Ginger entered the room holding a woven basket and a stack of books against her hip. She gave me a look–in her strange head-turned way–that was both kind and bossy.
“You should come sit outside,” she said, tipping her chin toward the little patch of shade just beyond the cottage. “Under the coconut fronds. The sun will do you good.”
“I don’t need the sun,” I muttered, shifting my sore body against the cushions. “I need to be back on my feet.”
She rolled her eyes. “One step at a time, whaler. You don’t have to do anything once we’re outside. Just relax and breathe.” Her gaze softened. “Please.”
I let her help me outside, her small shoulders under my massive arm.
The palm leaves rustled against each other and the air smelled of salt and sea.
The ocean shimmered in the distance and whales breached.
Ginger set a quilt on the ground, laid out a few books, and arranged a couple of pillows like she had all the time in the world.
When I didn’t reach for any of the books, she offered one.
“No thanks.” I lied down and stared at the leaves above.
It was just a short walk,I thought in frustration.
But I was panting, breathless, like I’d run for miles.
Ginger lied down next to me, our shoulders touching, and read her book. Her face was slightly turned towards me, her eyes on the coconut trees to the side. Was that how she read?
I glanced sideways, unintentionally reading the words on the page. “What is this?” I asked.
“A story from the old island kingdoms,” she said, running her fingers gently along the page. “About a fisherman who fell in love with a princess.”
“That sounds ridiculous,” I grunted.
She ignored me. “Want me to read it out loud?”
I didn’t answer. She looked at me–though her eyes looked beyond mine. Her face was so close to mine. Her vanilla scent enveloped me and I had to look up at the palm leaves to pretend that she didn’t affect me.
After a moment, I said, “Sure.”
Don’t know why I said sure.
Maybe I just needed something… A distraction from her sweet scent. Her gentle presence.
She read aloud, her voice smooth and slow, like waves lapping a canoe.
And blast it if I didn’t start to enjoy it.
Her voice wove between the lines. Warm, expressive, patient. I didn’t understand why the fisherman didn’t just marry a commoner, but there was something strangely captivating about the story. And then somehow my attention moved from the trees above to Ginger.
I was half-listening to the story, half-watching the sunlight catch in her long dark hair.
I didn’t know how long we stayed like that. The words washed over me, unhurried, and I closed my eyes.
Then I heard the crunch of boots on the path.
I sat up too fast and winced. Ginger reached out to steady me, but I waved her off, already recognizing the voices.
“Captain?” came Destin’s familiar, somber voice.
I turned to see him and Thatcher emerge from the trees, looking like they’d just come home from battle. Mud on their boots, sweat streaking their faces, scars and bruises lining their skin, and relief shining in their eyes when they saw me.
