Waterborn (The Emerald Series Book 1) (3 page)

I
smelled coffee
. The aroma dragged me from bed and I descended the stairs in a zombie-like state, feet shuffling over an already sandy floor, wearing what I was sure was a glazed look in my eyes. The sunlight shone so brightly inside the house, that I had to squint when I walked into the kitchen

“Turn it off.” I let out an artful groan as I scooted onto one of the stools surrounding the island and reached for a bowl of blueberries. My dad poured a cup of coffee while a cheery tune whistled through his puckered lips. I hoped the coffee was for me.

“What time is it?”

Not that I really cared. What was time when you were on vacation?

“It’s almost ten. Day’s nearly half over.” My dad slid a cup of coffee at me, looking entirely too chipper and fresh. No doubt he had been up since dawn. Something about the worms and all that. I preferred donuts and I grabbed one off the plate in the center of the island.

“It’s summer vacation. I’m supposed to sleep late.” I sank my teeth into the donut, sending a silent question with my eyes. According to my dad, donuts were one of the seven deadly sins to be avoided at all costs.

“A one-time treat,” he insisted. “And these aren’t just any donuts. They are the best donuts ever.” He grabbed a powdered one filled with gooey chocolate, and his eyes widened dramatically when he took a bite.

“I’m not complaining,” I said around a mouthful of pure heaven. He was right, and I was prepared to eat my body weight in these things.

“You sleeping okay in the new room?” A cloud of white powder puffed onto the granite counter top as he recited his standard morning question. He was always so interested in my sleeping habits.

“Yeah. I’m sleeping fine.” Which was mostly true. Once I threw off the covers. Opened my door. Listened to the waves turn for hours. From the safety of my room, I found the sound comforting, almost like a lullaby.

“What about you?” I felt obligated to ask, though I found myself waiting for his answer. He looked different this morning, less tense. We’d only been here for two days and already he looked about ten years younger. Lighter. My Nana, his mother, had gotten sick last year and losing her had been hard on both of us. Even though she’d lived in a different town, she’d been the closest thing to a mother I’d had.

“Good.” He slapped the counter so hard I jerked on the stool. “Now, finish your donut. I got you something.” He left out the side door that led into the garage.

Mildly curious, I followed him outside. He stood in the driveway, grin spread from ear to ear as he held the handlebars of a brand new shiny bicycle—a cruiser with wide handlebars and a bright pink frame with tangerine polka dots complete with a generous seat. He moved his finger, igniting the
tinkle, tinkle
of the bell.

“I know you would rather have a car,” he started apologetically.

“No, Dad. This is perfect.” I leaned up and placed a kiss on his stubbled cheek then reached for the handlebars, giving the bell a try.

“You sure? We can pick another one if you want.”

“No. I like this one. It even has a basket. Thanks.”
Tinkle, tinkle.
The bell was quite amusing.

“You’re welcome.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “Biking is the easiest way to get around and learn the lay of the land. Everything is close, all the shops and restaurants, the grocery store. The basket is big enough to hold a couple of sacks.”

He was still trying to sell me on the idea, so I took the handlebars from him and tested the height of the seat. My toes hit the ground just right.

“I get it. You want me to be able to get to the grocery store so I can cook dinner.” I cut my eyes at him and smirked.

“No, Caris.” His earlier smile fled replaced with that concerned look I knew all too well. “I want you to be happy.”

So much for the less tense Dad I was beginning to know and love.

All things considered, I was happy. Didn’t I look happy? I smiled just in case. “I guess I’ll get dressed and take her for a test drive.”

On my way back through the kitchen, I snagged another donut off the counter. I devoured it in about three bites, taking the stairs two at a time. Up in my room, I hurried through my morning routine, which consisted of brushing my teeth, running my fingers through my hair, and throwing on a tank top and shorts. I paused before going back downstairs. The door to my balcony was open and a gust of wind billowed the curtains as though trying to gain my attention. As though me leaving was some kind of betrayal.

