Heather Graham - Still Waters

“Hank, Amanda and Gerald are cousins—second cousins, I think,” Ben said.

He hadn’t seemed to notice the hope in the question. He wouldn’t, Beth thought. He was always too busy being a father.

“There’s a young couple camping just beyond them,” Keith said. Even though Beth couldn’t see his eyes, she knew he was staring straight at her. “Maybe you know them, too. Brad Shaw and a woman named Sandy Allison?”

She shook her head. “The names aren’t familiar.” Again she looked out to the water.

She had missed the fourth boat because it was anchored just beyond Hank’s Southern Light.

The last vessel was a small pleasure craft. She looked as if she needed paint, and she probably offered no more than a small head, galley, and perhaps room enough for two to sleep in the forward section. There were lots of small boats docked at the club, and some of those—especially the motorboats—were incredibly expensive.

On the other hand, some of them weren’t. One of the things Beth had always liked about working at the club was the fact that the people there were honestly dedicated to the water. They came from all life’s corners, just like their boats did. The initial membership fee was steep, but after that, the annual dues were reasonable, so people from all different social strata could afford to join, once they saved up the initial investment. She was also proud that the club specialized in lessons in sailing, swimming, diving and water safety.

At the club, though, no matter how inexpensive any of their boats might be, the members, even the broke ones, took pleasure in caring for them—unlike the sad little vessel out beyond Southern Light.

“Four boats,” Beth murmured.

“Anyway,” Keith said, “we’ve asked everyone over to our little patch of beach.”

“Great,” Ben said.

“Come on over whenever you feel like it,” Keith said. “We’re not far,” he said, indicating the short stretch of sand that separated the two camps.

“Want help?” Amber asked enthusiastically.

Beth was tempted to grasp her niece’s arm.

“I think we’ve got it under control,” Keith said gravely. “But if you need help hauling chips and salad, you let us know.”

He had dimples and a pleasant way with the girls. He wasn’t inappropriate or flirtatious—as some older men would have been, just nice. He should have seemed charming, Beth knew, but she was too suspicious of him for that.

“We’ll see you down there in a bit,” Lee said.

The three men waved and started off down the sand. Ben turned to Beth. “Feel better?” he asked her.

She stared at her brother, shaking her head.

“What? Still scared? Nothing’s going to happen. Some of the other members from the yacht club will be with us,” he reminded her.

Ben was a member. She was the social manager, and she loved her job and most of the members, who were always pleasant and appreciative.

Then there was Amanda.

Luckily she wasn’t there on a daily—or even weekly—basis. Hank was the real boat fanatic. It had been his father who had first joined the club, which had been formed back in 1910. Originally it had been just two lifelong friends, Commodore Isaak and Vice Commodore Gleason, who had gotten together to drink and chat in their retirement. By the 1920s, there had been ten members, rising to nearly a hundred before World War II. With far too many able-bodied sailors in the navy, the facility had been used for a while as rehab for returnees. The 1950s had seen a resurgence in membership, and it had become a casual place in the seventies. When the hippies became yuppies in the nineties, the price of membership had soared. At the moment, there were about two hundred members, a hundred of those with boat slips, and at least fifty who could be considered fairly active. Ben and Beth’s father had been a commodore, and with his passing, Ben had taken up the family participation in the place.

Beth, with a degree in public relations, had taken a job.

Had she realized that she would be dealing with the Amandas of the world, she might have thought twice. Amanda was the type to drop a letter on her desk and, without looking at her, tell her that she needed copies. She complained at the slightest mistake made by any of the help. Two waitresses in the dining room had quit in tears after serving her.

Ben didn’t jump when Amanda was around; he seemed to be immune to her wickedly sensual charm and oblivious to her frequent vicious abrasiveness.

There was no use trying to explain Amanda to her brother. He would just think it was feminine envy.

“Having them here makes everything just perfect,” she assured him dully.

“Amanda,” Amber said, making a face.

Ben rolled his eyes. “Is something the matter with her?” he demanded.

“Dad, she’s a bitch.”

“Amber!”

“It’s not really a bad word,” Amber said.

“Not like a four-letter word or anything,” Kim added hastily.

“Beth,” Ben said, “aren’t you going to say something?”

She shrugged. “They’re calling it as they see it,” she told him.

He frowned. “I don’t like that language.”

“Amber, your father doesn’t like that language. Please don’t use it.”

“All right,” Amber said, “Miss Mason is a rude, manipulative snake, how’s that?”

“With really big boobs,” Kim added.

“Kim...” Ben protested.

“Sorry,” Kim said, without meaning it in the least.

Ben pointed a finger sternly. “You will be polite.”

“Of course,” Beth said. “I mean, she’s always so polite to me.”

Ben groaned out loud and turned away, walking to the spot where he had pitched his own tent, his back to them. “Maybe you’ll like the new people better,” he said irritably over his shoulder.

She could hardly like them any less, Beth thought.

It wasn’t exactly as if they were going out, but Beth chose to throw a cover-up on over her bathing suit, and the girls did likewise. They hauled their coolers with sodas and beer, and their contribution of salad and chips, down to the meeting point before any of the Mason family appeared but just after the arrival of the new couple, Sandy Allison and Brad Shaw.

She had sandy hair that matched her name and pleasant amber eyes, a medium build and was of medium height. She wore a terry cover-up and sandals, while Brad, about six feet even, with the same sandy hair but green eyes, was still in swim boxers with a cotton surf shirt over his shoulders. They were both cheerful and hailed from the West Coast, according to Brad.

“Love it here, though,” he assured them. “When we’re diving, I feel like I could stay down forever.”

“Absolutely gorgeous,” Sandy agreed, slipping an arm around his waist. “There are areas here when you can practically walk right from the beach to the reef.”

“Dangerous for ships. Well, at one time,” Keith put in, handing Brad a beer. “The area is very well charted now.”

“Well, it has been a few years since the first Europeans made landfall,” Beth murmured.

Keith looked sharply at her. She should have guessed. His eyes were a deep, dark, true brown, rimmed with black lashes that were striking against the light color of his hair and the bronze of his face.

“A few ships did miss those reefs,” he murmured, and turned back to the men. “Lee has some equipment on his boat that would do the navy proud.”

“So you’re not a boater yourself, Mr. Henson?” Beth asked. She hadn’t meant for it to sound as if she was heading an inquisition, but it did.

“I am. We’re just here with Lee’s boat,” he said.

Here from where? she wondered.

She could just ask the question, of course, and immediately spoke before she could think better of it.