Chapter Nineteen

“Angie! There you are!” Birdie McCorkle captured Angelique in the back of the walk-in refrigerator. “It’s almost time for the picture.”

Angelique closed her eyes and prayed for strength. The reporter from The Boston Globe and his photographers were crawling all over the Sea Crest Inn, like fleas on a dog. She’d been shaking all day, along with ducking into corners and hiding. Of course, the shaking could from the fact that she’d been hiding out in a refrigerator for the past twenty minutes.

She patted her hair. She’d specifically let it frizz out that morning. “Do I have to? I’m having the worst bad hair day in the history of womankind.”

She looked down at her green logo polo tee and pulled it away from her mid-section. “My shirt is really dirty. I spilled a whole order of Finnan Haddie down my front.” She’d dumped the milk and haddock dish down her front on purpose.

“No problem, lass! No one’s going to be after looking at your hair and we’ve got enough T-shirts to choke an elephant.” She patted Angelique’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.”

That was Angelique’s cue to exit, stage left.

She cracked open the door of the walk-in and poked her head out and looked in both directions before she left the fridge.

As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

She pulled a baseball cap out of her apron pocket and slammed it on the top of her head, put her face down and took leave of her self-imposed, very chilly prison.

She shook for more than one reason.

Angelique touched her eyelashes, all stiff with the three coats of mascara she’d applied. They nearly cracked in half from having been in the cold.

What had become of her? Her life dependent upon frozen mascara.

Someone was the new Queen of Ridiculousness. Oh, look.

It was she. Angelique Durand. The person she no longer wanted to be.

Oh. Her glasses. She shoved them back on her face and stepped into the dining room.

“Angie?”

Angelique started, feeling like she jumped a mile into the air at the sound of Tim’s voice. She turned around. “Hi, Tim.”

He looked glorious, dressed in old jeans, a blue polo shirt, and his usual Topsider boat shoes without socks. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

She resisted the urge to slap her hand against her chest and pasted a winning smile on her face. “Tim. What are you doing here?”

“Maybe I came here to say ‘hi’ to you?”

Be still my heart. “Did you?”

He chuckled. “Of course I did. And maybe to steal a kiss.” He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on her lips. “So much sweeter than your beignets.”

She slapped at his shoulder. “Oh you sweet talker.”

“And don’t you forget it.” He touched her totally frizzed hair. “This is a new look for you.”

Yes it was. “Do you like it?”

“It’s very pretty. You’re always very pretty.” He slipped a finger down the slope of her nose. He looked over her shoulder then stiffened. “Who are those people?”

Angelique knew who he was talking about but didn’t dare look. She actually stepped a bit more into him so the reporter couldn’t see her. “Apparently the Sea Crest Inn is being featured by The Boston Globe and they’ve sent a reporter and a few photographers to cover us.”

She wanted to throw up. She glanced up at his face. He was looking a little green around the gills himself.

“Well, I’ve got to go to Cliff Notes. I’ll see you tonight maybe?”

“Maybe.”

He pulled the bill of her ball cap down over her forehead. “Chester and I will be on the beach. See you later.” He gave her a quick kiss on her mouth and left lickety-split.

She watched him leave then looked up to see the reporter and photographer staring at her. Instantly nauseated, she retreated to the first bathroom she could find.

****

“Was that who I think it was?” The reporter pulled out his recording device out of his shirt pocket.

“Which one? The guy or the girl?”

“I’m pretty sure the guy is T. L. Baldwin. Looks like we found his hiding place. I’d kill my own grandmother to get an interview with him.”

“Could be. The girl looks familiar, too, but I can’t place her.” The photographer shifted his camera strap to his shoulder.

“Let’s finish up here then grab a drink at Murphy’s Bar and chat up the locals. It’d be quite a coup to get a hold of Baldwin.”

“You got it.”

****

“Oh, you’re here!” Bobbie Darling came around the counter in her bookstore, Cliff Notes, with a big smile.

Tim smiled back. “I told you I would be.”

“Well, let me show you where we’ll have the book signing. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No thanks.” He followed Bobbie to an area of the store decorated with some chairs and a couple of couches. People sat there reading or tapping on their laptops.

