Chapter Five
Julian trusted her. What a compliment. Iris couldn’t believe how comfortable she felt with this man. Despite how different they were, they clicked.
He was grinning, his blue eyes sparkling like the glints of sunshine off the ocean’s surface. Whatever stresses weighed on him, the wind had blown them from his mind.
Smiling back, she mused that maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised by their connection. She’d felt a similar click when she’d met Eden, and again when she met Miranda, two people who were also quite different from her. Eden had been a confident, successful Ottawa lawyer, and Miranda a woman who’d gone from Goth-girl rebel to a carefree single life in Vancouver and then to being a devoted single mom. Yet qualities of their personalities had resonated with Iris, and vice versa. The same as seemed to be happening with Julian.
But Eden and Miranda were women. Iris was more comfortable with women. Add to that, Julian was a celebrity, and so darned hot. Not her kind of man, of course. What she hoped for was someone like Luke: an easygoing guy whose life centered on his family, and who loved living on Destiny. Not that she’d ever felt the slightest spark of attraction to Luke, nor, she was sure, vice versa.
She darted a sideways glance at Julian, clad in jeans and a black turtleneck sweater, his face lifted to the sunshine, his eyes closed, his longish blond hair tousled by the breeze. Oh yes, she felt a spark. The kind that with the slightest encouraging breath might easily start a blaze.
What a ridiculous thought. Julian had his pick of women, ones far more glamorous and exciting than she was. What he wanted from her was friendship, someone who was easy to be with, no pressure and no prying. Besides, even if the attraction were mutual, what could possibly come of it? His life was on the road, in the public eye, whereas she could never imagine living away from the safe cocoon of her tiny island. She yearned for a loving relationship that led to a lifetime commitment and raising children together, whereas Julian’s “love life,” as documented by social media, consisted of hookups with numerous attractive women.
Why was she thinking about this now? Better to practice mindfulness and concentrate on this moment, in all its richness.
She eyed the sleek line of Windspinner’s hull as it drove cleanly through the ruffled edges of small waves. The sight always gave her pleasure, as did the unfurled sails, butterfly wings taking full advantage of the breeze. Spotting a patch of dark water indicating a windier area, she asked Julian, “Would you like to fly faster?”
His eyes opened, their blue dazzling in the sunshine. “Go for it!”
“Hang on,” she warned, “and trust the boat. She won’t tip over.” Iris sent the responsive craft into the wind and their side of the hull lifted high out of the water.
“This is great!” His voice sounded exultant. Free of care.
He had been in pain, from worry over Forbes or from some other problem, and she’d helped him escape. She knew how to be a good friend, even if she’d only ever had a few friends.
When they needed to tack, she instructed Julian on how they would “come about,” and he followed her directions, ducking under the boom as he moved to the other side of the boat.
After trimming both sails, she settled back beside him again.
“Are we sailing wherever the wind takes us?” he asked.
They were traveling at a more relaxed pace, not so close into the wind, the hull not heeling over as much. “I have a destination in mind. But because of the way a sailboat works, we have to get there by tacking and jibing back and forth.” His puzzled expression made her clarify. “We can’t sail straight into the wind, so we zigzag, sailing as close to the wind as we can, first one way, then the other.”
“What’s our destination?”
“I packed a lunch and thought we’d anchor and have a picnic.”
“Sounds great, but you should’ve told me. I’d have brought something.”
“Julian, you have enough to worry about. I have very few responsibilities or concerns other than the store. Putting together a picnic lunch is a simple thing.”
“You’re a generous woman.” He leaned sideways, his weight on one elbow, studying her.
His scrutiny made her self-conscious. “What is it?”
“You’re a competent one, too.”
“Competent?” Of course she tried to be competent, more than competent in fact, at everything she undertook.
“Sorry, that’s a pathetic word. Let’s say skilled. Accomplished. In Dreamspinner, I watched you handle that obnoxious teenager and her mom. In fluent French. You selected books for me that I’d never have looked at twice, but they’re making me reflect.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“Now, today, I watch you sailing this boat like you’re one with it. You don’t need my assistance, do you? You’d do as well, probably better, on your own.”
Her lips curved slightly. “I thought you’d like to be involved.”
“You’re right. Do you often sail Windspinner on your own?”
“When the weather’s nice. On my free days and summer evenings, I go to the commune if I want to relax with a book, or I sail if I want something more active and energizing.”
