6

 

CARMEL, CALIFORNIA

Gwen tried not to check her e-mail every ten minutes. She ran, she swam, she longed to surf, but the next morning a flat sea set in, offering nothing but pretty views and wavelets she wouldn’t deign to ride. Her next best distraction, Dwayne, her Tae Kwon Do trainer, was on his cruise in Mexico teaching a boatload of seniors dirty fighting instead of putting her through her paces. After three days when she had heard nothing from Falcon Capital, she was in need of major distraction. The sea relented.

She woke to the roar of surf. She sat up in bed with a smile. Her bleached linen curtains wafted in a breeze carrying the smell of brine and white water. Naked, she wrapped herself in her Peruvian alpaca blanket and stepped out on deck. She gazed at the sea for a good five minutes. Surfable, she thought, eying the waves. Medium-sized and ragged, workable.

She fed Leo, grabbed an apple, and selected her board from her storeroom: a six-foot-two-inch swallowtail, right for the conditions. She secured it between the driver’s and passenger’s seats, sticking out over the backseats, and drove off. She could have surfed alone on the beach at Hurricane Point, but she didn’t want to push her luck twice in one week, and she needed to stock up on provisions in Carmel, so she headed for the little seaside town and some company.

She parked on Scenic Road, grabbed her board, and walked over to the path that snaked along above the sandy beach. A hundred yards away, powerful waves broke with a roar. A good fifteen-foot face and pumping. Just inches above them, rising and falling with the waves, flew a pelican patrol.

The sea was empty of casual swimmers, but a phalanx of wet-suited surfers rode the waves with varying degrees of fortune. There were plenty of people walking or just sitting on the beach, gazing out at the churning water.

For a good five minutes, Gwen studied the waves. She knew this beach well, had surfed it many times, but the sea always had her surprises, particularly for the unwary. Fools rush in, thought Gwen, watching a couple of muscled college boy dudes do just that.

When she had a feel for the waves and the set patterns, had spotted an oddity or two, she pulled off her shorts and tee, wiggled into her wet suit, and worked through her stretch routine, a quick three minutes’ worth; then she trotted across the sand, board under her arm, into the water.

It took her a few minutes to paddle out, duck-diving the waves as she did so before she got out to the lineup.

Most of the other surfers greeted her with a wave and a shout.

“Hey Boudy!”

“Hey guys,” she called back, waving. The surf community. Nothing like it. Once you were in, you had to do something truly loathsome to be out.

Her regular surf buddy, Jordan, paddled up.

“How’s it hanging, Boudy?”

“Just peachy, Jordie. Catch any good ones?”

“Oh yeah. A real big set came in first thing. Woke me up.”

“Another one’s coming. Get ready.”

From habit, Gwen picked the last one in the set. She lined up her board, paddled, snapped to her feet, and rode all the way into the beach.

She paddled out again, watched one of the college boys riding in. He was standing in the barrel almost as if he were just out on the street waiting for a cab. Alert but relaxed too. In no particular hurry. Then she watched him skim out, almost effortlessly. He paddled back out.

Gwen eyed him critically. A stranger. He had nice style, she was forced to admit. Tanned and ripped too.

She turned away, focused on powering her way back out beyond the break point. She got an hour’s worth of good rides, caught a good wave, the second best of the day. Rode it in.

Jordie walked out of the shallows with her.

“I’m done, you?”

“Yep.”

Jordan hip-bumped her. “How about a coffee, my place?”

Gwen hip-bumped him back. “Not today, Jordie.” She grinned. “Not tomorrow either, ’fore you ask.”

“Can’t hang a guy for trying.”

“Hell, I’d worry if you didn’t.” She walked up the beach with her board, wondering whose eyes she felt on her as she walked, determined not to turn to check.

She secured her board and crossed onto Junipero Street, heading for Bruno’s Market & Deli. Outside she was ambushed by the smell of toasted sandwiches. Weak with hunger, she ordered a toasted BLT, and almost swooned with joy as she made her way round the aisles with a shopping cart, munching en route.

She somehow amassed two hundred dollars’ worth of supplies, including a case of Stella Artois, four bottles of local wine, a selection of healthy staples, pastries for tomorrow’s breakfast, and enough fresh produce to keep her going for a few days. She cleaned out her wallet. God, she really, really needed Falcon to come through.

Preoccupied, bag-laden, Gwen didn’t notice the eyes watching her from the car that edged by slowly and then fell in behind her, veiled by the two innocent cars sandwiched in between, as she drove away.