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Jack grabbed his sketchbook from the passenger seat, then slammed the door of his truck. He was irritated, mostly with himself. Hunching his shoulders, he had no trouble imagining his mother’s stern frown at how he had just treated Sara. He skirted the lobby building and headed north on the beach. For once, Sara had asked him a legitimate, interested question, and he had blown her off.
No. Worse than blown off.
He’d been every bit as rude as she had been previously. And he loved the coral restoration project, fascinated with the prospect of keeping reefs regenerating and healthy. But Sara never failed to put him on the defensive. You try and figure that woman out, Mama. But this time he’d been firmly in the wrong.
Putting the perplexing Sara out of his mind, Jack studied the area as he reached the narrow spit of land at the north end of the bay. His artist’s eye had zeroed in on this piece of land almost from his first day at Half Moon Bay Resort, and now he finally had time to check it out.
After picking his way carefully over the sharp rocks, he stopped halfway out. The breeze ruffled his hair as a smile spread across his face. I knew it! The spit had an incredible view, both out to sea and toward the resort back to his left. He found a flat rock and settled onto it, sitting cross-legged as he opened his sketchbook.
Charcoal pencil in hand, he let his gaze relax and the scene came to him. He immediately focused on the pier, with the complex of buildings halfway down and Surface Interval tied at the end. He began sketching before he was even aware of it, and soon lost himself in the soothing activity.
After the skeleton of the scene was drawn, he began drawing a form between the palapa and dive shop. He let his hand move freely, without conscious thought. At first, it was a mystery, but a small smile formed on Jack’s face as the figure revealed itself as a mermaid. He continued, drawing full breasts and long, flowing hair that a man couldn’t help running his hands through.
Then he opened his eyes wide. The figure was unquestionably Sara—even though he’d never seen her breasts. But that hadn’t stopped him from noticing them. Not by a long shot.
The sound of footsteps came from behind him. “A mermaid at Half Moon Bay, huh?” asked a gravelly voice.
Startled, Jack whipped around. An elderly man stood in a yellow-and-brown plaid shirt and wrinkled brown trousers that were only slightly less dark than the skin of his face. He had snowy white hair and his face was deeply lined, but he had a kind expression. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I didn’t even hear you come up.” Jack flushed as he glanced at Sara the Mermaid, and he closed his book. “I was just messing around.”
The man raised his brows. “Just messin’, huh? Looked like a good drawin’ to me. Haven’t seen you out here before.”
Why shouldn’t I be? I work for the resort. But he wasn’t about to be rude to the old man—his mother’s frown was still prominent in his mind. “I haven’t been on the island that long. I work for Half Moon Bay, so I figured I’d come out to this point and look around. It’s got a great view.”
“That it does. And a fellow artist is always welcome out here. But just so you know, this isn’t part of Half Moon Bay Resort. I own this little bit of land.”
Jack rocketed to his feet. Being interrupted while sketching was one thing, but finding out he was trespassing was quite another. He was from Texas, after all. Wars had been started over less. “Oh, I didn’t realize! I’m sorry.”
The old man laughed and held out a hand. “Hold on there, son. It’s quite all right. I’m Dexter Ridgeway. Pleased to meet you.” Jack shook his gnarled hand, the palm rough and calloused.
“Jack Powell.”
“What do you do over at Half Moon Bay?”
Jack told him about being a divemaster and splitting his time between the two shops.
“It’s hard to make ends meet. I understand just fine. My family has owned this land for generations. But it’s been whittled away over the years, and this sliver is all that’s left. I like to come out here with my oils and paint sometimes.”
Jack noted Dexter’s empty hands. “But not today?”
“No. Just out here reminiscing, you might say. Just know you’re welcome out here any time, as long as you clean up after yourself.”
“Thanks, and you don’t have to worry about that.”
Dexter looked him straight in the eye. “I know I don’t—I’m a fair judge of character. Maybe I’ll see you out here soon, Jack. You take care now.” With a nod, the man carefully made his way over the iron shore spit and disappeared into the jungle just behind.
He came out here just to leave again? Jack rubbed the back of his neck, sure he had interrupted whatever Dexter had intended. Shaking off the encounter, he opened his sketchbook again, a flush rising at the mermaid front and center in the drawing. But none of his pencils had erasers. He was stuck with the image unless he wanted to throw away the whole page. And he believed strongly that all art came from a place of truth. There was a reason he had drawn Sara. He just didn’t know what it was.
Maybe because she’s a pain in the ass and drives me to distraction?
He bent his head to the task, and nearly two hours passed before he was done. He’d moved to different rocks a few times to change positions, making a mental note to pack a chair of some sort next time. But as the sun drifted toward the horizon, he closed the cover on his completed sketch and headed home with the vision of his drawing prominent in his mind. The pier was sharply defined, as was the boat tied at the end of it. And in the middle, a mermaid named Sara was unquestionably the focal point of the sketch.
* * *
As soon as Sara got home from work, she headed straight for the shower. After washing away her irritation with Jack, she circled her long, wet hair into a messy bun and pulled on a pair of comfy yoga pants. She rifled through her T-shirts until she found the perfect one. Marissa had presented this treasure to her last Christmas, shortly after Sara’s breakup with her boyfriend. They hadn’t been together long and weren’t terribly serious, but Sara had assumed they had an exclusive relationship. Until she glanced at his phone and saw all the sexts with his other girlfriend.
He hadn’t kept many belongings at her place, but the paltry amount hadn’t stopped Sara from flinging open her front window and throwing every one of them into the wintry Charleston rain. And that had been that. A week later, on Christmas Eve, Marissa had presented her with an oversized pink T-shirt that read in a gold glittery font, Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me! There was no question it was accompanying her to St. Croix.
