Whiskey Beach

Chapter Twenty-three

FROM THE NAME—SHERRILYN BURKE—AND THE VOICE over the phone—brisk Yankee—Eli pictured a lanky blonde in a smart suit. He opened the door to a fortyish brunette in jeans, a black sweater and a battered leather jacket. She carried a briefcase and wore black Chucks.

“Mr. Landon.”

“Ms. Burke.”

She pushed a pair of Wayfarers on top of her short cap of hair, held out a hand to shake his. “Nice dog,” she added, and held out a hand to Barbie.

Barbie politely shook.

“She’s got a hell of a bark, but doesn’t appear to have much bite.”

“The bark does the job.”

“I bet. Some house you’ve got here.”

“It really is. Come on in. Can I get you some coffee?”

“I never turn it down. Black’s good.”

“Why don’t you go in, sit down. I’ll get it.”

“Maybe we could save time, and I’ll go to the kitchen with you. You answered the door, you’re getting the coffee. That tells me it’s the staff’s day off.”

“I don’t have staff, which you already know.”

“Part of the job. And, full disclosure,” she added with a smile that showed off a crooked incisor, “I wouldn’t mind a look around. I’ve seen some magazine spreads,” she added. “But it’s not like being in it.”

“All right.”

She studied the foyer as they walked on, then the main parlor, the music room with its double pocket doors that could open to the parlor for parties.

“It goes on and on, doesn’t it? But in a livable way instead of a museum. I’ve wondered. You’ve kept the character, and that says something. Inside matches the out.”

“Bluff House is important to my grandmother.”

“And to you?”

“Yeah, and to me.”

“It’s a big house for one person. Your grandmother lived here alone for the last several years.”

“That’s right. She’ll come back when her doctors clear it. I’ll stay with her.”

“Family first. I know how it is. I’ve got two kids, a mother who drives me crazy and a father who drives her crazy since he retired. He put in his thirty.”

“Your father was a cop?”

“Yeah, he was one of the Boys. But you knew that.”

“Part of the job.”

She smirked. Then turned into and around the kitchen. “This isn’t part of the original, but it still manages to reflect the character. Do you cook?”

“Not really.”

“Me either. This kitchen looks like one for serious cooking.”

“My grandmother likes to bake.” He moved to the coffeemaker as she made herself at home on an island stool. “And the woman who takes care of the house is a pretty serious cook, I’d say.”

“That would be Abra Walsh. She’s . . . taking care of the house for you now.”

“That’s right. Is my personal life relevant, Ms. Burke?”

“Make it Sherrilyn. And everything’s relevant. It’s how I work. So I appreciate getting a sense of the house. I’m also an admirer of Ms. Walsh’s mother. And from what I’ve learned, I got some for the daughter. She’s making an interesting life for herself here, after some hard knocks. How about you?”

“Working on it.”

“You were a decent lawyer, of your kind.” She added that quick smile again. “Trying to be a writer now.”

“That’s right.”

“Your name would make a splash. Old money, scandal, mystery.”

Resentment curdled inside his belly like sour milk. “I’m not looking to make a splash off my family’s money, or my wife’s murder.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is, Mr. Landon.”

“Make it Eli if you’re going to insult me.”

“Just getting a gauge. You cooperated with the police more than I’d have expected after your wife’s murder.”

“More than I should have, in hindsight.” He set her coffee in front of her. “I wasn’t thinking like a lawyer. By the time I did start thinking, it was a little late.”

“Did you love her?”

He’d asked for a woman, he reminded himself. Someone fresh and thorough. He’d gotten one, and an investigator nothing like the one he’d hired after Lindsay’s death.

Now he’d have to deal with the result.

“Not when she died. It’s hard not knowing if I ever did. But she mattered. She was my wife, and she mattered. I want to know who killed her. I want to know why. I spent too much of the last year defending myself and not enough really trying to find the answers.”

“Being the prime suspect in a murder tends to keep you on the hot seat. She cheated on you. Here you’re trying to have a fair and civilized divorce with a lot of money and family rep at stake. Even with the prenup, a lot of money and goods at stake, and you find out she’s been playing you for a fool. You go into the house, one your money paid for as hers was still in trust when you purchased it. You confront her, lose your temper, pick up the poker and let her have it. Then, it’s holy shit, look what I did. You call the cops, covering it with the old ‘I came in and found her.’”

“That’s the way they saw it.”

