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Chloe, he saw as she moved closer, was carrying a couple of deflated beach rafts over her arm.
“I discovered these in the hall closet,” she said as she sat on the sand at the edge of the pool. “Here, one’s for you.” She tossed it to him.
Chloe made a comical sight with her cheeks puffed out as she prepared to blow up the raft. This was a woman who was as unselfconscious as they came.
“I’m looking forward to floating around in the water and getting a suntan,” she said between breaths. She acted as if anything she suggested should be all right with him.
“Okay,” he said. Her plan didn’t sound half-bad, though he didn’t need a tan. He could understand why she wanted one. Her skin was as pale as a tourist’s.
“You’d better put on sunscreen,” he cautioned.
“Already did,” she said in that jaunty way of hers, the faint aroma of coconut-scented suntan lotion wafting in his direction.
Ben concentrated on inflating the raft, wondering if it wouldn’t have made more sense to use the air compressor in the annex closet to do the job. But then he wouldn’t have had the pleasure of watching Chloe puckering up, a sight that put him in mind of other reasons she might do so. He’d bet her lips were soft and pliant, capable of eliciting the most delectable sensations.
Damn, he’d better stop thinking in such terms or this raft wouldn’t be the only thing that inflated.
“There,” Chloe said with satisfaction. She launched the raft with a little push. A couple of fish skittered away, but Ben scarcely noticed now that Chloe was splashing into the water and preparing to board.
Ben knew for certain that there was no graceful way to get on a raft that was floating in the water. You could belly flop, or you could straddle it, or you could shove it under your body and hope it didn’t go all cattywampus. But somehow Chloe managed to arrive stomach-up on the raft with remarkable grace, holding him spellbound in the process.
When she was settled, one hand trailed in the water, the other rested on her abdomen. Her eyes, he discerned in the bright sunlight, were not blue but a delicate shade of lavender, with long dark lashes. Ben usually wasn’t a fan of women with pointy chins, and he couldn’t exactly say that Chloe’s was pointy, but it wasn’t rounded, either. In the middle of it was a dimple that fascinated him because it went away when she smiled, which was exactly the opposite of what dimples usually did. And her eyebrows had a coquettish slant to them, which he didn’t think came from plucking or waxing.
“Is something wrong?” Chloe asked suddenly.
“No, no,” he said too hastily. “I was just watching that guy with the parasail over there.” Down near the inlet, someone was floating effortlessly above the ocean, dangling from a multicolored nylon parachute.
“Right,” Chloe said, after gazing in that direction for a moment, but she sounded unconvinced.
“When the tide comes in, this pool will disappear,” he said, mostly for conversation’s sake. He launched himself onto his raft stomach down, then paddled toward the far end of the pool, which was perhaps twenty-five feet away.
“That’s why it’s important to take advantage of it,” Chloe said as she drifted along beside him. “I intended to go for a quick swim, cool off a bit before getting to work, but it’s going to be difficult to concentrate. I keep worrying about my niece. She’s AWOL, and my sister is beside herself.”
“They live in Texas?”
“Back home in Farish.” Chloe outlined how Tara had disappeared.
“Like you say, she’s probably fine,” Ben said.
Chloe sighed. “Things had seemed to settle down with her, but I should have known better. I had a difficult adolescence myself.”
“I was into trouble most of my teenage years,” he told her. “Riding with a group of kids on motorcycles, finding all kinds of mischief. I lived in Yahola, a small town inland from here. Lake Okeechobee was to the south, a bunch of cattle ranches situated to the north, and I was bored out of my gourd.” He slanted a look at her to assess how she was taking this. She seemed interested rather than critical.
“Me, too,” she said. “To me, Farish, Texas, was the most nowhere place in the world. Our Main Street started at the courthouse square and ended in a cow pasture.” She laughed. “I can’t believe I’ve voluntarily moved to Sanluca, population two thousand. That’s approximately six thousand fewer people than Farish.”
“If this is where you can pursue your dream, it’s worth it, Chloe. That’s how I ended up here when I was nineteen.”
“What got you from Yahola to Sanluca?” Curious, she glanced at him.
“I got a book at the library, and it showed pictures of people diving for treasure off the Florida Keys. After I read it, I hopped on my motorcycle and rode over to see a friend who had moved here, keen to find out if he knew anything about Sea Search. He introduced me to Andy McGehee. Andy said, ‘Kid, you’ve gotta learn to dive before I’ll talk to you,’ so after that, I spent every penny I earned on scuba lessons and all my spare time diving.”
“You had a passion,” she said softly, shading her eyes with a hand for a moment to stare at him.
“I’ll always be grateful to the librarian who recommended that book.”
“That’s probably the key to reaching Tara. Helping her find her niche, I mean. She’s assured me she’s over her past problems. Maybe she’ll find her own passion.”