Bobbie stopped. “I think we’ll set you up over there and we’ll have a podium for you to use when you give a little talk about the book.”

“I have to talk?”

She swatted at his arm. “Of course you do, like maybe a little tidbit about some of the photos. They’re very moving, Tim. You have such a gift.”

“Thanks.” He’d had such a gift. Past tense. Unless you counted the bootleg pictures of Angie which he wasn’t.

“Then, if you’re willing, you can take questions from the audience, and after that sign books. I’m expecting a pretty good crowd, with all the tourists around and the locals wanting to see a local boy done good.”

“Jeez.” Tim felt his face flush. “I’m not a local boy. I’m one of the summer kids.”

Bobbie laughed. “It’s funny how quickly you become a townie when there’s fame involved.”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess.”

“Besides that, you’re a hero.” She gently touched his arm. “People really want to thank you and support you.”

His stomach started to churn. “I was lucky. The real heroes are the ones who were executed.”

She shook her head and swallowed. “Those damn terrorists. I just don’t get all that killing in the name religion.”

Tim looked down at his shoes. He couldn’t speak because of the swirling ball of acid clogging his throat.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“No, that’s okay,” he croaked out. “It’s over for me. I just pray that the hostages there now get freed.” Actually, that was a lie. He’d lost any faith in a loving God once he’d touched ground in the Middle East.

Yet another thing he’d left behind in Iraq. “Are we done here?”

“Yeah. I’ll text you if I have any other questions.” Bobbie’s face was filled with pity.

Jesus, he had to get out of there. “Awesome. Thanks, Bobbie.”

“Thank you.” She followed him to the entrance of the store. “See you later!”

He stepped out into the sunshine. It burned so much gentler here than in Iraq. Still his hands began to shake. “Yep.”

Maybe he should go take a sail. Or get a drink at Murphy’s Bar. He squinted up into an ominous gray sky.

Murphy’s it was. As he approached the bar’s door he saw the two men from the Sea Crest Inn. He supposed he should have expected the press would find him at some point, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for them. With one last regretful thought about grabbing a beer, he headed toward his car to go to the Yacht Club.

****

The five-to-six-feet waves slapped at Fantasy, the chop thick and brutal. Tim reefed the main sail and flew his smallest jib sail. His arms ached as he wrestled with the tiller to keep the boat on course.

It began to rain soon after he cast off, big, fat bullets of water pelting him. He should have turned back the minute that happened, but he didn’t.

The first flash of lightning hit the water about half a mile to starboard, and even he wasn’t foolish enough to tempt that particular fate.

The salt-filled air rumbled around him as well as crackled with electricity. Mother Nature threw just about everything at him. As he battled the elements on his little boat, he let everything else slip away, leaving just him and the sea.

Another streak of lightning landed way too close to the boat with a screaming sound and heeled the boat too close to the waves. The spreader broke and the mast fell with a sickening series of cracks.

He shook the water out of his eyes and groped his way along the lifelines to the radio to make a mayday call. That done, all he could do was sit and wait in the pitching sea and hope that the Coast Guard got there sooner rather than later.

The rain sluiced down his face in stinging icy sheets as he cut the mainsail away and off the mast. He gritted his teeth against the elements. The effort to keep the terror from having water slam him over and over caused his muscles to cramp in tight spasms.

Through the wind and rain, he thought he saw a helicopter bearing down on him. Coast Guard.

He shook with relief. They lowered a harness down to him so they could haul him up. The chopper’s rotors sent the water in circles around the boat, and a spotlight bathed the scene in bright, white light. He managed to get the harness over his head and tugged on the line to let them know he had it on. It nearly dislocated his shoulders as they winched him up and in.

One more giant wave, and the Fantasy disappeared into the bay.

“Are you okay?” One of the rescue crew helped him out of the harness and handed him a towel. “We’ll get you to the E. R. right ASAP!”

Tim didn’t take his eyes away from the churning sea. “I’m fine,” he said as he shook his head. “I don’t need the emergency room.”

“You might not have a choice. You’re lucky to be alive. What made you think going sailing by yourself today was a good idea?”

Sighing, Tim toweled away the moisture on his face. He couldn’t tell if it was from the rain or from his tears of frustration and outrage.