The feeling was so unaccustomed that at first he didn’t realize what it meant. Paul Ringo George Johnson, driving north in his convertible on a fine midsummer morning, felt the breeze riffling his short dark hair. A mellow, jazzy tune wafted out of the speakers. Reaching upward, he let the splayed fingers of one hand catch the wind. Relax, the wind seemed to say, relax.
Oho, he thought with some surprise as he brought his hand back to the steering wheel. Stress was gradually easing its python-like grip on his body. Grrreat. That was what this trip was all about.
He leaned his head against the headrest, pursed his lips and began whistling along to the music. Turning up the volume, he pushed down on the accelerator. Instead of experiencing the exhilaration of a burst of speed, his sporty car slowed.
“Huh?” He brought his foot off the floor and pushed again. The engine cut out and died. “This is un-be-liev-able.”
Veering to the right, he managed to coast in to the side of the road before his car came to a complete stop. There he sat, gripping the steering wheel, his neck and shoulders already tightening. Sh-erbet, as his mother used to say. How could this be happening to him? And what could be wrong with his finely engineered imported car?
Like a cowboy reaching for his gun, Paul went for his cell phone. It wasn’t there. Cursing that he’d taken the doc’s “get away from it all” advice literally and left it at home, he made a fist and banged the steering wheel.
Now what? Take a look at the engine. Reaching down to pop up the hood, he almost hit his head on the instrument panel. The gauges! He should check … . His gut performed a roller-coaster drop, not only unpleasant, but also ominous. For the first time in two hours, Paul sneaked a peek at the fuel level. Uh-oh. That empty sensation was correct.
His mind, trained to conjure up advertisement images, presented him with the picture of an undulating, curvy female figure in iridescent green — the gasoline goddess. He’d seen her in a recent TV ad campaign and now here she was, smirking at him, the vixen. Why hadn’t she reminded him to fill up before he left the city?
Damn his boss and her last-minute phone call. Why couldn’t she ever let up? He was supposed to be switching off, not switching on. She was to blame for his rushed start this morning.
The clock on the dashboard read 9:50 A.M. Paul grimaced. Although he’d allowed a good extra hour to reach Tobermory before the 11:30 ferry left for Manitoulin Island, it was entirely possible he’d arrive there too late. Then he’d have to hang around for four whole hours before he could catch the next one.
Not an auspicious beginning to his much-needed vacation.
After unclipping the seat belt, Paul took a deep breath in and out, and rolled his shoulders. Hang cool, buddy, as his ever-chilled dad used to say. Help would surely arrive soon. This stretch of highway was bound to be busy all the long holiday weekend.
He climbed out of the car, paced up and down, looked this way and that. Earlier, he’d hit quite a bit of traffic. Now, perversely, the straight, ribbon-like road remained as empty as the landscape. Flat, scrubby brush stretched on either side of him. A few purple wildflowers, yellowing grass and small-leafed birch trees gave little hint of the beauties of the Lake Huron shoreline, only a short ride away. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. But in a second his peepers sprang open again. Impatience rose like the water level in the sink with the faucets full on. Yet another sign of his seriously stressed-out state.
A week ago, he’d gone to the doctor to get a prescription for sleeping pills. Too many pressured, over-long hours working on the advertising agency’s latest account had led to restless nights. His over-stimulated brain had kept churning out ideas instead of letting him sink into a peaceful, restorative sleep.
After she’d examined him thoroughly, his doctor had removed the stethoscope from around her neck, taken a seat at her desk and looked at him severely.
“I have to tell you, Paul,” she began in a not-unsympathetic tone, “it’s a long time since I’ve seen anyone quite so close to exhaustion.”
She went on to inform him that he needed peace and tranquility. If he didn’t wind down, and quick, he was in danger of being incapacitated by a bad case of burnout, with other, more serious infirmities down the line.
“You’re an intelligent adult. I’m sure I don’t have to spell them out.”