“What kind of problems has she had?” he asked.
“Tara shoplifted on a dare and got caught. She lifted a pair of panty hose from a store in a mall in Austin. She was only thirteen at the time.”
“I did worse than that myself. I set the local postmaster’s rural mailbox on fire.”
She lifted her head to stare at him. “You didn’t!”
“’Fraid so. It’s a federal crime. He was friendly with my folks, though, and didn’t prosecute.”
“Whatever possessed you?”
“I probably just wanted attention.”
“Maybe that’s Tara’s problem. Her twin sisters are six years younger, and they tend to steal the show. When Tara got in trouble for shoplifting, Naomi and Ray were forced to notice her.”
“Don’t they usually?”
“They adore her, and the twins, too. Unfortunately, twins tend to take up a lot of time. It’s even worse when they’re adorably cute like Jennifer and Jodie.”
“I hope Tara shows up soon, Chloe.”
“Thanks. I shouldn’t let myself obsess about her to the point where I can’t work, especially since I’m sure she’s hiding out someplace safe—maybe an older friend’s apartment or the house of a family who’s on vacation.”
He turned his head toward her. “What kind of work do you plan to do here?” he asked. If she really was a jewelry designer, he couldn’t imagine why she’d come to Sanluca.
“I’m into a new venture. Sea-glass jewelry.” A glimmer of perspiration had appeared on her top lip. Ben quashed a desire to lick it away.
“Sea glass, huh?”
“Well, it’s better than a couple of things I’ve tried in the past. Like gourmet dog biscuits and feng shui, neither of which went over too well in Farish.”
“What’s sea glass, anyway?” At least Ben knew what gourmet dog biscuits were; he wasn’t sure about feng shui.
“It’s glass that has been tumbled and scoured by the sand and the sea. It comes in all different colors—cobalt-blue, turquoise, the deepest purple or amethyst, celadon, jade. I got the idea when I was visiting Gwynne last summer and we picked up the most lovely specimens down here on the beach. I fiddled around with it, learned to encase it in cages of sterling silver or fourteen-carat gold. I’ve designed earrings around sea glass, and rings, and bracelets, and necklaces, and slides, and all sorts of things.”
He’d noticed the small pendant she wore. “Is that one of your pieces?” he asked. The jewellike shard of translucent celadon couched in silver was cradled in the hollow of her throat.
“I found this bit on a day that I was beachcombing with Tayloe and Gwynne. It’s the first necklace I made. Now I craft more intricate designs, compositions of sea glass intermingled with precious and semiprecious stones.”
“Very clever. Can you actually make a living doing that?” he asked.
“It depends. My grand plan involves placing my more elaborate pieces in high-end stores.”
“I bet that’s not easy to do.”
“I have a couple of ideas in mind. Gwynne’s godmother, Patrice DesJardin, owns a shop in Palm Beach. I’ve called and left her a message about my jewelry. Gwynne thinks Patrice will be interested.” Her raft rose and fell with the gentle motion of the water. They didn’t speak for a few minutes.
“When will you find out if your job’s going to materialize?” she asked after a while.
“In a few weeks, I hope. I’ve been talking to Andy McGehee about working with him at Sea Search again. In the meantime, I’ll be teaching a scuba class.”
“Andy’s something of a local legend. Do you know him well?” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully.
“I worked for him for a long time,” he said, unwilling to give anything away.
“Tayloe mentioned that he’s made a lot of money with Sea Search,” Chloe said. “I’ve passed by the treasure museum in town where he displays some of the loot, and Gwynne told me he’s built a huge compound for his family on Manatee Island.” The island, reachable by Beach Road over a bridge from Stuart’s Point, which was about four miles north of the inn, was where many celebrities kept large and exquisitely appointed winter homes.
“Andy is a millionaire several times over. He started treasure salvage in the early days, when not many people believed it could be done. ‘What’s lost is lost,’ they used to say around here, but Andy proved them wrong.”
“How do the divers in one of these treasure-hunting outfits divvy up the find? I’ve always wondered.”
His raft was drifting closer to hers, and if it continued on its course, they’d collide. Ben kicked lazily with one foot until he’d turned around where he could see her. “A lot of people ask that. After we bring the treasure up, it’s all kept in one big pile, so to speak. At the end of the season, the state of Florida takes its percentage due under the law. The rest is parceled out equally among the group.”
“Have you ever found anything really valuable?”
“One year I found a chunk of coral that broke away to reveal a beautiful gold crucifix. I sold it to a collector for sixty thousand dollars.”
“No kidding!” Chloe raised her head. Her earrings, all three pairs, glinted in the sun.
“There’s a lot more out there,” he said. “That’s why I’ve got gold fever.”
“And sea water in your veins,” Chloe added.
“Right,” he said, amused.