“You do both things alone.”
“Yes.” Did he guess that, while sometimes she required alone time, at other times she was lonely?
Neither of them pursued the topic and for the next half hour they were quiet. Having grown up an only child in a family of reflective, self-contained members, Iris didn’t feel the need to continually make conversation. She guessed that Julian, who spun ideas into music, also often chose silence over chatter.
When they approached their destination, a scenic little bay cradled between two rocky points, she started the engine and dropped the jib, then let Julian help lower the mainsail. When they’d secured both sails, she pointed the boat into the wind, put it in neutral, and went to the bow. She’d anchored here often, knew the depth, and used the winch to lower the anchor and play out the right amount of chain and line. Then, back in the cockpit, she reversed, setting the anchor, and turned off the engine.
Now the only sound was the cry of a few gulls as she pulled the dinghy closer to the boat and secured the line. Sitting down across from Julian, she said, “What do you think?”
He’d been gazing around, but now focused on her. “It’s a pretty spot. I don’t think I’ve ever been here before. This is, uh, the northwest end of Destiny?”
“Yes. Do you know Sunset Cove? There are a few dozen houses, several shops, a pub?”
“Heard of it, but never been there.”
“We’re just south of it. This is a Destiny secret, a beach you can’t find on the tourist maps. I’m sure Luke knows it, and brings the boys here.”
“Isn’t it private property? There are houses.”
A few homes nestled back among trees along the curve of beach, and out on the points that sheltered the bay. One belonged to Kellan Hawke, the reclusive thriller writer, but that was a secret she wouldn’t share. “Foreshore can’t be privately owned. We could go ashore and walk along the beach, and it would be perfectly legal.” The beach came in two parts: a pebbly, log- and driftwood-strewn arc that framed the bay, and inside it grayish-brown sandy flats that were hidden at high tide. The tide was near its ebb now, and the sandy beach filled much of the bay. “There’s also an unmarked road and a public access path to the shore, for the islanders who know where to look.”
“Are we going to row ashore?”
“If you want. Let’s have lunch, and decide afterward.” She rose and took off her PFD. “You can take yours off, if you promise not to fall overboard.”
As he stood and unfastened the device, she said, “Would you like to see below deck? We have, er, all the facilities, in case you need them.”
“Good to know. Yeah, I’d like the grand tour.” His teasing wink suggested he didn’t think the small cabin could hold much.
Smugly, she led the way below, backing down the three-step wooden ladder and telling him to do the same. When they both stood inside, she realized that the cabin was indeed awfully small. Julian, while larger than her slight dad, wasn’t a huge man, but he had such a physical presence, with his rangy shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs, and the contrast of his tanned skin, blond hair, and vivid blue eyes. Awareness tingled across her skin, even stronger than before, perhaps because of the intimacy of the cabin or because sailing had stimulated her senses. She took a deep, centering breath.
“This is cool,” he said, his attention on the details of the cabin rather than on her.
“It is, isn’t it? This is the galley, with a small fridge and a propane stovetop. The door behind you leads to the head. There’s a marine toilet and a sink. No shower, sadly. We have to use a handheld shower on the deck.” Mostly, she went for day sails, but occasionally she’d travel farther into the Gulf Islands, anchor, and spend a night or two on the boat. Sometimes one or more of her family came with her—she had wonderful memories of trips with her grandparents—but this was the first time she’d taken a friend out.
Julian examined everything, including the little dinette that folded down into a short bed, and the front cabin filled with a V-berth double bed. “It’s all so compact and functional. And beautifully maintained. The wood gleams like it’s received lots of loving. Same above deck.”
“Dad does most of the maintenance. He says it’s like a meditation practice, bringing him serenity as well as a sense of accomplishment. Mom’s the same with her garden.” Iris’s equivalent was tai chi. “Why don’t you go on deck, and I’ll hand things up to you?”
He complied, and a few minutes later they were sitting in the pale sunlight, drinking sparkling fruit beverages and eating the picnic lunch she’d prepared. Not knowing his taste, she had included sushi, sliced ham and smoked chicken, three cheeses, raw veggies, and a baguette from the bakery as well as her favorite sesame rice crackers. He ate everything with apparent relish as she nibbled on tastes of this and that.