Now Paul rested one foot on the front fender. Folded his arms. Paced to the rear of his vehicle. Not a wheel in sight. He took off his sunglasses. Checked his watch again.
This was impossible.
No way was he going to stand in the sun until he melted. Better to walk. He hauled his red emergency gas can out of the trunk. After taking only a few steps, a low rumble made him look round. Ah, a Harley Davidson. Now there was a sight to gladden the heart. Already he pictured himself riding pillion, felt the rush of acceleration. Oh yeah, a motorcycle ride would be just the ticket. Gas can in hand, he stood poised on the edge of the road, ready to flag down the approaching biker.
Sputtering and growling, the Harley slowed and swerved in toward him. Paul smiled his best smile. He started to say “hi,” but the greeting morphed into a protesting “Hey!” No sooner had the guy placed two booted feet on the ground than he lifted them back onto the foot rests again, as if the earth were on fire. With a jerk and a surge, he took off. A scatter of stones and pebbles hit Paul’s ankles. Before the rider completed his swing back out onto the blacktop, Paul noticed an astronomical motif decorating the front of his dark, sparkly helmet: Gemini, the sign of the Twins.
In astonished puzzlement he stared after the big machine, watched it swerve and take its place on the road. The focus of his vision fixed on the rider who’d left him in the lurch — black leather jacket over narrow shoulders; long, fringed chaps. Still clutching the can, Paul watched the black shape shrink smaller and smaller until he was a mere toy on the horizon.
Crap. What on earth had happened to traditional helpfulness toward travelers? Goodwill toward men? It was possible the biker was headed to the same place he was. If so, he might vent some of his frustration by letting the guy’s tires down, or … other retribution images flashed through his mind. Nah. Forget that. Although the thought of blasting the biker out was tempting, it had to be put aside. He wasn’t fool enough to bring the wrath of Hell’s Angels down on himself. Not to mention that adding-to-stress thing. Or that he might end up dead.
Nothing for it but to put the incident behind him. Start walking again. Come on, rescue, hurry up. I really don’t want to miss that ferry.
From Tobermory, he planned to catch the 11:30 ferry across to South Bay Point, sightsee on Manitoulin Island and then make for the fishing shack on the North Shore of Lake Huron. His pal, Steve, had assured him he’d get plenty of R and R there. Then he’d be fixed instead of broken. Provided, of course, he didn’t die of boredom in the meantime.
• • •
Seized by panic, the fleeing biker curled her fists around the thick handlebars. She recognized the stranded motorist. Boy, did she ever recognize him.
Unsure if the quaking that shook every inch of her was caused by the bike, the road surface, or her own emotions, Serendipity Jade Jellicoe’s hands gripped tighter. She revved the motorcycle to increase her speed. That moment when she’d registered who it was at the roadside had hit her like an electric shock. Enough to make her hair stand on end.
You shouldn’t have done that, Jade, said the shrill voice of her conscience.
Almost she could see a cartoon canary flapping around her head.
Go away Tweety, you stupid bird.
This was the worst possible way to come across a work colleague. Especially when that happened to be a guy who, no matter how much she tried to ignore him, set her heart a-flutter.
The growl of the engine grew louder. She gave herself to the power of the machine, blotting out the image of Mr. Handsome. Beneath her bum, under her thighs, the Harley throbbed its magic-carpet promise: I’ll help you escape, take you away, let you fly, set you free.
Riding like this was better than sex. At least, better than any she’d had with Howard, her one serious, long-lasting, and dull relationship, which she’d ended without regret two years ago.
Jade swallowed, still feeling guilty, even a little sick. She hated to leave without offering help, but in this case it was more important to save her own butt. But what on earth was dishy Paul R.G. Johnson, the guy with the killer dimple, doing in this section of the Bruce Peninsula? He’d never struck her as a country boy. Always city hip in trendy clothes that suited his lanky frame, his dark hair cut short, he was the epitome of city sophistication. Was that why he appealed to her so much? Nope. That buzz she felt whenever he was near wasn’t as simple as that.