They floated silently for a while, listening to the soothing sound of waves breaking nearby. Every so often, a flock of gulls circled, soon soaring away in search of something more interesting. After a couple with two children and a dog ambled past, Chloe flipped over onto her stomach, the motion sending a wake across the pool.
“I’m going to the store later,” she announced suddenly. “We could cook steaks for dinner if you’d like to join me.”
“Steak sounds good,” he heard himself saying, though he’d figured he could grab something at the Sand Bar.
“Great. Seven o’clock, and I’ll provide a salad, too.”
“I’ll bring a couple of baking potatoes,” he offered.
Chloe levered herself off her raft into the water and submerged for a moment. When she came up, her hair was plastered to her head and her skin glistened with water. Tiny drops beaded her eyelashes, shimmering in the sun. The effect was enchanting.
Ben found it impossible to pull his eyes away as Chloe towed her raft toward the edge of the pool. Her wet bikini clung to her form, delineating every curve. When she half turned toward him, he swallowed, wishing that he didn’t have such a ready response to this woman. For her part, she seemed totally unaware of her electrifying effect on him as she bent to pluck something from the water.
“This is a wonderful example of sea glass,” she said, holding it toward him. The breeze blew a few drops of dripping water onto his warm forearm. In the palm of her hand was a slim half-moon shape, slightly curved, its color as delicate as a lilac petal.
“It’s almost the same shade as your eyes,” he blurted, and the look she gave him indicated an awareness that hadn’t been there before. An awareness of—what?
Her fingers closed over the shard, and he stared at her from behind his sunglasses, overcome with regret that they had become so sexually aware of each other in such a short time. He needed someone he could talk with, hang out with, maybe who would like to take in a movie occasionally. He most certainly didn’t need the complication of a woman and all the accompanying hassles.
“Dinner,” she said, aiming a coquettish grin at him. He was convinced that she didn’t mean to flirt. Those glances, the sparkle in her eyes, that sinuous walk meant nothing.
“Right,” he replied.
She waded out of the water, and Ben was relieved when she disappeared beyond the dunes. She might not realize her effect on him, but he certainly did, and he was wary of starting anything with her.
On the other hand, why not go for it?
Because you can’t care about her in any meaningful way, he told himself. That should have been sufficient reason, but as he watched her progress toward the inn, it wasn’t at all.
CHLOE WAS GLAD Ben had accepted her dinner invitation, which she had half expected him to refuse. He had a way of keeping a his distance, like a lot of loners, and the loner species of male wasn’t one that she wanted to cultivate. Certainly he was polite enough, and today they’d established a personal connection when he’d revealed something about his troubled youth.
“I wouldn’t be alone, even without him,” she said to Butch, who bounded out of the nearby stand of Australian pines and met her at the spigot near the bottom of the porch stairs, where she’d stopped to wash the sand off her feet. “I’d have you, wouldn’t I?” She shook the water off and dried her feet on a towel.
Butch, after allowing himself to be petted, led her into the house, tail high. He jockeyed into position near his food dish for a handout, so she relented and gave him the leftover tuna that she’d saved from last night.
“I can’t figure out how you manage in that fur coat of yours,” she said to Butch. “This weather is so hot, even for me.” She headed for the shower, her second of the day.
Afterward, she slipped into a clean sleeveless blouse and comfortable khaki shorts, and went to put the barbecue together. She’d noticed the pieces strewn around the back porch earlier. With a good deal of effort, she managed to insert the legs into their slots on the bottom of the grill pan but couldn’t figure out how to get the rack to fit evenly on top.
Butch sat on the back porch railing, all but rolling his eyes at her clumsiness. “I’ve already broken a fingernail, not that it matters, and this stupid thing doesn’t fit,” she fumed as she fussed this way and that with the rack.
“Can I help?”
Ben strolled with unhurried ease out of the long shadows bordering the house. He wore pale blue jeans with a white shirt open at the throat, Top-Siders with no socks, and his hair was freshly washed and blown dry. He’d shaved off the beard stubble, which revealed his strong jaw and made him look five years younger. This put her in mind of the night she’d first met him all those years ago. She’d found him incredibly handsome, and he’d been completely uninterested in a gangly teenager with a Texas accent.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d check it out,” Chloe said matter-of-factly, gesturing toward the barbecue. “I need to wash my hands.”
“Here, you can take these into the kitchen when you go,” he said, thrusting a dish in her direction. It held two Idaho potatoes, already baked.
“They’re cooked,” Chloe said in surprise.
“They’ll be even more so before we eat them. What’s the matter with the grill?”
“The thing that holds the meat doesn’t fit on top,” she said. She was on her way through the door to the kitchen when her cell phone rang. She balanced the dish with the potatoes in one hand as she yanked it out of her pocket, hoping the call would be good news about Tara.
“This is Patrice DesJardin calling,” said a pleasant voice. “Is this Chloe?”
