeable, always upbeat, he was a man who'd lived—and loved—with an abandon that had taken her breath away. Without him, she felt as she had as a child waking up the day after Christmas, the excitement and anticipation of the previous day replaced by a sense that life for the next 364 days would be dull, dull, dull.

Though Kate's world had been graced by the presence of Dennis “Mac” MacDonald far too briefly, she would always be grateful to him for their days together. And for teaching her by example to embrace life—and not sweat the small stuff. She'd struggled at times with that during the past few years, but at least she kept trying.

The stiff, stuffy lieutenant she'd left on Great Point would do well to learn that lesson, too, Kate thought, her smile fading as her hands tightened on the helm. He seemed focused
only
on the small stuff. Such pettiness was an unlikable trait to begin with, and even less endearing because it had caused her nothing but problems. The commander's insistence on following the letter of the law—whether it made sense or not—was maddening.

Calm down, Kate,
she counseled herself, easing her grip on the wheel.
Getting mad again won't solve the problem. If anything, your antagonism could make it worse.

And
worse
might very well be a description of the current situation, given her tirade a few minutes ago, she granted, as she neared the harbor entrance and passed the diminutive Brant Point lighthouse adjacent to the Coast Guard station. Instead of reading him the riot act and following him like a persistent seagull follows a boat, she could have acquiesced to his explanation and headed home.

Yet what she'd told him had been true. She couldn't, in good conscience, leave anyone alone in the waters off Great Point. Even the disagreeable lieutenant. It was asking for trouble, no matter his skills or equipment. She'd dug in her heels for his own good, whether he appreciated it or not.

Not
being the obvious conclusion. And that didn't bode well for a favorable response to her request—more like demand, she acceded—that he wipe the citation off her record.

The wharf came into sight, and Kate cut back the throttle, trying to recapture her earlier lighthearted mood. But that felt
like ancient history now. As in B.C. Before Cole. And she doubted it would return unless the citation issue was resolved in her favor.

An outcome that seemed increasingly remote in light of their back-to-back unpleasant encounters.

With that conclusion, any lingering vestige of good cheer vanished as quickly as the sun in a sudden Nantucket storm.

 

Do you have a death wish or something?

Katherine MacDonald's question echoed again in Craig's mind as he jabbed at the buttons on his microwave. It had been bothering him since she'd voiced it six hours ago, and the refrain was beginning to get on his nerves.

Grabbing a soda out of the fridge, he pulled the tab, easing the pressure in the can with a pop and a fizz. Too bad it wasn't that easy to release the pressure inside of him, he lamented. Yet he couldn't lay the full blame for his tension on Ms. MacDonald. Although her blunt question had exacerbated it, in all honesty it had dogged him for three long years.

Exercise, he'd discovered, had proved to be a good temporary release valve. Ocean swimming in particular, especially when conditions were difficult. He'd never stopped to analyze why he sought out risky locations, but he supposed a psychologist delving into motivations might see it as a subconscious challenge to the sea:
You took my wife and son. Just try to take me.

And there was some truth to that, he conceded. With every yard gained, with every swell overcome, with every undertow and riptide conquered, the pressure inside him dissipated. Each time he emerged whole and victorious from battling the waves, he felt a satisfying sense of triumph.

But the satisfaction didn't last long. And one of these days, if he continued to take chances, he'd lose. It was inevitable. In risky conditions, the odds were always stacked in favor of the sea. He knew that as well as the mouthy charter captain did.

And maybe that's what he wanted, deep inside, Craig was forced to admit. Maybe he wanted the sea to take him, too. To end the pain and loss and guilt forever. To give him the peace that had eluded him since the accident.

Katherine MacDonald might be right.

Maybe he did have a death wish.

The microwave pinged, and he withdrew the bland packaged dinner of sautéed chicken breast, broccoli and rice that had become one of his staples. He knew the drill by heart after three years of this fare: remove the plastic cover and let the meal rest until the steam escaped.

Rest
.

The word stuck with him as he slid the disposable container onto the counter in the kitchen of the commander's quarters—a three-bedroom ranch house a mile from the station. Far enough removed to let the officer in charge find rest from his or her duties.

Unfortunately, the comfortable dwelling had the opposite effect on Craig. Though modest in size, the house felt cavernous and the silent rooms were depressing. Instead of being a haven of rest, it only served to remind him of all he'd lost.

As Craig straddled a stool at the counter and toyed with his meal, the passage from Matthew flashed through his mind: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”

The minister had quoted those words at the funeral for his wife, Nicole, and his son, Aaron. But they'd been unable to penetrate his thick, isolating shroud of grief, offering no consolation then…or in the intervening years. All his life, he'd attended services every Sunday. But when tested by fire, he'd felt burned rather than fortified by the God he'd worshipped. Church attendance had become a meaningless gesture that left him feeling more empty and alone than if he hadn't gone. In time, he'd stopped the painful Sunday routine.

Routine
.

Perhaps that was the key, Craig mused, dissecting a piece of broccoli with his fork. In many ways, his faith had become nothing more than a once-a-week visit to church, driven by habit rather than compelling belief. Perhaps if he approached services and prayer with an open heart, seeking God's will rather than demanding answers and immediate solace, the Lord would provide him with the peace and rest he craved.

It was worth a try, he supposed.

Because he couldn't keep living with the disheartening sense of hopelessness that plagued his days. Nor could he continue to take chances with his life, raising the stakes with every swimming excursion until at last he lost his gamble with the elements. It wasn't fair to Vicki. As Paul had reminded him, his daughter needed him.
Him
. Not the high-priced nannies he'd hired over the past three years, who saw to Vicki's physical needs but who couldn't give her the one thing she needed most.

A father's love.

Pushing aside his picked-over dinner, Craig rested his elbows on the counter and dropped his head into his hands as guilt gnawed at his gut, churning his dinner like an angry ocean agitates seaweed.