Bethany Campbell - One True Secret

From a heart that ached oddly and pleasantly, he realized. She looked doubtful, but then tried to reach for his hand. But that entailed juggling the cat, who protested with another of his weird, grating chirps.

“Let me take him for you,” Merriman said, scrambling to get one arm around the cat. He managed, and Bunbury dangled like a sulky sack of grain in his hold.

Almost shyly, Merriman offered his hand again. She studied it, then, far more shyly, took it. He stared down at her, tongue-tied. Her grasp was light and cool, yet firm.

“I’m Claire Roth,” she said. “I—I saw you walking down on the beach. I didn’t know you’d come back here.”

Merriman reluctantly let her draw her hand away. She was edging back from him, clearly about to make a quick escape. He didn’t want her to go. Desperately, he said, “The flowers—the trees. I’m taking pictures, but I don’t know what I’m taking pictures of. This tree—what is it?”

“A banyan,” she almost whispered.

“It looks like sixteen trees grown together. Those things dropping down, are they roots, or just vines? How big will the thing get?”

“It’s all one tree. Yes, they’re roots. It could grow a hundred feet tall. But it probably won’t.”

Her eyes rose to the sky. “Storms.” She looked worried.

“Hurricanes?” He should have glanced at the sky, too, but he didn’t have to. He could sense the morning darkening and the wind rising. And he couldn’t stop taking in her face.

A gust of wind lifted her hair, revealing a delicate ear that had never been pierced. She nodded. “Hurricanes. Tropical storms. We lose branches.”

Something about her made him feel giddy as a schoolboy. “There’s a watch or a warning. Does it scare you?”

She nodded. “A little. I—I need to go in now.”

“I’ll carry the cat,” he offered.

Her expression went uncomfortable, and hastily he added, “Only to the door. That’s all. Do you have to go in? I’d sure like somebody to tell me the names of all these plants.”

He was pleased to see her hesitate. She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to talk to anybody.”

“I wouldn’t ask you anything personal,” he vowed, forgetting that he owed any loyalty to Eli. “If you could just tell me the names, and I could write them down. Like that thing— I don’t know what it is.”

Still clutching Bunbury in a one-armed hold, he pointed at the peculiar flower of purple and gold. “I’ll get back, develop all this stuff and not know how to look it up.”

She still acted as if she had reservations. But she said, “It’s a bird-of-paradise.” She paused, then said, “Some people say it looks like a bird in flight. It’s unusual, because it’s actually pollinated by birds, not bees.”

“Really,” Merriman said, as if this was the most fascinating fact he’d ever heard. Perhaps it was, coming from her lips, those words about birds and bees.

He rubbed the cat’s stomach so it would stay peaceful. Merriman tilted his head toward a climbing vine with ornate lavender flowers. “And those? Orchids?”

She pushed a wayward lock of hair from her cheek. “No. They’re passionflowers.”

He rubbed the cat harder. “Passionflowers. Why are they called that?”

“Well…” She still seemed torn about lingering, but clearly she loved the plants and wanted him to appreciate them. “It’s kind of a complicated legend…”

“I’d love to hear it,” Merriman told her with so much sincerity that it made him dizzy. He rubbed the cat until it had no choice but to purr in sensual pleasure.

EMERSON KICKED OFF her sandals so she could walk in the damp sand and dodge the surf when it came foaming onto the beach. It was a game she’d played since childhood, and she loved it.

This, she calculated, would force Eli Garner to keep his distance and try to question her against the wind and over the roar of the waves. That, or he’d have to shed his own shoes and a considerable amount of dignity to stay at her side.

She was surprised when he undid his sandals and set them next to hers. He rolled his jeans up to his shins, stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled to the sea’s edge beside her as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But today the sea was not playful. The waves that came rolling in were rough, and they did not so much collapse in a froth on the sand as throw themselves on it in assault.

The wind was cool and whipped Emerson’s long skirt around her. She had to gather it up and clench its hem in her fist. This left her legs bare to the knee, and Eli gave them a glance that seemed coolly interested. She wished she’d worn capri pants.

The wind blew her hair about, and his, too. He had thick hair, longish and wavy. He reached into his pocket and put on his sunglasses. They gave him a masked look.

She sidestepped a wave more aggressive than the rest and accidentally bumped into him. The water surged around her calves, and she nearly lost her balance when the spent wave pulled seaward again.

His arm shot out to steady her, settling on her waist, bracing her so she didn’t stumble. It seemed a perfunctory gesture, brief and businesslike. His hand fell away almost immediately. She was glad. His touch implied an intimacy she found dangerously intriguing.

“Careful,” he warned.

“I didn’t realize you were that close,” she grumbled.

“I have to stay close to hear you. Looks like we’ve got some weather coming.”

She glanced at the far horizon. There, the clouds were almost black, and a gray veil seemed to spill from them: rain.

She said, “They’ve upgraded the storm back to a hurricane. It’s in the Caribbean and moving fast.”

He studied her from behind the mask of his sunglasses. “Hurricane? When did they upgrade it? It was still a tropical storm when we left Key West.”

“I heard it on the radio right before you came.” She tried to smooth her streaming hair. “It’s growing. And picking up speed.”

“Does that scare you?” he asked.

Few things frightened Emerson, and she hated to admit that anything could frighten her. But hurricanes did. She tried to sound philosophic. “Hurricanes are the price you pay for living here.”

“That didn’t answer the question.”

Damn, he must sense her uneasiness. “Only a fool wouldn’t respect a hurricane. But it doesn’t scare me until I know it’s close. I’ve seen what they can do.”

“So have I. So what do you do when one’s coming at you?”

“The usual. We have emergency supplies. A propane stove, lanterns, the whole disaster kit. Even a special room. We hope for the best and close the hurricane shutters.”

He looked at the dark horizon, then back at the house. “Maybe you should shut them soon.”

She tossed her head. “Frenchy will. As soon as you leave.”

“I see. And Frenchy would be…”

“The groundskeeper and maintenance man.”

“Frenchy, I take it, is French?”

“No. Frenchy is Norwegian.”

“Then why’s he called Frenchy?”

“I don’t know. Things like that happen in the Keys.”

He seemed to reflect on this. She added, “He won’t talk to you under any circumstances. He’s signed a confidentiality agreement. An ironclad one.”

Take that, she thought. But at that moment, she had to dodge another wave and once again nearly collided with him. Why did he have to stay so close?

But he didn’t seem to notice, and he changed the subject. “So this is the beach your grandfather loved so much.”

She caught his careful wording. “He still loves it,” she said. “There’s no need to use the past tense.”

“He still comes here?” Eli asked, just casually enough.