Eden's Spell by Heather Graham

on a swallow.
    â€œMy daughter.”
    â€œDaughter? You’re married?” Jason said with obvious dismay.
    Mike shook his head. “I—uh—lost my wife.”
    â€œAnd you can’t find her?”
    There was something so earnest about the question that Mike had to smile, albeit a bit sadly.
    â€œShe died, Jason.”
    â€œLike my dad,” he stated flatly, bowing his head. Then he looked up cheerfully. “Want to see him?”
    â€œYour dad? Sure.”
    Jason was out of the kitchen and into the living room, reaching up to the mantel to procure one of the pictures.
    â€œThey say I look like him,” Jason said proudly.
    Mike gazed at the picture. It was of a young man, lean and lanky like his son. He was nice looking, and even in the photo it was clear that he had the same enthusiasm for life as his son.
    â€œYou do look like him,” Mike said.
    Jason took the picture back, deep in thought. Then he looked at Mike peculiarly. “I don’t remember him. Don’t tell my mom. I was only three when he died.” He paused. “But he was a hero, a real live one. He died out on the reefs. Some dumb kids were out—old kids, you know, teenagers—with bad diving equipment. Dad dragged the girl in; he had to go back ’cause the boy got his foot stuck in some coral. He got the boy free, but something happened to him. I don’t know, a wave or something. His head was all cut up when Mom found him.”
    â€œYour mother—found him?”
    â€œYeah. He was dead when she reached him.”
    â€œBut you don’t remember any of it?”
    â€œNo, I heard about it all. Mom doesn’t talk about it, just to remind me how dangerous the reefs can be. But my friends know things from their parents. They say that she tried everything to bring him back. She’s a water safety instructor, you know. She’s got all kinds of certificates. But”—he shrugged—“nothing worked on Dad. She kept at it for hours; the doctor who came from Islamorada finally had to pull her away and sedate her.”
    Mike touched Jason’s hair. “I’m sorry, son. It sounds like he was a real great man. A hero.”
    Jason set the portrait back on the mantel. “We’ve got to do something about you before she gets out of the bathtub.”
    â€œPardon?”
    â€œYou’ve been dripping everywhere. I’ll get some paper towels. You go take a shower.”
    Jason took off for the kitchen to get the paper towels. Mike had to grin; it had been a long time since he had been in conspiracy with an eight-year-old to save his hide from a chewing out.
    But a hot shower would feel damned good right now. He felt chilled to the bone.
    He followed Jason to the kitchen. “Can I borrow your shower?”
    â€œYeah, sure, but you don’t need to. There’s a guest bedroom all set up next to my mother’s. There’s towels, soap, even extra toothbrushes. And there should have been enough water left in the heater for it to be warm.”
    Mike smiled gratefully and headed toward the guest bedroom. When he found it, he instinctively tried to switch on the bedroom light. The gloomy darkness remained, and he remembered that the power was shot.
    He looked around curiously. It was a warm room with a queen-sized bed in the center, an armoire, an old-fashioned mirrored dresser with a washbowl and ewer in an early-American blue-and-white floral pattern. Bookcases flanked the bed; there was an afghaned recliner by the window.
    He passed through the room and into the ultramodern bath. The tub was spacious and deep, “Roman” style, in gold-threaded pink marble; there was a matching sink and dark-crimson curtains to complete the picture.
    Mike quickly shed his clothing and even more quickly adjusted the water; he knew that the leftover hot water in the tanks couldn’t last long. As soon as it turned cold on him, he stepped out of the tub