“The police.”

“The police, Lindsay’s parents, the media.”

“The parents don’t matter, and the media, again, is what it is. And the cops couldn’t, in the end, make the case.”

“The police couldn’t, not definitively, but that doesn’t make me innocent to them, or anyone else. Lindsay’s parents? They lost a daughter, so they do matter, and they believe I got away with it. The media may be what it is, but it’s weight. They made a pretty good case in the court of public opinion, and my family suffered for that.”

She studied him quietly as he spoke, and he realized now she’d gotten a sense of him just as she’d gotten one of Bluff House.

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Maybe. Polite people don’t tell you much of anything. Lindsay Landon’s case looked slam-dunk on the surface. Estranged husband, sex, betrayal, money, crime of passion. You’re going to look at the husband first, and the person who discovers the body. You were both. No sign of break-in, of struggle. No sign of a burglary gone bad, the public fight with the victim earlier that day. A lot of weight.”

“I’m aware of the weight.”

“The problem is, that’s all there is. Surface. You go below, and it falls apart. The timing’s sticky—the time of death, the time you were seen by a number of witnesses leaving your office, the time you deactivated the alarm to come in. So you couldn’t have gone in and out again, then back, as you were seen at your office, had appointments, conversations until after six p.m. And witnesses corroborate when the victim left the gallery where she worked. She entered the house, again verified, about two hours before you walked in the house that night.”

“The cops figured the timing was tight, but it was possible for me to go in, argue, kill her, then try to cover it before calling nine-one-one.”

“It didn’t hold up well on reenactment, even the prosecutor’s reenactment. Good coffee,” she said in an aside, then continued. “Then there’s forensics. No spatter on you, and you can’t deliver blows like that without spatter. No spatter on your clothes, and witnesses verify the suit and tie you wore when you left the office. When did you have time, in an approximate twenty-minute window, to change your clothes, change back again? And where were the blood-spattered ones, or whatever you used to cover your suit?”

“You sound like my lawyer.”

“He’s a smart guy. Add no history of violence, no prior bad acts. And no matter how they came at you, you stuck to the story. They couldn’t shake you off it.”

“Because it was the truth.”

“Added to it, the victim’s own behavior weighed on your side. She was the one lying, the one cheating, the one planning on a generous settlement while she carried on a secret affair. The media made that case, too.”

“It’s easy to smear a dead woman, and it’s not what I wanted.”

“But it helped, so did the phone calls logged between her and Justin Suskind after you confronted her that afternoon. Shined the light on him awhile.”

He couldn’t face coffee, he realized, and opened the refrigerator for water. “I wanted it to be him.”

“Problems there. One, motive. Unless you subscribe to the theory she decided to break it off or step back after her confrontation with you. The motive problem deepens because she was good at keeping him a secret. Friends, coworkers, neighbors—nobody knew about him. Some suspected there was someone, but she never talked about it. Too much at stake. She didn’t keep a diary, and the e-mails between them were careful. They both had a lot at stake. They met almost exclusively in hotels or out-of-town restaurants, B-and-Bs. Nothing the cops dug up pointed to any tension between them.”

“No.” He wished that didn’t continue to sting, even if the sting had gone dull. “I think she cared about him a great deal.”

“Maybe she did, or maybe she just liked the adventure. You’re probably never going to know for sure. But the biggest problem with Suskind as killer is he’s alibied by his wife. His betrayed wife. She comes across as mortified, even devastated, by this affair, but she tells the police he was home that night. They had dinner together, alone as both kids were at a school function. Then the kids get home about eight-fifteen and confirm Mom and Dad are hanging out at home.”

She opened her briefcase, took out a file. “As you know, the Suskinds recently separated. I figured she might change her tune now that the marriage is going under. I talked to her yesterday. She’s bitter, she’s tired, she’s done with the husband and the marriage, but she doesn’t change her story.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Well, if you cheat with one, maybe you cheat with others. Maybe another lover isn’t happy about her and Suskind, or maybe another wife confronts her. I haven’t found anybody yet, but that doesn’t mean I won’t. Mind?” Sherrilyn asked, and gestured to the coffeemaker.

“No, sure.”

“I’d make it myself, but that machine looks like I’d need a training manual.”

“No problem.”

“Thanks. So you’ll see—and I believe your previous investigator reported—she didn’t always use a credit card for rooms. Sometimes she used cash, and that’s hard to track.

