CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ELLIOT
Hank and I sit on rocks, our laurels lost to passion, but thankfully, we’ve returned to our pants. I’ve got a rain jacket on, and he’s got a scratchy blanket over his shoulders. The tall, silver-haired man who rescued us stands about fifty feet away, talking into a cell phone as he paces behind his four-wheeler.
My head swirls, my emotions ricocheting all over the place.
“I am way too high for this,” Hank says, and I notice how wide his eyes are.
“It’s good,” I assure him. “Maybe he didn’t even notice what we were doing.”
Hank does a strange thing where he kind of honks air out of his nose.
I grab both of his hands. “Hank, we’re rescued,” I say, trying again. “We’re going home. Who cares what that old guy saw?”
The reality that we’ve been saved seems to dawn on him all over again. “We’re going home,” he says slowly.
“We’re going home,” I say, and tears well up in my eyes as my elation rises.
Hank nods, crying, too.
“Holy shit,” I add, my voice shaking. “I thought we were going to die.”
The British man turns abruptly to face us. “You’re right. My god. I think it is them.”
Hank and I give each other an uncertain look. The man lowers the phone and walks over to us. “You’re the accountant and the millionaire’s son from the news, aren’t you?” he says, eyes wide.
“Oh god,” Hank answers.
Our rescuer’s name is August Spencehill, and he wears big brown galoshes as well as suspenders and a collared shirt the same gray as his hair and neatly trimmed beard. It’s getting dark around us, but the bright lights of his small vehicle shine across the beach.
“We’re on the news?” I ask.
He crosses the rest of the distance to us, back perfectly straight. “Listen,” he says evenly. “I’ve called for help. But I certainly don’t want a circus here.”
“Uh, maybe we could start with a bottle of water? Even an energy bar,” I try.
He looks to be trying not to frown, and his tone comes out stiff and formal. “Yes. Of course. I’ll host you as appropriate.”
“Listen, Mr. Spencehill,” Hank tries, and the man cuts him off.
“It’s Baronet Spencehill.”
“BaronetSpencehill,” I say, giving a breathless air to the title. “If you don’t mind horribly, could we impugn upon your hospitality and call our loved ones to let them know we’re alive?”
He gestures to the vehicle. “Let’s get on with it. Climb aboard.”
“Oh,” Hank says, looking toward our home on the island. “But we need to get our… Our…” He trails off.
I realize this is it. We’re leaving the island, and a strange twist of emotions gets me by the gut. I have an urge to go back and say goodbye to everything. Instead, I stick my hand in my pocketand make sure I still have the pink shell, the prettiest one that Hank brought me for the dinner date.
I squeeze it hard, jagged edges against my palm.
Hank shakes his head. “Of course. We don’t need any of that now.”
“Yeah,” I agree, deciding it’s most important to get to running water and food. “Let’s go.”
We sit on the back of the four-wheeler, and it’s too loud to talk. Instead, we gaze in each other’s eyes and out over the water, each of us trying to take it all in. The baronet drives up the side of the island, giving us a perfectly clear view of the setting sun, mulberry waves in the sea.
