Breaker's Passion (3 page)

“Mom, I told you I’m fine and I’m safe.” She steeled herself for what was to come.

“Colby, how can you continue to do this to me and your sisters?” Her mother sounded better than last month. Then she’d been suffering from a bad case of laryngitis and Colby could barely hear what she was saying. Unfortunately this conversation was crystal clear.

“Mom, please, we’ve had this discussion. A dozen times, in fact. I know you love me and I love all of you, but you and my sisters would be here in twenty-four hours if you knew where I was. I’m perfectly fine and healthy, and I’m sorry, I do love you. I love everyone. I just don’t want you here.” Colby repeated that same statement to her mother every time she called, which was always on the first day of the month.

She had nothing against her family. She loved them, but she refused to return to a cheerful existence as if nothing had happened. They would try to engage her in life again, encourage her to return to work. She was just not interested. She didn’t have the energy to subject herself to the barrage of questions that her mother and five very nosy siblings would ask.

Her mother and her sisters couldn’t believe she would simply throw her career away. But Colby didn’t care what they thought. It was her face she needed to look at in the mirror every morning. She was culpable in a very ugly part of her life and had no desire to return.

“Colby, please, you’re my daughter,” Jeanette said in a quiet tone, as if that was the perfect reason Colby should dredge all the ugliness of her character to the surface.

Since the death of her father when she was twenty-two, she had maintained a very close relationship with her mother. She missed her. She missed her more than anything. On more than one occasion she had almost called her mother and told her everything about what happened that fateful night. What happened to that child. What happened to Gretchen.

But every time she picked up the phone and started to dial, Colby realized this was her cross to bear, no one else’s. Her mother would feel her pain, her agony, and she would hurt for her daughter. Colby didn’t want anyone else to experience the slightest pain over that night. It was difficult for her mother not to know where she was or what she was doing. Before she left, Colby had given her best friend and her attorney her cell-phone number. She swore them both to secrecy, to not give the information to anyone unless in an extreme emergency. Both had understood what that meant and so far, after three years, had kept their promise.

“It’s just that I worry about you, Colby, you’re my daughter,” Jeanette repeated.

“Mom, please, I’m not having this conversation with you. Now, how is everybody?” She took this approach call after call, month after month. Her mother knew she could be very hardheaded once she set her mind to something and had learned not to push.

“Cindy is about to be a partner, Teresa has more clients than she has room for, and Samantha just hit the million-dollars-in-sales club. Christine still has that same old job at Walmart, and Lindsay is enjoying her summer vacation.”

As her mother spoke, the faces of her five sisters flashed across her closed eyes. The lawyer, the stockbroker, the real-estate agent, the store manager, and the teacher. All six of the Taylor women were successful, accomplished, professional women. Four of them were married to their original husbands, and her baby sister Teresa had not yet found Mr. Right. Colby, well, she was where she was.

The conversation with her mother lasted another ten or fifteen minutes. Her mother did most of the talking, and more often lately it sparked a wave of loneliness, even after three years. Colby was still angry at herself that her thoughtless words and actions had put her here. Her absence was hurting the ones she loved, but she deserved this punishment.

Colby lost track of time like she always did when she was riding the waves. The angle of the sun told her that she had no more than fifteen minutes left before it was too dark to surf safely. Many nights she stayed long into the darkness, hour after hour, until exhaustion finally forced her ashore, where she staggered home and collapsed in bed.

But something was different about this evening. A prickle on the back of her neck told her someone was watching her. That wasn’t unusual. The ratio of male to female surfers was very one-sided, and, all ego aside, none of the guys were as good as she was. Often people stared and pointed. She didn’t like the attention and didn’t know if she should feel uncomfortable or flattered. While she waited for the next wave she scanned the shoreline. It was too dark to see clearly, but someone appeared to be sitting in one of the lounge chairs not far from the entrance to the resort pool area. She had a strange feeling this person had been watching her for quite some time.