“At this point we have witnesses who’ve identified Justin Suskind as her companion in several locations. Now we look for some that identify someone else.”

He brought the fresh coffee back, sat again to skim through the files while Sherrilyn talked.

“She let her killer into the house. Turned her back on him. She knew who killed her, so we look at who she knew. BPD was thorough, but they liked you for it, and the lead investigator was dug in hard on that.”

“Wolfe.”

“He’s a bulldog. You fit the bill for him. I can see where he’s coming from. And you’re a criminal defense attorney. That’s the enemy. He busts his ass to take bad guys off the street, you line your pockets getting them back out.”

“Black and white.”

“I was a cop for five years before I went private.” Cupping the coffee in both hands, she leaned back to enjoy it. “I see plenty of gray, but it’s a pisser when some hotshot suit gets an a*shole a pass on some technicality or because he’s got good style with some fancy tap dance. Wolfe looks at you, he sees rich, privileged, spoiled, conniving and guilty. He built a damn good circumstantial case, but he couldn’t shoot it home. Now here you are in Whiskey Beach, and before you know it, there’s another murder on your doorstep.”

“Now you’re not sounding like my lawyer. You sound like a cop.”

“I have many voices,” she said easily.

She took out another file, set it on the counter. “Kirby Duncan. He was basically a one-man operation, kept it low-key, and low-tech. He wasn’t bargain basement, but you’d find him on the sale rack. Cops liked him. He’d been one of them and he played things pretty straight. Wolfe knew him, was friendly with him, and he’s pissed off he can’t pin this on you, then boomerang off it to circle your wife’s death back on you.”

“I got that, loud and clear,” Eli agreed.

“But in this case, none of it fits. Duncan wasn’t an idiot, and he wouldn’t have met the guy he was shadowing alone, in a deserted area. Unless he got a wild hair to go to the lighthouse at night in the middle of a storm, he went to meet someone and most likely someone he knew. And someone killed him. You’re alibied, and there’s absolutely nothing to indicate you and Duncan ever met or spoke. Nothing to indicate you hauled your butt from Boston, where it’s confirmed you were when Abra Walsh was assaulted here in this house, then arranged to meet Duncan, killed him, then hauled back to Boston to toss his office, his apartment, then hauled back here again. Nobody’s buying that.”

“Wolfe—”

Sherrilyn shook her head. “I’m not sure even Wolfe can swallow it, as hard as he might try. Now if he can tie Walsh to it somehow so you had help, or find you contacted an accessory in Boston to do that end, that would go down.”

“Someone planted the murder weapon in Abra’s house.”

“What?” She straightened up, her eyes as sharp and annoyed as her tone. “Why the hell didn’t I know about this?”

“I’m sorry. I just found out myself Monday.”

Mouth grim, she took a notebook and pen out of her briefcase. “Give me the rundown.”

He told her what he knew, watched her write her notes in what he thought of as cop shorthand.

“Sloppy frame-up,” she concluded. “Whoever did it is impulsive, disorganized and maybe a little stupid.”

“He murdered a seasoned investigator, and so far he’s gotten away with it.”

“Even stupid can be lucky. I’d like to see this cottage before I go back to Boston.”

“I’ll ask Abra.”

“And this trench in your basement. I’ll take a shot at the local boys, see how much they’ll share with me.” She tapped her pen on the page as she studied Eli. “In our e-mail and phone conversations you’ve indicated you think this may all be connected.”

“It’s a lot of damn coincidence otherwise.”

“Maybe. There’s another one I dug up I find interesting.”

She took out yet another file. “About five months ago, Justin Suskind purchased a property known as Sandcastle, on the north point of Whiskey Beach.”

“He . . . he bought property here?”

“That’s right. It’s deeded in the name of Legacy Corp., a shell company he set up. His wife isn’t listed on the deed or the mortgage. If and when they proceed with a divorce, it should come out. It’s very possible, at this point, she’s not aware of it.”

“Why the hell would he buy a house here?”

“Well, it’s a nice beach, and it’s still a buyer’s market real-estate-wise.” Her smirk reappeared. “But the cynic in me says he has other motives. We could speculate he hopes to catch you in a mistake, and avenge his dead lover, but you weren’t living here five months ago, and had no plans to.”

“Bluff House was here. My grandmother . . .”