His body language now, and when they’d been sailing, indicated that this day was achieving its purpose: to help him unwind. Iris was glad she’d heeded the messages on her calendar, sowing the seeds of friendship and sharing happiness.
After a few minutes, he came up for air. “Sorry, I’m wolfing this down. I was hungry.”
“Ocean air whets the appetite.”
“It shouldn’t make me rude, though.” He pulled his sweater over his head and the navy T-shirt beneath it made a determined effort to follow, revealing a tantalizing strip of flat abdomen above the waistband of his jeans. Talk about whetting her appetite.
He pulled down the tee, leaned back on his elbows, and studied her. “You said your grandparents bought the boat, and that the ocean’s in your family’s blood. Tell me more.”
She shrugged. “There are more interesting things to talk about than Yakimura family history. Your musical career, for one. It must be exciting, all the travel and performances.” Excitement wasn’t something she sought; however, since this was his life, he must enjoy it.
“Exciting, exhausting, it’s a lot of things. Which I don’t want to think about now. I want to hear about the Yakimuras and the ocean.”
“Well, then . . .” If hearing a story would help him de-stress, then she would tell him a true one. “It started with my great-great-great-whatever grandfather, who came to Destiny in the very early days. Coast Salish people lived here, of course, but suddenly people from all corners of the world were discovering the Gulf Islands. My ancestor was a younger son. He sought adventure, and to prove himself, in the New World.”
Julian nodded, and she went on. “He and a friend came to Victoria and were hired by a Destiny Islander as laborers to clear land and to farm. In Japan, the young men had been fishermen, and, hello”—she gestured past the boat’s railing—“ocean on all sides. Abundant fish and shellfish. The ambitious, energetic young men saved money, bought a boat together, did well as fishers, and sent money home. Their families found wives for them, and the women immigrated here. They raised families, bought a larger boat, and built a successful business.”
“Good for them.”
Warm in the sunshine, she pulled her Irish cable-knit sweater over her head, making sure that her long-sleeved blue shirt didn’t go with it. “They also grew produce and sold some of it. A few more Japanese came to the island, so they had a bit of a community, but they also did their best to be good neighbors and good Canadians. They became naturalized citizens.”
She picked up a celery stick but didn’t bite into it. “There was prejudice in British Columbia. Before the turn of the twentieth century, Japanese Canadians were denied the vote. But here on Destiny, they were accepted as hardworking members of the diverse island community. Then came the First World War.” She bit into the celery, the sharp crunch an outlet for emotion. Tomorrow was Remembrance Day, so her ancestors’ experiences had been weighing on her mind.
Julian had been grazing on the snacks as she talked, and now he said, “Yes?”
She suspected that, like many Canadians, he knew little of this part of his country’s history. “Local recruitment offices wouldn’t accept Japanese Canadians, so my great-grandfather’s older brother and another man from Destiny traveled to Alberta and were allowed to enlist. Sadly, the other man died in the war, but my relative returned home, injured but alive.” Although humility was ingrained in her, pride made her add, “He received a medal for bravery.”
She paused to take a long drink and to collect her emotions, because the next part of the story was even harder to talk about. “Now we get to the Second World War. Pearl Harbor was attacked.” She gazed across at Julian, who had paused with a cheese-laden slice of bread halfway to his mouth, a curious expression on his face. Clearly, he hadn’t figured out where this was going. “Have you heard of the internment of Japanese Canadians during World War Two?”
Abruptly, he put the bread down again. “Yeah, in general terms. I hadn’t thought that—”
“That anyone you knew would have been affected?”
He gave an apologetic frown. “I guess. Sorry, that sounds awful.” Leaning forward, he said, “Tell me, Iris.”
“The War Measures Act was used to justify the removal of all Japanese Canadians from anywhere around the Pacific coast, on the ridiculous grounds that they posed a threat to national security. Even men who had fought for Canada in the First World War. People who had been honorable, loyal citizens were sent to internment camps in the interior of the province and in the Prairies.”
“My God.”
She swallowed against a lump in her throat. “Not only that, but their property was seized. The land, businesses, and homes they had worked so hard for. Businesses that made a contribution to their communities—” She broke off, shaking her head, struggling for composure. Injustice drove her crazy, and this particular injustice felt personal.
Julian reached across the cockpit of the boat and took her hands in his strong, warm ones. “That’s terrible.”