Surely he wasn’t headed to Manitoulin Island and points north? Of course not. He’d be turning off at any time, making for one of the many picturesque cottages, resorts, or parks along the coasts on either side of the road. There was minimum chance she’d bump into him again. She could forget the danger of him discovering her true identity. If, by ill fortune, they did meet, she’d play dumb and innocent and trust that her alter ego, Serendipity, plus her weekend disguise, would fool him.
And if it didn’t? Then her carefully constructed, double life would collapse, and all she’d been working toward for the past ten years would be doomed.
• • •
In Tobermory, Paul followed the signs to the ferry, thanking his lucky stars for the pickup truck that had come by twenty-three minutes later and taken him into Whiarton to get gas. For a while there, he’d been certain he’d miss the ferry, but he still had twelve minutes in hand and was looking forward to zipping on board.
He turned off the road and slowed. A young woman with a parking-attendant vest covering her white tee shirt stepped forward.
“Park over there, on the right, please.” The marshal indicated behind her where three long lines of cars sat stationary in the midmorning sun.
Paul leaned an elbow over the door and looked up at her, his smile springing automatically into place.
“Right back there? Behind the red Toyota? That’s where you want me to park?”
The young woman blinked at him, as if the sun was suddenly too bright and she was a little dazzled.
“Yeah, that’s where you have to go.”
Not looking promising. The familiar tension began to squeeze, winding, winding.
“Please tell me I’ll still make the eleven-thirty ferry.”
“No chance. It’s already full.” She kept her gaze on him. “If you’re lucky you’ll maybe get on the three-thirty.”
All these parked people were already ahead of him. This wasn’t Starbucks, where he could practice his urban skills, get to the front without appearing to jump the line, then smile at the girl so she served him right away.
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise, you should be able to catch the seven-thirty. That is, if it isn’t already fully booked. They take reservations for the evening crossing.”
While he was struggling to deal with the disturbing idea he might not get to Manitoulin until night, she leaned down to speak more confidentially.
“If you don’t get a place,” she said, “come and find me at the pub. I can offer you a bed.”
He winked at her and put the car in gear. “Thanks.”
As soon as he’d parked the convertible, he closed his eyes. Breathe, Paul, breathe. Go with the flow. Forget uptight. Live in the moment.
Nearby, a young couple were doing just that. With their van comfortably camped in the sparse shade of a large conifer, they sat on lawn chairs, chatting happily and drinking pop.
But he couldn’t do it. Simply sit there and wait? Impossible.
He pressed the button to release the convertible top and drummed his fingers on the dash until the covering was in place. A quick check told him his beloved guitar was safe. He’d wrapped it in the navy bath sheet he used as a swimming towel and stashed it carefully behind the bucket seats. A smattering of folk songs and a guitar to play them on were the only legacy he’d received from his footloose father. Ever since Woodstock, where Paul had been conceived, his dad had been in and out of his life until one day, soon after his son’s fifteenth birthday, he’d taken off and had never been seen again. His mom had gathered herself together and made a new and successful life for herself, but the teenaged boy had been hit hard by the abandonment.
Once the car was securely locked, Paul unfolded his tall frame, slid his sunglasses onto his nose, and set off to discover how many cars were ahead of him. After a few brisk strides, he paused. Stroll. You have to stroll. Remember, you’re on vacation. Continuing at a slower pace, he did his best to appreciate the sunlight glistening on the trees. He even listened for birdsong. What he felt were the rays searing his bare arms below the cut-off sleeves of his gray tee shirt. What he heard were the aggressive lyrics and relentless rhythm of a rap song.
His step speeded up.
At the head of the line, he found another marshal, this time a young man.
“Tell me, what are my chances of getting on the three-thirty ferry?”
“Not bad.” The guy twirled his small baton. “As soon as this lot’s loaded we’ll be moving you into the next car park, say in ten minutes or so. Then you’ll know.”