“None of this connects him in any way I can see with your wife’s death, and that’s why you hired me. But I love a puzzle or I wouldn’t be in this business. Add nosy. He buys property here, reasonably close to your landmark family home, a place my information indicates you rarely visited after your marriage.”

“Lindsay didn’t like it here. She and my grandmother didn’t get along.”

“I’d imagine she might bring up the house, and all that goes with it, in pillow talk. So a few months after she dies, her lover buys the property. And you have a trench in the basement, a grandmother in the hospital, a PI shadowing you, then killed. And now the murder weapon planted in the home of the woman you’re involved with. What’s at the core of that, Eli? Not you. You weren’t here when he took the first step. What’s at the core?”

“Esmeralda’s Dowry—something that probably doesn’t exist, and if it does sure as hell isn’t buried in the basement. He left my grandmother to die.”

“Maybe. Can’t prove it yet, but maybe. I wouldn’t have given you all this information if my gauge didn’t tell me you’re not the type to fly off and do the stupid. Don’t screw up my record on character judgment.”

He shoved up because he did feel like flying off and doing the stupid. “He could’ve killed her. She lay there, God knows how long. A defenseless old woman, and he left her to die. He could’ve killed Lindsay.”

He whirled back. “His wife could be lying, covering for him out of loyalty or fear. He’s capable of killing. The odds are Duncan’s on him, too. Who else? Who else would care what I was doing? I thought it was Lindsay’s family, but this makes more sense.”

“I did some digging there. Nosy,” she repeated. “The Piedmonts had an excellent firm and two of their top investigators on this, in Boston. They let them go about three weeks ago.”

“Let . . . They let it go?”

“My information is the investigators reported there was nothing left to find. I’m not saying they won’t hire another firm, but I can say they didn’t hire Kirby Duncan.”

“If Suskind did, he’d know when I left the house, where I was, how much time he’d have to dig. He was in the house the night I was in Boston because Duncan told him I was in Boston. Then Abra came in. If she hadn’t defended herself, he might’ve . . .”

Sherrilyn sat as he paced to the terrace doors and back. “You said Duncan was a straight shooter.”

“That’s his rep, yeah.”

“Vinnie—Deputy Hanson—went to see him the night of the break-in here, to question him. He told Duncan about the break-in, about Abra. A straight shooter wouldn’t like being used so a client could break the law, put hands on a woman. So Suskind killed him rather than risk exposure.”

“It could make a tidy box, when and if it can be proved. Right now?” She tapped the files again. “All we can prove is he bought property. And his wife didn’t strike me as loyal or afraid, not when I talked to her. Humiliated and bitter. I don’t know why she’d lie for him.”

“He’s still the father of her children.”

“True enough. I’ll keep on it. Meanwhile, I’m going to take a look around here, see if I can find out what Suskind’s been up to. Get a bead on him.”

“I want you to give the cops what you have on him.”

She winced. “That hurts. Listen, the cops will want to talk to him, ask questions, get their own gauge. It could scare him off, and we end up blowing our best angle. Give me a little time, say a week. Let me see what I can finesse.”

“A week,” Eli agreed.

“Why don’t you show me the famous hole in your basement.”

Downstairs she took a couple of shots with a little digital camera. “A lot of determination here,” she commented. “I read up a little on this dowry, the ship and so on, but just to get a general overview. I’d like to have one of my people do some more in-depth research on it, if that’s okay with you.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been doing some of my own. If there was anything, we’d have found it a long time ago. He’s wasting his time.”

“Probably. But it’s a big house. Lots of hidey-holes, I imagine.”

“Most of it was built years after the Calypso. Whiskey built it, generation by generation, along with the distilleries, the warehouses, the offices.”

“You didn’t go into the family business,” she said as they started out.

“It’s my sister’s thing. She’s good at it. I’ll be the Landon in Bluff House. There’s been one here,” he explained, “always, since it was no more than a stone cottage on this bluff.”

“Traditions.”

“Matter.”

“That’s why you went back to the house in the Back Bay for your grandmother’s ring.”

“It wasn’t marital property, even in the prenup that was clear. But at that point I didn’t trust Lindsay.”

“Why would you?” Sherrilyn commented.

“The ring belonged to the Landons. My grandmother gave it to me to give to my wife as a symbol, that she was part of the family. Lindsay didn’t honor that. And I was pissed,” he added, closing the basement door behind them. “I wanted to take back something that was mine. The ring, the silver set—that had been in the family for two hundred years. The painting . . . That was stupid,” he admitted. “I didn’t want her to have something I’d bought out of sentiment, out of trust, when she’d betrayed that. Stupid, because after everything . . . I can’t even look at it.”