I hurried down the stairs to begin my exploration. The main road was a few streets north, and by main road I meant it was a two-lane highway that ran through the various resort communities along the beach. Resorts with names like Seagrove, Seaside, and Watersound were all filled with streets named for insects and flowers, and houses painted in pastels and neutrals that complemented the environment rather than competing with it. Communities built with the preservation of the beach in mind. The beach itself was never far away. It winked at me through the houses and dunes, but I refused to let what happened that first day spoil my fun. As stupid as it was, the next time I caught a glimpse of the emerald green surf, I flipped it the finger.

T
he hat
I was wearing and one layer of sunscreen I smeared on this morning hadn’t been nearly enough to protect me from the beating rays of the sun. Not after about two hours of riding. After drinking a gallon of water, I headed straight for the shower. Needles ran from my shower head and I dreaded looking in the mirror at the damage the sun had done to my skin. My cheeks burned and my arms and shoulders, where they had been exposed in my tank top, were on fire. The weird thing was, when I finished my shower and looked in the mirror, my skin appeared nearly the same. A little on the pasty side, with a tinge of pink and noticeably drier, but I didn’t look like a flamingo or a lobster like so many of the tourists I’d seen walking around. Still, it hurt to move. Even though I’d rinsed and rinsed, a dusty layer of salt had settled on my skin. And it itched.

I put on a lightweight t-shirt with a pair of denim shorts, threaded my toes in a pair of flip-flops, and headed downstairs. During my exploration, I’d ridden by a shop in one of the quaint village squares about a half a mile from my house, off the beaten path from some of the more populated resort villages. It advertised organic lotions made from aloe and other plants and herbs, which sounded more soothing than the funky smelling cheap bottle of lotion I’d bought at Wal-Mart. The thought of putting it on my skin was cringe-worthy.

“Dad, I’m going to take the car, okay,” I yelled down the hall in the general direction of his office. I didn’t expect a reply and I didn’t wait for one. His keys hung on a hook beside the side door, and I grabbed them on my way out.

Riding my bike would have been faster, but my legs ached. I wasn’t a couch potato, but still, I had ridden for most of the afternoon and I was sure I would feel it tomorrow. I got lucky and found a parking spot in front of an ice-cream shop
,
which was beside the shop I had seen earlier, simply called
Deep.

The bell over the door tingled a tune that called to mind fairies and fields of brightly colored wildflowers. Jasmine floated on the cool air mixed with something else I couldn’t identify—a relaxing, calming scent that I immediately wanted to buy. Something grunted at my feet. I looked down to find a panting English bulldog sitting on a bamboo mat, tongue lolling between his droopy jowls. I reached down to pet him.

“Careful,” a soft voice called from inside the shop. I jerked my hand away. “He farts when he gets excited.”

I laughed and bent down, scratching behind his ears. “Hi, buddy.” Drool pooled on the mat between his front paws, his stubby tail wiggling enough his whole body shook. He was the ugliest and most adorable thing I’d ever seen.

“Sometimes the candles don’t quite mask it.”

A woman stepped from behind a glass display case and walked toward me. She wore a friendly smile and a bright yellow top with a deep-v neckline. The only thing more impressive than her cleavage was the diverse array of jewelry she wore around her neck. Strings of Tahitian pearls, pale and opaque, dark and iridescent, an abundance of small treasures that on anyone else would be overkill. Somehow she was able to pull it off. “His name is Felix.”

“He’s adorable.” I stood and smiled at the gypsy-like woman.

“And spoiled rotten.” She fished a treat out of the pocket of her tiered skirt and tossed it to Felix. He gobbled it up then plopped back down on his mat.

I recognized her from the picture in the front window. She was the artist and, I assumed, owner of the shop. Her crystal-like eyes roved over me in a speculative fashion, and I got the feeling I was under a microscope, as though she saw beneath the slight sunburn to what was underneath. All the wrong and weird things I had convinced myself didn’t matter. “Come on. I have what you need over here.”

I followed, not even questioning the fact she hadn’t asked what I was looking for. For some reason, I had complete trust in her diagnosis. I rubbed my arms and watched in horrified silence as my skin left a leprous trail behind me. She didn’t seem to notice, which was a relief.