“Can you imagine the humiliation for my great-grandfather’s brother, a man who’d been injured in service to his country, and received a medal? He and his family and all the other Japanese Canadians were stripped of their possessions, herded together like criminals, and, basically, sent to prison camps.”
“Humiliation,” Julian echoed in a low voice. “When they did nothing to deserve that treatment.” He swallowed audibly. “No, I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”
“I can, because my grandfather told me. He was twelve in 1942, when it happened. He grew from a boy to a man in the Tashme internment camp.” She realized that, as she’d been talking, she’d gripped Julian’s hands fiercely, perhaps to get her point across or to ground herself. That disconcerted her because, like her family, she was restrained about touching others. Julian had squeezed her hands in return, hard enough to be painful. Iris gently extracted her hands and sat back.
Julian glanced down at his hands almost as if he didn’t recognize them, and then spread and stretched his long, graceful fingers. He gazed into her eyes. “I’m so sorry your family went through that. What happened after the war?”
“The government did their best to deport Japanese Canadians, or at least resettle them east of the Rocky Mountains. My family went to the Prairies, but they missed the ocean. Missed their home. They returned to Destiny. They were one of only two families who did so.”
“They had to start all over? With no boats, no property?”
“Not exactly.” Her lips curved. “Destiny Islanders have always had their own way of doing things, and they didn’t like conforming to rules they didn’t believe in.”
“Forbes says that’s why he fits in so well here. So what happened with your grandfather’s family and the other family?”
“The Yakimuras had always been such good citizens and generous neighbors, so one of their own neighbors did them a huge, and completely illegal, favor. It only worked because the land title records here were quite disorganized, due to that same antiestablishment thing. Anyhow, when the government seized property, they got my family’s fishing boats, but not the land because the neighbors swore it was theirs, that they had rented it to my ancestors.”
Julian whistled. “That was a risk.”
“Yes, and not one that other islanders were prepared to take. The Yakimura land and house were the only Japanese-Canadian property that was preserved for the proper owners. So my family took in the other family that returned to the island, and they all became farmers. They did well enough that the other family could buy their own plot of land. And my family had enough to finance opening Dreamspinner in the mid nineteen-eighties.”
“That’s impressive.”
Her family’s saga finished, Iris spread soft brie on a rice cracker and added a couple of slices of green pepper. “My family has always been industrious. Now, enough of my stories. Tell me one of yours. Anything you choose. Or if you prefer to relax in peace and quiet, I’m happy with that, too.” Just being with Julian made her happy.
Nibbling her snack, savoring how the creamy richness of the mild cheese combined with the slightly salty, sesame tang of the cracker and the crisp sweetness of the pepper, she wondered whether Julian would choose silence or conversation.
* * *
Julian watched Iris’s calm, lovely face as she gazed out at the ocean and ate a cheese-topped cracker. A woman who was content with silence. How often did that happen? Not only that, but when she spoke, she had worthwhile things to say. She didn’t babble on about superficial stuff. She wasn’t like the groupies, excited by his celebrity rather than interested in him as a person.
That story about her ancestors was amazing. He knew very well what humiliation felt like. The counselor who’d led the support group he’d attended for several months in his late teens had said that victims of abuse shouldn’t feel humiliation, guilt, or shame, because none of the blame lay on them. For Iris’s ancestors, that was completely true. For Julian, not so much.
No, he wasn’t going there again. Not now.
“Thank you for sharing that story, Iris.” She had given him so much. The sailing trip, the picnic lunch, and a tale that gave her both pain and pleasure. What could he offer in return? Knowing she was interested in his career, he asked, “Want to hear about my bandmates?”
Her head lifted, her brown eyes bright with interest. “Very much. I know there are three of them: Roy, Camille, and Andi.”
A few wisps of long hair, escapees from her ponytail, fluttered around her smooth-skinned oval face. An impulse made him reach toward her.
She frowned slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”
“No. Hold still a moment.” He reached behind her neck and slipped the fabric tie from her hair, freeing a glossy black waterfall. “Okay?”
“It gets in the way when I sail,” she said mildly.
“You can tie it back when we get underway.” Again he asked, “Okay?”
A slight smile curved her untinted lips. “If that’s what you want.”