“That added more weight on your side. You went up, took the ring, just the ring. All that jewelry you’d bought your wife. You left it alone. You didn’t take it, didn’t throw it around the room, out the window. You exhibited no sign of violent behavior or disposition. You’re not a violent man, Eli.”

He thought of Suskind. Of Lindsay, of his grandmother, of Abra. “I could be.”

She gave him a maternal pat on the arm. “Don’t go changing. I booked a night at the B-and-B. I can have a chat with the owner about Duncan, about anyone who she saw him with. Sometimes people remember things over a blueberry muffin they don’t when they’re talking to cops. I want to see Abra’s cottage, and sneak around Suskind’s place. Maybe chat up any neighbors, some of the shopkeepers. He had to buy food, maybe a six-pack now and then.”

“Yeah. Let me call Abra about the cottage.”

He glanced at the list on the kitchen board as he took out his phone.

“Is that her schedule?”

“Today’s.”

“Busy woman.”

Sherrilyn studied the schedule as Eli spoke with Abra. A woman with her hands in that many pies, she thought, knew a little about a lot of people. And that could be useful.

“She said you can get the key from her neighbor, the house to the right of the cottage. Maureen O’Malley.”

“Great. I’m leaving those files for you. I have copies.” She closed her briefcase, lifted it. “I’ll keep you up-to-date.”

“Thanks. You’ve given me a lot to process.” As he walked her to the door, it struck him. “Six-pack. Beer. Bar.”

“Make mine a draft.”

“Abra, the second break-in. We were at the bar where she works on Fridays. She saw this guy, unfamiliar, unfriendly. He ordered another drink, but he left before she served it and as soon as I walked in.”

“Can she describe him?”

“It’s dark in there. She worked with a police artist, but the sketch isn’t much. But . . .”

“If you showed her a picture of Suskind . . . Worth a shot, and there’s one in the file. It only proves he was in the bar, which, seeing as he has a house here, isn’t much. But it’s more.”

He wanted more still, Eli realized. It ground in his gut, the idea that the man his wife had betrayed him with might have killed her. Might have caused his grandmother’s fall, and left her for dead. Might have assaulted Abra.

He’d invaded Bluff House. Everyone in Whiskey Beach knew of the Landons, so buying a house here was a deliberate act. One taken for proximity to Bluff House, he was certain of it.

He carried the files into the library, sat at the old desk with them and his legal pad for his own notes.

And went to work.

When Abra came in shortly after five, he was still at it, and the dog who greeted her at the door stared at her with pleading eyes.

“Eli.”

“Huh?” Blinking, he looked around, frowned. “You’re back.”

“Yes, I’m back, and actually a little late.” She stepped up to the desk, scanned the piles of papers, the thick ream of notes, and picked up the two empty bottles. “A two–Mountain Dew session.”

“I’ll get those.”

“Got them. Did you have lunch?”

“Ah . . .”

“Did you take the dog out?”

“Oh.” He slid a glance down to the sad-eyed Barbie. “I got caught up.”

“Two things. One, I’m not going to let you neglect yourself again, skipping meals, subsisting on nuclear-yellow soft drinks and coffee. And two, you’re not allowed to neglect a dog who depends on you.”

“You’re right. I was busy. I’ll take her out in a minute.”

In answer, Abra simply turned and walked out, the dog at her heels.

“Shit.” He looked at his papers, his progress, raked his hands through his hair.

He hadn’t asked for the dog, had he? But he’d taken the dog, so that was that. Rising, he made his way to the kitchen, found it empty, with Abra’s enormous bag on the counter. A glance out the window showed him she’d taken the dog out herself, and they were halfway down the beach steps.

“No need to be pissy about it,” he muttered, and grabbed a jacket and Barbie’s favored ball on the way out.

By the time he reached them, woman and dog were walking briskly along the shoreline.

“I got caught up,” he repeated.

“Obviously.”

“Look, I got a lot of new information from the investigator. It’s important.”

“So is the health and well-being of your dog, not to mention your own.”

“I just forgot she was there. She’s so damn polite.” Because it sounded like an accusation, he sent the dog a silent apology. “I’ll make it up to her. She likes to chase the ball. See?” He unhooked the leash. “Go for it, Barbie!” And heaved the ball into the water.