Elizabeth looked out at the horizon and accepted a glass of wine from the waiter. The maître d’ must have guessed she preferred patio seating to the boisterous noise inside the restaurant. He had led her to this table at the far end closest to the railing that separated her from the beach retreat below. She glanced at the menu, but was more interested in her surroundings. The large patio still had an intimate feel. The small tables and chairs were arranged to provide maximum privacy. She imagined lovers, newlyweds, or people celebrating monumental anniversaries sitting at these tables and watching the sunset.

Sipping her wine, she observed the die-hard beachgoers. The other tourists had most likely retreated to their rooms to shower or get ready for dinner. By the looks of some she saw earlier, more than a few were probably applying sunburn relief.

She also noticed the surfers in the water and stopped counting at fourteen, deciding she wasn’t here to analyze how many were surfing or what they were doing, but to just enjoy the scenery. Finishing her first drink, she watched the surfers alternately ride the waves or fall off their boards almost as quick as they got up. They all looked about the same in their board shorts that hung down to their knees, their tank tops, and an occasional wet suit. They were various shapes, sizes, and heights, and had very different skill levels.

Her dinner arrived and she ate leisurely, with no pressure from her waiter, which she appreciated. Far too often as a lone diner she felt hurried, the wait staff eager to dispose of her and her small tip in favor of a larger table and a corresponding larger one. Her waiter was cordial, polite, and attentive yet wasn’t a pest.

She ate her fresh tuna fillet, glancing often at the surfers, especially one. The more she watched, the more she sensed something different about this individual other than the bright yellow shorts. This one was better than the three or four remaining surfers. Much better, with a skill obviously practiced over and over. Even from this distance she could sense the surfer’s confidence and mastery of the waves, as if anticipating what the wave would do. No matter how much practice or how many lessons she had, she would never be as good as the one in the yellow shorts.

Transferring her third glass of wine to a plastic cup, she paid her bill and again headed toward the water. No glass was allowed on the beach, and she didn’t mind drinking out of plastic. She was here for the weather and relaxation, and to work, so the ambience was secondary.

Settling into one of the many now-vacant beach chairs, she was intent on enjoying her drink and the sand between her toes. In the time it took to finish her dinner, all but one of the surfers had come ashore. The one remaining was the one who had caught her eye earlier. She couldn’t quite place what was different about this surfer as she watched the form ride the board into shore.

Colby emerged from the water and shook her head several times, flinging salt water from her hair. After she tucked her board under her right arm she headed toward the parking lot. She scanned the few remaining faces of those hardy enough to stay on the beach after the sun went down, and her sixth sense told her that it was the woman in the khaki shorts and navy polo shirt who had been watching her.

Something about the woman drew Colby to her. Maybe it was the way she was lying relaxed, legs stretched out in front of her, the recliner tilted back just a bit. Perhaps it was the casual way she held the rim of the plastic cup in her hand, her wrist dangling over the arm of the chair. Or maybe the long blond hair piled on top of her head in a haphazard way that said it was more for comfort than style. Colby couldn’t put her finger on the reason, but as she headed in her direction she didn’t question it. The woman was still watching her, and for the first time in a long time it made her feel good.

Her body had changed since her return to the island. In her previous life she carried an extra fifteen pounds—not overweight by anyone’s standards. Long hours and strenuous working conditions were more conducive to resorting to fast food than eating three healthy meals a day. However, since abandoning that life and spending almost more time in the water than out, she had dropped close to thirty pounds, and what weight did remain was solid muscle. She wasn’t naïve enough to think that people didn’t look at her because of her body, but she simply didn’t care.

She was about ten yards away when the woman looked up and their eyes locked. A tingle Colby hadn’t recognized in years started in the pit of her stomach as the woman held her gaze confidently. Colby quickly assumed that the woman was self-assured and didn’t shy away from a challenge. She also knew immediately she was a lesbian.

One night after far too many drinks Colby had sat in her apartment alone and contemplated how lesbians reacted to each other. She had noticed it often in her previous life as she walked down the street, at the shopping center, or any other place, for that matter. When lesbians approached each other, they acknowledged each other in a more subtle way than straight women did. Never overly demonstrative, they merely nodded, with a certain straightforward look in the eye when they said hello that signaled who and what they were. The woman in front of her was speaking loud and clear.

