Hildy nodded. As the driver pulled away, she stuck her head out the window. “Don’t get eaten by sharks. I still need you.”
He saluted, watching until the car pulled into the driveway of a pistachio-colored house with a tile roof. Most of the structure was obscured by foliage, a climbing hedge that had been clipped into a wall of deep green leaves and woody vines. It wasn’t quite tall enough to conceal the size of the building, the wraparound veranda, or the general opulence of the place—all of which were exactly what he’d expect of someone as blatantly entitled as Lillibet.
That was for Hildy to discover in her own time. Shaking his head, Jefferson started down the path.
The transition from pavement to sand was gradual. First there was a gritty shiftiness on top of the sidewalk, then a few patchy clumps of grass, and finally softness, underfoot and all around. Jefferson stood still, letting the breeze wash over his skin, like maybe he’d felt it wrong the first time.
His brain struggled to make sense of a wind that didn’t bite or burn, that smelled like flowers instead of cold rocks and frozen water.Relax,said the air and the sunlight and the murmuring waves. It was like sinking into a warm bath on dry land.
Jefferson wasn’t sure he trusted all this lulling. The perfection struck him as suspicious, or at least unreal. He hadn’t even taken his camera out of the bag. There was nothing to photograph that wouldn’t seem clichéd, like a thousand mass-produced postcards already tacked up behind refrigerator magnets.
Except the woman sitting in the sand with her back to him, long tawny hair pulled to one side to expose the curving line of neck and shoulder.
The sun was in front of her, edging her silhouette in a buttery glow. It wasn’t quite the golden hour, but the light was gentle—like everything else—and even without clicking the shutter he knew in his bones this was an image he would remember. Jefferson told himself it was mostly aesthetic, the way his eye traced the guitar-like curve of shoulder and hip. He was in the habit of cataloging compositional details, even when they weren’t this visually pleasing.
She half turned as he approached, and he saw that her hand was buried in an open cellophane package. Her cheeks bulged as if he’d caught her mid-chew.
“Hey, uh, hi,” she choked, wiping her fingers on her bare thigh.
He wouldn’t have let himself take a second look at her legs if she hadn’t used them as a napkin. They were very long, it turned out, and bronzed. He suspected she would be tall, if she weren’t sitting with her toes buried in the sand.
“Would you like some?”
It took him a second to realize she was talking about the bag of food. “What is it?”
“Shrimp crackers.”
He frowned at the surf. “A little insensitive.”
Her smile revealed slightly crooked incisors that told him she’d never had braces. The warmth of her skin tone and streaky highlights in her hair spoke of a life spent in the sun. She hadunexpectedly dark brown eyes and a small bump in the bridge of her nose. Her lips were pink and maybe a little chapped, though that could have been the residue of the crackers. It was an interesting face, as opposed to a perfectly symmetrical one. He wanted to keep looking at her. But that would have been weird, so he took in the view instead.
This strip of beach felt almost like a secluded cove, thanks to the rocks that stretched out into the water on one side and the heavy vegetation on the other. Up close the ocean appeared more blue-gray than turquoise, churned up into whitecapped peaks as it raced toward shore.
“Do you want to sit?” She patted the sand beside her.
The invitation took him by surprise, but not in a bad way. Until she started to get up.
“I assume you’re here for the sunset, not Portrait of Scruffy Girl Stress-Eating.” Her chin lifted to indicate his camera bag. “I’ll get out of your shot.”
He waved at her to stay. “I wanted to see the ocean.”
“Oh good. Because you’re like two hours early for sunset. And on the wrong side of the island. It’s still pretty but, you know. Rises in the east, sets in the west.”
“The mites crawl up, the tights fall down.”
She blinked at him.
“That’s how I remember stalagmites versus stalactites. In caves.”
“Ah.” It sounded like she wanted to laugh. “I take it you’re not from around here.”
“Is it that obvious?”
Her nod was solemn. “You’re wearing a lei. Which could mean luau, except the outfit is all wrong.”
“No aloha shirt?” Hildy had tried to coerce him into wearing one, but he’d held firm that pink was not his color, even if you called it salmon.
“I was thinking more of the shoes.” She pointed at his feet. “And socks.”
