Gathering String by Mimi Johnson Page B

down hard, but it didn’t come. In a few minutes they taxied to the dock. “Pretty landing, Bev,” a man who smelled like fish called as he pulled open the hatch, lending a hand to the passengers.
    At Jamie’s Whaling Station, they called a taxi for Sam, and less than ten minutes after it arrived, it made the turn into Pacific Sands. Coming down the drive, it was just as he’d seen on the website: the simple, neat condos and the sloping lawn leading down to the sandy beach. He could hear the rhythmic rumble of the surf, even from inside the car.
    Sam paid the driver and watched the taxi drive off, then stood staring at the lodge doors, finally confronted with the one thing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about.
    How was he going to find Tess?
    The front desk wouldn’t give him her room number, that much he knew. He could call or text her, but what would he say? "Surprise!" No, his sudden, uninvited appearance needed to be explained in person.
    Taking his bag, he wandered down the lawn to a spot between the trees bordering the drop-off to the beach. There was a bench there, and he sat looking out to sea. She could be off anywhere, taking pictures. He had a cigarette, watching the rollers come in, the mist from the pounding waves hanging in the air. Kids built forts and sand castles, and couples walked the beach, holding hands or picking up sand dollars. Hardy surfers in wet suits braved the 58-degree ocean water. He’d read online that this beach had some of the best surfing in the world.
    He snubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. This was bad. This was the way a guy turned into a stalker. He knew exactly how he’d describe it if he were pitching it as a story to his editors: “So the sweet young thing takes off to get in some personal work, and the randy old goat gets it in his head to take off after her. She hasn’t got a clue, so naturally he scares the shit out of her.” Jesus, that plane crash really had messed up his head. He’d gone fucking nuts.
    He shut his eyes listening to the ocean. And then, over the rumble, the sound of her voice, a memory covered in a medicated haze, came to him. “I was really into surfing.” When he opened them again, he began to scan the beach carefully. It didn't take long to spot her, coming out of the surf and pulling off a wet suit hood, all those bright, fine curls springing free as she shook her head, the surfboard under her arm tethered to her ankle. A group of three young men, also hauling surfboards, followed her up the beach. One must have called to her, because she stopped and turned to talk with them, laughing, and pointing out into the water.
    Sam watched in horror. This was something he hadn’t thought of. Maybe she had come here with one of those guys. Or hooked up once she got here. He immediately started plotting how to slink away before he was discovered. But then he saw her move off, giving them a wave, and pulling down the front zipper of her black neoprene suit, growing hot in the sun. Dropping the board, she peeled the suit down to her waist, a little blue bikini top under it. He watched, dry-mouthed, as she gathered her things and started up the path to the condos with the same fluid grace that had so captured him the first time he saw her in the newsroom.
    At a standing spigot, he saw her pull off the black booties she wore to protect her feet, and rinse the rest of the sand off as best she could. Then she walked up the stairs and went into her room.
    Walking around to the other side of the jutting condo, he caught sight of her just a few minutes later when she stepped out onto the balcony, now in just the tiny blue swimsuit, a blue-and-white striped towel in her hand, the sun hitting a quick, flashing glare off her St. Francis medal. She slung the wet suit over the railing, propped the surfboard against the siding and used the towel to brush away the remaining clinging sand. Then she went back inside.
    For a while he just stood