“Have a good evening,” Colby said as she walked by. She didn’t stop, slow down, or break stride. After several paces she felt the woman’s eyes on her back and gave in to the unfamiliar desire to turn around and look. She grinned at woman’s expression of complete surprise.

Elizabeth’s heart jumped when she realized the good-looking surfer was a woman and was walking directly toward her. What the fuck? Suddenly she became more nervous than she ever remembered. Her hands were sweaty, and it wasn’t due to the humidity. Her throat was dry, which made absolutely no sense considering the amount of alcohol she’d consumed that evening. Rarely, if ever, had she felt like this by simply seeing another woman. This was more than normal attraction, or at least any attraction she’d ever experienced. She was definitely out of sorts and it had happened instantly.

The woman moved smoothly through the sand as if she were strolling in the park. Earlier that afternoon when Elizabeth was on the beach, even walking in the hard-packed sand was awkward, making her stumble more than once. But this woman came toward her like she was walking on air. She was much taller than average; however, from her viewpoint on the lounge chair, it was difficult to see exactly how tall. As she grew closer Elizabeth fixated on her face. The woman looked Hawaiian, with skin the right color, her hair jet black and spiky from the water flying in all directions.

The woman finally looked up as she stepped closer, and the brilliance of her eyes made Elizabeth’s stomach drop. She held her gaze and Elizabeth couldn’t drag herself away from the blistering black eyes looking back at her. A fine thread seemed to connect her with this stranger.

When the woman spoke, her voice was as soft and smooth as she looked. A twinkle in her eye told Elizabeth she knew she had been watching her. Instead of feeling embarrassed at being busted over her voyeurism, she felt more like, “Yes, I was looking at you too and I like what I see.” All that and much more was conveyed in that moment before the woman passed. Knowing that she probably would be caught, Elizabeth turned around and watched the woman walk away. She had the same easy strides, the same languid movement as she rounded the corner and disappeared.

Elizabeth forgot about her drink, picked up her flip-flops, and stood. Walking in the direction the woman had, Elizabeth followed her until she reached the same corner. It was dark, and Elizabeth could see nothing more than an empty parking lot.

“Get a grip,” she said into the darkness, shaking her head. What the hell would she have done if the woman had been waiting for her? Uncharacteristically she was attracted to her, but what did she intend to do, have stranger vacation sex? Or would she simply be humiliated at being caught? Both those scenarios made her shudder, and she spun around and headed to her villa.

She slid her card key into the lock for villa 1104. The red light turned green, the latch clicked, and she entered the foyer of her home for the summer. A colleague at another college had offered her the place for an unreasonably low price and she jumped at it. She hadn’t wanted to stay in a hotel but didn’t want to spend a fortune for a private residence. Her colleague assured her their villa would have been vacant the entire summer if she hadn’t agreed to rent it.

Kicking her shoes off, she set the keys to her rental car and the card key for the door on a narrow table and walked into the living room. It had to be at least forty feet square, with a large plush sofa to her left. Her reflection shot back at her in the gleaming black screen of what had to be at least a sixty-inch flat-screen TV.

She wasn’t much of a TV watcher except for anything on the Learning Channel, Discovery, or any cooking show. Since she wasn’t a fan of evening sitcoms she had nothing to contribute to the plot lines her students and fellow teachers talked about every day. She couldn’t tell you if Friends had gone into syndication or who the next American Idol would be, let alone who the last one was. She passed a bentwood rocker and made her way toward the large glass doors that led outside.

The entire wall of the unit was glass, the doors opening onto a patio. A sturdy click of the lock on the doors was the only sound as they slid effortlessly along the track. The hum of the ocean and the crashing waves immediately flooded the room. The unit was on the ground floor, the ocean no farther than twenty yards away, with a wide patio surrounded by waist-high hibiscus. A small opening tucked away in one corner provided access to the beach. Past the patio was nothing but sand and surf. She chuckled. More than likely she had passed her own villa when she was walking down the beach earlier that afternoon.