Careful not to smear the glass, I observed the artful displays. Pearls were obviously her material of choice in creating her jewelry, some as simple as a single pearl strung on a leather cord, to more elaborate designs like the ones that adorned her neck and wrists. Necklaces with multiple strands and up to a dozen pearls woven into each one. They were stunning—I glimpsed one of the price tags—and expensive.

We stopped in front of a wall dedicated to tubes and jars of creams. The packaging was clean and sophisticated, and I wondered if the twenty dollars in my pocket would be enough to pay for anything. Instead of grabbing one of the jars off the shelf, she reached into a drawer underneath the shelves and withdrew a lavender jar with a silver lid.

“Go ahead and try this.” She unscrewed the lid and held the jar to her nose before offering me a whiff. The thick cream had a yellowish tint and a distinctly fishy smell.

“Don’t let the odor scare you. Once you put it on it goes away. It reacts with your skin, giving you your own unique scent.”

That sounded cool, if not a little gimmicky.

“What’s in it?” Clearly, I was skeptical, but I dug a small trough with my fingertip and began rubbing it into my arm. It had the consistency of whipped cream and melted when it touched my skin, and just that small amount spread evenly from just below my elbow to my shoulder, almost as if it had multiplied when it came in contact with my skin. The fishy smell faded and was replaced with the cool scent of mint.

“Fish oil, seaweed extracts,” she said. Something in her tone prompted me to look up at her. “A little magic.”

I couldn’t tell if she was teasing, and before I could ask any more questions, the bell over the door chimed and a middle-aged couple walked in. The gypsy greeted them then turned her attention back to me.

“Better?” Her eyebrows arched and I nodded.

“Yes.” My voice held a note of disbelief and utter euphoria. I could take a bath in this stuff.

“I’m Magnolia, but most people just call me Maggie.” She held out her hand and when I took it, she pulled me closer for a hug. She touched my hair and smoothed her hand down my arm, smiling at me as though I were a baby doll. It was a little odd, but she seemed sincere, so I just smiled back.

“I’m Caris. Thanks for this.” I dug into my shorts for my money so she could go help her other customers. “I think you just saved my life. I’ll at least be able to sleep tonight.”

“No. This time it’s on me.” She held up a hand, and I opened my mouth to protest. “Really, Caris. Take it. I hope it helps.”

“Thank you.” I screwed the lid back on the jar and Maggie gave me a small sack to carry it in.

Not in a big hurry to get back home, I strolled the perimeter of the square, people watching and browsing store windows. I heard from someone in front of me on the sidewalk that the market on the corner had the best homemade desserts. I stood in front of the market, trying to decide between chocolate cake and ice cream. The double chocolate on a waffle cone
won out.

I found a vacant bench and managed to eat most of my ice cream before it melted. My one napkin was no match for the stickiness on my fingers, so I went in search of a bathroom to wash my hands before I headed home. I wasn’t paying attention when I exited the bathroom and ended up going left when I should have gone right and ended up walking behind the buildings where the employees parked.

I could still hear the music playing over the speakers from the square along with far-off conversations and the faint sounds of laughter. But all of that faded into the background as I pulled up short. This wasn’t the most inconspicuous place to put the jump on somebody, but that’s exactly what it looked like I’d stumbled upon—a mugging.

There were four of them. One guy was sprawled on the ground with a beefy knee planted in the center of his chest, his arms straining against the two pairs of hands holding him down at the shoulders. A third guy, wearing a plaid visor, leaned over, grabbing the guy on the ground by the back of the neck. They were all wearing board shorts, and t-shirts, and flip-flops, as if they’d just come back from a day at the beach.

“Wandered a little far off the reservation huh, pretty boy?” Spit dropped from Visor Dude’s mouth and landed on Pretty Boy’s cheek. He had quit struggling and was lying still under the pressure of the knee. I was close enough to hear each breath expel through his open mouth. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and his long hair was pulled back from his face and hung in a ponytail over his shoulder. It had to be almost two feet long. If I weren’t so scared for him, I'd be impressed. As it was, I was trying to decide whether to go for help. My hand fished in my pocket for my phone.

In a sudden move that made me jump as though I had been the one getting hit, Pretty Boy’s head slammed violently into Visor Dude's face with a sickening crunch, then blood started gushing from Visor Dude’s nose.