Rising Tides by Maria Rachel Hooley

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter One
    Standing on an Oregon beach in early April, staring at the tide as it dragged in bits of driftwood, I wondered why I hadn't bothered to visit the ocean before.  The tide swept in, then swept out again, every now and again leaving tiny shells on smooth, wet sand that begged for someone to draw in it.
    While gazing out at the endless rolls and swells of water, I thought of two things.  First, I had just turned thirty a month ago. Second, I wouldn't live to see another birthday.
    Frowning, I eased off my shoes and stepped barefoot into the cold water.  A sudden breeze cut through my sweater, deepening the chill and reddening my skin.  I shivered and took in the empty beach, content in my solitude.  Glancing down, however, I saw fresh shoe prints, and I knew I wasn't alone.
    I looked up.  Overhead, in a blue, watercolor sky empty of clouds, white gulls flitted overhead, circling and reeling together, darting this way and that, dipping their wings aimlessly to the eye but intent, somehow knowing.  I breathed deeply, savoring the tang of the water.  Shivering, I stepped away from the shore into the grooved tracks made by other feet.
    Absently, I followed them, not knowing or caring why.  I  stretched so as to match the stride and place a foot in the center of each track.  My feet were smaller, like the shoes I carried in my arms.  The sand squished between my toes.  I quickened my pace, making a game of superimposing the impressions of my feet over those others, but the sand always shifted, making it hard to tell which, if either, had come first.   Sometimes I couldn’t tell where my foot had begun and the other ended.
    A hundred or so yards down the beach, a black-and-white Siberian husky darted in front of me and jumped on my legs, knocking me to the ground.  My shoes dropped from my grip.  I’d been so intent on my steps that I hadn’t seen him coming.  The dog nuzzled my cheek, tickling me with his cold nose.  Trying to ward him off, I covered my face.
    "Larkin, down!" a deep voice called.  The husky shied away, barked once, and sat back on his haunches, one ear cocked skyward.
    I lowered my hands and saw sunlight burnish the face half-silhouetted before me, turning the man’s short, brown hair auburn.  He offered his hand, and I reluctantly took it—heeding if nothing else, the damp ground soaking my clothing.
    "Quite a friend you've got there," I blurted—awkward yes, but all I could think of.  I stood and brushed the sand from my jeans and sweater.
    "Sorry about that."  The man moved behind me and helped flick the grit from my back.  "He loves people.  There,” he said at length, “You're clean again."  He bent down, picked up my shoes, and handed them to me.
    I took them.  “Thanks.”
    He smiled and offered his hand for the second time.  "Tyler Adams."
    I shook it.  "Kelly Jamisen."
    “That’s Larkin.”  He pointed at the dog, which had lost interest in us and paddled into the water, chasing the waves.
    I looked at Tyler’s fullbody wetsuit.  “Are you going for a swim?”
    “No.  I’m going sailing.”  Tyler gestured down the beach to a catamaran.
    “Isn’t it a bit cold?”  I folded my arms over my chest.     
    "Yeah.  I won’t actually be in the water, but if I fly the hulls, I’ll get wet, anyway.  The suit keeps me warm enough." We strode toward the boat, and when we got there, he pulled on a rope that raised a rainbowstriped sail.  A long metal pole perpendicular to the mast held the sail taut.
    "Ever been?" he asked, tying the rope around the mast.  He turned, waiting.
    "No, I haven't."  I stared at him, mostly at his black wetsuit, which made his body look like a part of the boat.  His fingers travelled over the ropes and wires, tightening, straightening, doublechecking with such a routine calm I knew he did this often.
    I looked at the sail and thought again of all the things I had always meant to do, now