Paul thanked him. Doing his best to tamp down his frustration, he strode along the rows.
Twenty minutes later, he was back in his car. In sync with the other drivers ahead of him, he stuck the key in the ignition and started the engine, enjoying its purring sound and not forgetting to check the gauges. The outside temperature indicator already read eighty-six degrees. Crawling forward, the convertible joined the snail parade. Row by row, starting with the motor homes and big RVs, the vehicles drove onward, closer to the harbor. There, they’d wait to board the next ferry. In four hours’ time.
Paul paid the ferry fee at a little white booth at the entrance of the next parking lot. Another young woman instructed him how to line up.
“Second row to your left.”
Okay, this is not so bad, he thought, turning the steering wheel with an open palm and taking his place next in line. As he reached forward to switch off, he heard the low growl of an engine. Senses alert, his hand lingered on the keys.
A large motorcycle rumbled into the front of the empty row next to him, its rider black clad and rather puny. Surely not the guy who’d left him in the lurch? That bastard was probably sailing out of the harbor at this very minute. As if to add a taunting confirmation, the ferryboat gave a rude honk.
Paul climbed out and leaned against the car. Eyes narrowed, he watched the biker swing a leg over the saddle and stand up.
After fumbling with the strap and catch, off came the helmet to reveal smudgy-with-gel, short, spiky, dirty blond hair. Six, small, silver rings crept up the curve of his ear and glinted as he moved.
Something niggled at Paul. He watched more closely.
Next to be removed were the leather chaps with their long fringes. Those he’d seen before, fluttering insolently in the breeze. He did a quick check of the helmet, now hanging over the handlebars. There was the sign of the Twins. Shit, this was the son of a bitch who’d left him in the lurch.
Paul straightened, his gorge rising. So far his relaxing vacation was proving every bit as stressful as a day at work. Folding his arms to prevent swinging punches, he slumped back against the car and continued his observation of the biker’s impromptu striptease. Narrow shoulders, a concave curve to the waist, wider than expected hips … . Was it possible that what he’d taken to be a “he” was in fact a “she”?
Why not? And, more importantly, what had he done to scare her off?
Underneath the leather trousers, the biker wore a pair of tiny, tight, white denim shorts. Emerging from these, in a long stretch to her boots, were shapely, tanned legs. Shock with a side dish of appreciation reached right down to his groin — an area of his anatomy that had been increasingly depressed recently. No question of it now. His inhumane, uncaring biker was a woman! And not only was she of the feminine gender, but she reminded him strongly of someone, though for the life of him he couldn’t think who.
The chick continued her innocent strip. She drew the sleeve of the shape-disguising jacket down one arm, then pulled her other arm out. At last she shrugged the garment away from her shoulders to reveal a cropped, form-hugging tank top in tomato red, which very satisfactorily displayed a cheeky set of boobs. Man oh man. How fortunate his eyes weren’t prone to pop out of his head.
Nearly noon now. The day was heating up nicely. And so was he.
Again his mind insisted there was something familiar about this woman. Nah. He didn’t know any biker chicks. More was the pity. Some wild-child sex would probably do him more good than a wussy fishing trip. Especially as he knew zero about fishing.
He knew zilch about biker chicks, but a lot about women. At least, he used to, in the days when he was at art college, before he became so fixated on getting ahead in the world. Then he joined an agency out west, switched some time later to a fancier outfit in Toronto where he soon became swamped by overwork. His doctor’s threat had brought him up short. He didn’t want to die young, not when he was convinced there was a lot of living to do out there.
The woman turned to pack her garments away in the saddlebags. As she bent forward, Paul examined her shadowed profile, the straight nose with just a small tilt at the tip, her mouth, with its pouty lower lip. Slowly she straightened. The sunlight fell directly over her and lit her features. She lifted her head.
Then he saw her face.
His jaw dropped. If he wasn’t mistaken, the biker chick was the very remote, intimidating, and intelligent slave driver, Ms. Jade Jellicoe.
His boss.