She couldn’t be gone.
Not now.
Not like this.
Not with the two of them chilly and silent and unreconciled.
“Isolde! Isolde!”
His breathing became chaotic, arms aching and pulsing with fire. Salt water and exertion turned his voice hoarse.
The rain felt like tears on his face.
Exhausted, he leaned onto his back and tried to catch his breath, letting the bitter waves wash over his face.
“Isolde,” he whispered.
A sob left him.
And then another.
He should have listened to Allie.
He should have apologized to Isolde and groveled for forgiveness.
He should have held his wife, kissed her, told her that . . . that . . .
Bloody hell!
How ghastly to realizenowthe depth of his adoration . . . as he faced the horror of losing her before their life together had truly begun.
No!
His Isolde could not be gone.
He could notpermither to be gone.
She was his. He would find her.
Pulling on his reserves of strength, he kicked upright, took in a deep breath, and dove again.
The watery depths had not changed.
No glimmer of white. No flame-red hair.
His lungs burned, urging him upward.
But desperation held him under.
Find her! Find her!
Regrets pummeled him with each swell of the waves.
I never held her.
I never apologized.
I never kissed her.