The dog flew after it, on wings of joy.

“See? She forgives me.”

“She’s a dog. She’ll forgive almost anything.” Abra stepped nimbly out of range when the very wet Barbie returned to drop the ball on the sand.

Eli picked it up, threw it again.

“Would you have remembered to feed her? Her water dish was empty.”

“Damn it.” Okay, he sucked, right at the moment. “It won’t happen again. I was—”

“Caught up,” she finished. “So you forgot to water and walk your dog, forgot to eat. I imagine you didn’t write. Instead, you spent all your time and energy on murders and treasure.”

And damned if he’d apologize for that part. “I need answers, Abra. I thought you wanted them, too.”

“I do.” She searched for calm as he thrilled the dog with another toss. “I do, Eli, but not at the expense of you, not if it costs you what you’ve rebuilt in yourself.”

“That’s not what this is. It’s one afternoon, for Christ’s sake. One where all kinds of doors opened up into areas I need to explore. Because rebuilding isn’t enough if you don’t know.”

“I understand. I do. And maybe I’m overreacting, except about the dog, because there’s just no excuse.”

“How crappy do you want me to feel?”

She considered it, considered him. Considered Barbie. “Pretty crappy about the dog.”

“Mission accomplished.”

With a sigh, she slipped out of her shoes, rolled her pants to her knees to wade into the surf.

“I care about you. So much. It’s a problem for me, Eli, caring so much for you.”

“Why?”

“It’s easier just to live my life. You’ve had experience there,” she added, pushing her hair out of her face when the wind carried it. “It’s easier just to live your life than to take that step again, that risk again. And it’s scary when you can’t seem to stop yourself from taking the step. I can’t seem to stop myself.”

The turn of conversation left him baffled, and a little uneasy. “You matter to me more than I thought anyone would, or could, again. It is a little scary.”

“I’m not sure either of us would’ve felt this way if we’d met a few years ago. If we’d been the people we were then. You pulled yourself out of a pit, Eli.”

“I had help.”

“I don’t think people take help unless they’re ready for it, whether they know it or not. You were ready for it. It hurts my heart to remember how sad and tired and dark you were when you first came back to Whiskey Beach. It would break it to see you that way again.”

“That’s not happening.”

“I want you to have your answers. I want them, too. I just don’t want them to be something that sends you back into that pit, or that puts you on the other side of it, that changes you back into someone I don’t know. It’s selfish, but I want who you are now.”

“Okay. Okay.” He took a moment to line up his thoughts. “This is who I am, and who I am forgets things, gets caught up and is learning to like having someone remind him not to. I’m not that different from who I was before all this happened. But what happened focused me. I don’t want to be a problem for you, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m where I want to be. That’s one answer I’m sure of.”

She pushed at her hair again, angled her head. “Get rid of a tie.”

“What?”

“Get rid of a tie. One tie, your choice. And let me read one scene of the book. One, again your choice. Symbolism. Throwing out something from before, offering me something from now.”

“And that solves the problem?”

She wagged her hand back and forth. “We’ll see. I guess I’ll go figure out what’s for dinner and make sure you eat.” She gave him a poke in the belly. “You’re still on the skinny side.”

“Not a lot of meat on you either.” To prove it, he plucked her up, made her laugh as her legs wrapped around his waist.

“Then we’ll have a really big dinner.”

She pressed her lips to his, hers still curved as he spun her around. And as she drew back, saw just where he was headed.

“Don’t! Eli!”

She went into the surf with him, rolled and tumbled. Gasping, she managed to gain her feet, just as the next wave struck and sent her sprawling.

Laughing like a maniac, Eli pulled her up again. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

“Wet. And cold.” She shoved back her dripping hair as the excited dog swam around them. What did it say about her, she wondered, that his impulsive, silly act had wiped away her earlier annoyance and nerves? “Moron.”

“Mermaid.” He pulled her against him again. “That’s what you look like, just as I thought.”

“This mermaid has legs, currently freezing. And sand in very uncomfortable places.”

“It sounds like a long, hot shower’s on tap.” Gripping her hand, he pulled her to shore. “I’ll help you out with that sand.” He laughed again when the wind struck. “Christ! It’s freezing. Come on, Barbie.”

Caught up, that’s what it said about her, she thought. She was just caught up. She managed to snag her shoes as they ran across the beach.