Mid-morning sun cast a glow on the ocean, warmer in early July. Whitney waded out until the lapping waters reached her waist, then dove in, swimming with strong, sure strokes toward the sandbar. Then something struck her leg with a sudden stinging lash.
A searing pain shot through her. With animal incomprehension, she flailed ahead in panic, desperate to escape her attacker. With the next thrashing stroke, her head struck a rock, jolting her neck and spine. Darkness surrounded her; stunned, she was conscious only of salt water flooding her lungs. As the darkness thickened to a surreal black, her consciousness began slipping away.
Something grasped her waist. In a feeble reflex, her legs kicked. But she could not escape. Then she was pulled from the water and thrown down, rough hands pushing on her chest, an insistent mouth forcing hers to open.
“Breathe out, dammit.”
His palms pressed harder into her thorax. Whitney coughed, body wracking, water spewing from her mouth. Her eyes half opened. In mute recognition she saw Ben’s face inches from hers, eyes intent, his breathing ragged. Words escaped her raw throat in a croak. “What happened?”
Relief flashed in his eyes. “I saw you thrashing around and realized you weren’t doing the butterfly.” His gaze ran down her body. “From the welt on your leg, I’d guess a Portuguese man-of-war whipped you pretty hard. But you’ll live. This shouldn’t spoil your wedding.”
Whitney felt a wave of nausea. They were on the sandbar, she realized, the sun warming her clammy face. Then she was drifting away. Closing her eyes, she murmured, “I need to lie here.”
“No one to stop you,” she heard him say, and then heard nothing at all.
When her eyes fluttered open, she had lost all sense of time. Ben watched her intently. “Was I asleep?”
“More like shock. You barely snored at all.”
She hoped this was a joke. “I never thanked you, did I?
“No manners, I guess. Try to sit up.”
Using her elbows, Whitney looked around her. The world was as before, only brighter. “I could have died.”
Sitting back on his knees, Ben smiled a little. “It’s hard to drown in five feet of water. Though it did look like you were trying.”
His T-shirt and shorts were damp, she thought in foolish surprise. “I didn’t see you.”
“When I got here, you were headed out for a swim. I decided to wait.”
She did not ask him why. Taking another deep breath, she examined the raised red welt that felt like it had poisoned her. “I still don’t feel so great.”
“You won’t for awhile. The first thing is to get you home. Think you can stand?”
Using her hands, Whitney tried to push herself up on her good leg. Ben clasped her hips, helping. “Better lean on me.”
She did that, feeling her imbalance. “How do we get to shore?”
“I’ll prop you up so you can hobble on one leg. Let’s try.”
Together, she and Ben started laboring through the waist deep water, Ben’s arms around her waist. The salt water stung her leg.
Stoic, Whitney bit back cries of pain. They forged on together, silent, until they reached the sand. She stopped there, inhaling the fresh salty air. “Terra firma,” Ben said. “Kind of. One good hurricane and this beach ends up at your place.”
With Ben at her elbow, Whitney hobbled back to her blanket. Kneeling, he picked up her clothes and journal. “I’ll drive you home.”
“My car’s here.”
“No kidding? I thought you flew.” He glanced at her impatiently. “Only a moron would let you drive. Someone can pick up the car.”
Whitney hobbled with him to his beat-up truck, leg throbbing. In the truck bed was a fly rod, tackle box, spools of test line, and a half-finished bottle of whisky she supposed he sipped while fishing on a cool, windy night. Ben opened the door to help her, then began driving down the bumpy dirt road. “I’d play music to distract you,” he said, “but the radio’s busted.”
“How long have you had this truck?”
“Since sophomore year in high school. Those catering jobs paid for it.”
Whitney thought again about how little he had, how much she took for granted. She wondered if he thought her a spoiled rich girl, like Clarice, then was certain that he did. She sat back, closing her eyes until they entered her driveway.
Parking, Ben got out and opened her door. “I’ll walk you to the house,” he informed her brusquely. “I don’t want you passing out on your parents’ doorstep or throwing up on their lawn. Just lean against me, okay?”
Without awaiting her answer, he put his arm around her waist and began helping her to the porch.
Sitting in a chaise longue, Anne put down her magazine, giving her daughter a look of puzzlement and alarm. Then she hurried to open the screen door. “What happened to you?” she asked quickly.
Still propped against Ben, Whitney stood straighter. “I’m okay now. But a stingray swiped me while I was swimming, and I guess my head hit a rock. If it weren’t for Ben, I might have drowned.”
Anne glanced at him, taking Whitney’s hand. “Please come in,” she told Ben.
He followed them in, standing to the side of the chaise. Whitney saw him peer into the living room, taking in the Persian rugs and antique furnishings, the decorative vases Anne had added with such care. Settling Whitney onto a chair, her mother looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said with quiet politeness. “I can’t express how grateful I am.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “A freak accident, Mrs. Dane. One in a million.”
“That’s how I feel about my daughter.” Anne hesitated, then added, “May I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Ben responded with a smile. “I’m too wet to sit on the furniture. Anyhow, I need to get going. Work to do, and all that.” Turning to Whitney, he told her, “Your leg’s going to hurt for a couple of days. Keep off of it, and try to keep from drowning in the bathtub.”
Both nettled and amused, Whitney retorted, “That was pretty condescending.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Facing her mother, Ben inquired, “Have any meat tenderizer around?”
“I’m sure not. We never use it.”
A corner of Ben’s mouth twitched. “They sell it at the Chilmark Store. It also acts as an antidote to this kind of sting. Put it on her, and it’ll cut down the pain and swelling.”
“What about sailing,” Whitney said to him. “You don’t have to stand on a sailboat.”
Ben gave her a long, dubious look. “Study those drawings?”
“No,” Whitney admitted. “Not yet.”
“Maybe you’ll have time now. You certainly won’t be playing tennis.”
At the corner of her eye, Whitney saw her mother watching their exchange. As though sensing this, Ben said, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dane,” and turned to leave, stepping off the porch with a careless wave over his shoulder.
“So that’s the boy,” Anne said. “Or the man, I suppose.” Pausing to gaze after his retreating figure, she added, “What was he doing on the beach, one wonders.”
“Minding his own business, I expect. At least until I started drowning.”
Anne regarded her closely. In her most careful voice, she said, “I don’t suppose you arranged to meet him.”
The not-so-subtle insinuation reminded Whitney of her father’s quiet inquiry to George Barkley. “Why would I?” she answered sharply.
Anne kept studying her face. “Yes,” she said at length. “Why should you. Let’s get you out of that swimsuit and into bed.”