I want to kiss you. To weave his fingers through those silky tresses, cup the back of her head, tilt her face toward his, and press his lips to her delicate ones. To forget about the darkness in his soul and concentrate on the pure light that was Iris. To lose himself in her. To bring heat to her cheeks and arousal to her slender body. To break through her shyness and aura of self-containment and awaken the passion that he guessed—hoped—lurked inside. His body stirred and he suppressed a moan of need.
If he told her all that, would she say, “If that’s what you want,” and offer herself to him?
Iris liked to please people. But she was a good woman from a good family, and she deserved so much more than a deeply flawed guy like him.
The soft breeze fluttered her hair, sunshine casting a gleam over its inky depths. Beauty and mystery, like the woman herself. Should he try writing a song about that?
Beauty and mystery, shyness and competence, the pursuit of harmony . . . The way her soft brown eyes and subtle changes of expression enchant me. His fingers itched to feel guitar strings.
Her long lashes drifted down and she devoted an inordinate amount of attention to choosing a piece of salmon sushi. “You were going to tell me about your bandmates?”
He took a deep breath. “Right.” He reached for a piece of sushi, ate it, and then went on. “Camille, the percussionist, and her husband, Roy, who plays guitar and harmonica, have been with me for ages. I owe Camille a lot. She’s Francophone, from Quebec, and it’s thanks to her that I brushed up the French I semi-learned as a boy. She helped me create French versions of some of my songs, and write a few solely in French. That earned me a wider audience in Canada, France, and other French-speaking countries.”
Iris nodded, silently encouraging him to go on.
“Our other original band member, a guitarist, moved to Australia and we filled his spot with Andi.”
“She plays the violin, doesn’t she? Or is it a fiddle?”
“A range of stringed instruments. She’s great with Celtic music, and her expertise inspired me to add some Celtic-influenced bits to my songs.”
“Camille and Roy are older than you, aren’t they? And Andi is younger?”
“Yeah, Andi’s only twenty-two. Crazy about music and madly talented. She loves being on the road, and picks up odds and ends of work—session work in studios, waitressing, whatever—when we’re in Vancouver. She’s just being young and having fun.”
“What’s session work?”
“Filling in with a group that’s recording a song or an ad. It’s a nice supplementary income for a good musician.” When she nodded her understanding, he went on. “Camille and Roy have always been into music. They do session work, too. He also teaches advanced guitar and she, believe it or not, is an accountant.”
Iris bit her lip, and he guessed what she was thinking.
“You’re wondering whether we make a living from our music, right?”
“It would be rude to ask. I assumed you did, since you’re so successful.”
“Not that successful, and it’s hard to make a living as a musician. I do now, because I’m a songwriter. I get paid when groups cover my songs, or one’s used in a TV show or movie or for a ringtone. Or when people buy sheet music. The others do okay, but need additional income.”
She nodded. “You’re based in Vancouver but do a lot of touring, don’t you?”
He grabbed a couple of celery sticks. “Yeah. As well as some local gigs now and then, we usually do a tour in eastern Canada each year, and another in western Canada.” He munched, swallowed. “We’ve toured in the States, Europe, and Australia. Australia in winter, when the weather’s bad for touring here. But touring’s expensive, so we don’t net a whole lot of profit. We’re not like the stars who fill the big stadiums. For us, part of the point of touring is to hook and keep fans who buy or live-stream our songs.”
“It must be strange, being on the road so much. Are you all friends, as well as being bandmates? Do you hang out together?”
“We’re friends and respect each other, but we don’t hang out that much. I like exploring, or I work on music. Camille and Roy often hole up in their room. He likes books and video games, and she usually has work to do, accessing her clients’ businesses through WiFi.”
“And Andi?”
“She often hangs out with local fans.” Young, attractive, and bisexual, Andi liked to party and hook up. At first Julian had been concerned, but she’d never once shown up for a performance anything less than professional.
“You’re not . . .” Iris was contemplating the two remaining pieces of sushi, a wing of hair partially obscuring her face. “You and Andi . . . ?”
“Do we hook up? No, never. That’d be dumb, for me to mess with a band member. But we’re not attracted to each other anyhow.”
“Why would it be dumb? You mean if it didn’t work out?”
“Whether it did or didn’t, it could create weird dynamics onstage and off. But for Andi and me, working out—like, long term—wouldn’t be on the table. Neither of us is into serious.”
Still not looking at him, she nodded. “Why would you be, when you’re young and successful and your career’s taking off?”
