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“Every board,” he told her. Then, studying her a bit, he quirked an eyebrow in challenge. “We could always quit.”
Laura shook her head fiercely. “No, we won’t,” she said. She wouldn’t. Even if she had to sand this boat and ten others. This project had become too important. And she feared what would happen if her hands weren’t busy anymore.
“I can handle this,” she said, meaning it, even as a flicker of doubt crossed his face. She couldn’t blame him. He climbed down the ladder at the side of the boat and busied himself repairing the huge white sail that would go on the rigging, while she, on hands and knees, got to work sanding the deck.
“Wax on, wax off,” she joked to herself, as she began sanding tiny circles on the massive new deck.
After just a little while, her arms began to ache, then her shoulders and finally even her hands, as she scrubbed the deck endlessly, smoothing out the unfinished wood. She worked so hard that sweat dripped from her nose to the boards she was sanding. She simply swept over the wet marks.
The Caribbean sun beat down on her shoulders. She took off the sweatshirt she’d worn for the cooler morning breeze and let the warmth blanket her skin laid bare in a simple tank top. She’d slathered her normally alabaster skin in sunscreen, but already her shoulders looked pink with bits of tan emerging from the burn.
Time passed and her mind went blank. Thankfully, wonderfully blank, as she focused on leveling the splinters and smoothing the surface. She was in the present, feeling the tired muscles of her arms and back, moving to the rhythm of the gentle scratching of the sandpaper on wood.
“Missed a spot,” Mark said behind her as he studied the sanded wood. “Here…and here.”
She rocked back on her heels, adjusting the blue bandanna she wore tied over her hair, her dark bob curled around the edges. She glanced back, a little alarmed, but then Mark gently took the sanding square from her hand and bent down, scrubbing a little at an angle. “See? Try it this way.”
She turned, positioned herself on hands and knees and took the sanding sponge he offered, trying his new technique. Laura felt suddenly very aware of the proximity of Mark’s body next to hers. “Like that?”
“Perfect,” he declared, and she felt a little warm glow inside. She’d gotten it! She was getting it. She wasn’t all thumbs, after all. Laura felt a little bubble of pride grow in her chest.
“You’re picking this up pretty fast,” he said, nodding his head in approval.
She grinned. “Thanks.”
Mark took a swig of the water bottle in his hand. She felt a little streak of warmth flit through her belly as she watched his lips meet the bottle’s opening. Full, determined. Then he offered it to her.
“Water?” he asked, and she suddenly felt the intimacy of the moment, sharing a bottle, putting her lips where his had been.
She took it and gulped it down, feeling the delicious simplicity of quenching her thirst. This is what she needed from this little sabbatical. Getting back to the simple things. Refocusing herself. Living in the moment.
“Thank you,” she said, glancing at Mark’s tall frame. He’d long since lost his shirt in the midafternoon heat, and sweat glistened on his shoulders. She tried not to stare at his bare chest, but it was hard not to notice the tanned muscles working as he lifted the last board to be laid on the deck.
“Can’t have you dehydrated,” he said and shrugged.
“Not for the water,” she said quickly. “I mean, for letting me help you. This is…perfect. Just what I needed.”
Mark barked a laugh as he plunked down the board and straightened. The sunlight hit his dark, short hair, glinting on gold highlights. “It’s slave labor, you mean. You’ve been working hard all week. And for no pay.”
“I’m just glad to keep my hands busy. To take my mind off everything that happened.” And, she realized, as long as she kept her hands busy, she didn’t think about what to do next or when she might need to start thinking about heading home. She had the boat and the race to think about, and that’s all that mattered.
Mark nodded. “I know what you mean.” He sat down near her cross-legged as he took another swig of water. “I’m sorry about your baby. Really sorry.”
Tears rushed to her eyes. She swallowed hard. He was the first person she realized who’d been sorry, truly sorry, about her loss. He was the first not try to tell her this was all a good thing. That her baby’s death was something she should celebrate, not mourn. “Thank you.”
“It can’t be easy to explain to people,” he said, as he glanced up at the blue sky above them, dotted with wispy white clouds. “When you lose a child, it’s not just the loss of your baby. It’s the death of your dreams for them, the death of your hopes for the future. A little part of you dies with them.”