“Yes, it is,” Chloe said, setting the potatoes on the wicker porch table before sinking onto the swing. It gave a disconcerting wobble, and she stood up quickly. The grommet, or whatever it was that held the chain on the back of the swing, was loose, threatening to dump anyone who sat on it.
Ben turned at the sound of the swing smacking against the railing and frowned.
Patrice said, “I remember meeting you at the Frangipani Inn a couple of years ago. We had a delightful time.”
Chloe recalled that day well. Tayloe had made orangeade and egg salad sandwiches for lunch, and they’d listened long into the night as Patrice and Tayloe reminisced about their college days when they’d been roommates.
“It was fun,” Chloe said, unsure how to segue into a sales spiel about her jewelry. Patrice could be a great help to her, since her boutique on Palm Beach’s famed Worth Avenue was patronized by the rich and famous whose interest or lack of interest in Chloe’s designs could either make or break her budding venture.
“Tell me about this exciting new direction of yours,” Patrice said warmly, and that made it easy.
With the phone to her ear, Chloe wandered into the house, followed by Ben, who disappeared down the hall to the annex. “It all started right here on this beach,” Chloe told Patrice, going on to relate how the lovely colors of sea glass had always fascinated her. “After I made my first pendant, so many people complimented me that I designed more and more, realizing in the process that I didn’t want to do anything else.”
“I’d love to see what you do,” Patrice said. “The jewelry sounds like something that my customers might really like.” Before they hung up, they agreed on a day and a time when Chloe would drive to Palm Beach.
Ben emerged from the annex as Chloe clicked off her phone.
“You seem much more cheerful than you did a few minutes ago,” he observed as Chloe followed him outside.
She leaned back against the railing, watching as, with a variety of tools, he attacked the swing and the chain that held it. “That was Gwynne’s godmother. She invited me to show her my designs. Patrice is key to my plan, so I’m very happy about it.” And relieved, though she didn’t add that.
“Good for you.” Ben finished his work with the swing and gave it an experimental push before chucking the tools into a corner. “I brought a different rack that should fit. That one—” he nodded toward the rack responsible for Chloe’s broken fingernail “—belongs to another barbecue that got thrown away. I recall something about it.”
Chloe lowered herself to the top step as Ben dumped charcoal into the barbecue and doused it with charcoal lighter. “You must have lived at Frangipani Inn for quite a while,” she observed.
“In spells, every now and then,” he said.
She digested this, wondering if he was being intentionally vague. She well remembered how suddenly, that year she’d fallen in love with him, he’d disappeared from the inn. She’d heard rumors that Ben was still working at Sea Search. Someone ran into him on the beach but learned nothing about where he was living. In the fall, when Chloe was back in Farish, Gwynne had written that Ben was married. The news had devastated Chloe.
“You haven’t been here much as an adult yourself, have you?” Ben, unaware of her thoughts, accompanied his question with a curious glance.
“Only once in the past five years, since I didn’t like to leave Grandma Nell alone. Last summer, Gwynne was still at the inn, but Tayloe had gone to live with her new husband in Mexico.” Chloe brushed away a grasshopper who wouldn’t survive long if Butch caught a glimpse of him.
“Tayloe’s gone from the inn for good, I take it.”
“I think so. Gwynne, too. Once she gets her master’s degree, she’ll have the credentials to work with kids who have serious speech problems. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to live in a larger city.”
“Good for her.” Ben touched a match to the charcoal and stood back while it caught fire. “Now that we’ve got this going, I’ll finish cooking the potatoes,” he said.
Ben started up the steps, and she trailed him into the kitchen, where he asked for milk, butter and salt. From his pocket he produced a packet of cheese. Before scooping the potatoes out of their shells, he dumped all these ingredients into a bowl.
Chloe watched, fascinated by his kitchen skills. She wondered if he’d cooked for his wife when he’d been married. She wondered how long the marriage had lasted.
“We’re making twice-baked potatoes,” Ben said. “You can help me put the filling back in the shells.” He handed her a spoon.
She wasn’t much of a cook herself, though Tara had often said that she made the best fajitas in the world. Ben’s delegation of duties took her by surprise.
“I’m not sure I—”
“Of course you can,” he said, demonstrating how to spoon the filling out of the bowl and smooth it into the potato skin.
“I’ve always been such a klutz at things like this,” Chloe said apologetically.
“You must be manually dexterous, or you wouldn’t be good at making jewelry,” Ben pointed out, looking over her shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”
Chloe decided that she liked the job after all, and when she set her stuffed potatoes beside Ben’s, no one could have told the difference.
“High five,” he said, holding up his hand, and she slapped him one in exuberance. She was beginning to feel really comfortable around him, as if they’d known each other for a long time. Which they had, of course, but now they related as adult to adult.
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