“Exactly.” Too bad those weren’t his only reasons. He crunched the last celery stick.
“But,” she said so quietly he could barely hear, “what about later? You said you’re not a romantic, but don’t you envision one day being married? Having children?”
“No.”
After a moment, she said, “Oh.”
Any other woman would have pushed to know why. The fact that Iris didn’t, made him want to give her something more. Some small part of the truth. “I’m not that kind of guy.”
“Oh,” she said again.
“Not the kind who’s built for that level of... connection, intimacy, trust. Not everyone is, Iris.”
Now her head lifted. “That’s true. But your music makes me think you are.”
“Don’t confuse the creator with the creation.”
She blinked, was quiet, and then said, “On this island, I know many artists. Including your father. It seems to me, every good one pours his or her soul into their artistic creations.”
“I tell other people’s stories.”
“Through the filter of your own interpretation and emotions. And in doing so you connect intimately with many people who listen to that music. Do you not agree?”
He realized he was rubbing his left hand over the tattoo on his right arm. Her words made him remember the moment when he decided not to kill himself. He’d been fifteen, living on the street, collecting change playing the guitar on Vancouver sidewalks while he tried to figure out an accessible, reliable way of committing suicide. While he was singing “Ache in My Soul,” an elderly woman stopped to listen and when he finished, she gave him a twenty-dollar bill.
Big money, but the true gift came from the tears in her eyes, and her words. “Thank you,” she’d said. “My husband of forty years died last month, and I didn’t know how I’d be able to go on. But you made me realize I’m not alone. That others go through bad times, too. Your music and your voice also remind me there is still beauty in the world.”
As soon as he’d been able to afford it, Julian got the tattoo: a few bars of music from that song. A reminder that he wasn’t alone either, and no matter how broken he was, he had value.
“Julian?” Iris said softly. “I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“You didn’t offend me.” His voice came out even huskier than usual. “Just made me think about something that happened long ago.”
“When you wrote that song?” A graceful hand gestured toward his arm.
He shook his head, in wonder rather than denial. “You’re good, woman.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “It comes along with the shyness.”
“Your shyness has positive and negative aspects. If you had the option, somehow, of not being shy anymore, would you do it?” His own albatross was one he would shed in an instant if such a thing were possible.
“I wouldn’t be me without it, so no,” she said calmly. “It’s also part of my heritage. My father and aunt are the same, and their father and grandfather were as well. I see no greater intrinsic value to the social whirl Mom enjoys, compared to the things I like doing: reading, sailing, sharing a meal with a close friend. Still, I do sometimes wish I were more outgoing.”
She rose and went below deck, which he took to mean that she wanted him to drop the subject. He, too, was alert to people’s nonverbal cues, though in his case it came not from shyness but from abuse.
When she returned with a bowl of red seedless grapes, he broke off a cluster and popped grapes into his mouth one by one as she opened a small plastic storage container. “I hope you like chocolate,” she said, revealing the contents.
“Nanaimo bars.” He recognized the treat: a chewy bottom layer with chocolate, nuts, and who knew what else; a creamy middle layer; then a topping of melted dark chocolate. “Sonia makes these. I love them.”
He took one, bit off a corner, munched, and let out a moan of pleasure. “Man, that’s even better than Sonia’s.”
Iris gave a cat-smile. “It’s a Destiny bar. Mom’s invention. Pecans rather than walnuts, and Irish Cream flavoring in the filling.”
“My compliments to your mother.”
Iris, slicing the other bar in half, didn’t respond. Julian wondered if she’d told her family she was seeing him and, if so, what they thought. But again, her body language suggested that she’d rather he not ask. When she handed him half of the second bar, he didn’t protest, just consumed the treat happily as she nibbled the rest.
“You brought your guitar,” she said. “Do you feel like playing it? Or, if you prefer, we could row ashore and go for a walk.”
“Actually, I could use your feedback. I did some more work on the lark song.”
“I’m flattered.”
As she tidied up the lunch scraps, he fetched his guitar and tuned it. Then, sitting in the sunshine with only Iris, a bunch of seagulls, and a man and black dog on the beach as an audience, he played Forbes’s song.
Watching Iris’s face, intent and responsive, Julian thought that being stuck on Destiny Island just might be tolerable—as long as he could spend more time with this special woman.