In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [69]
This was a man’s boat, no fuss, no frills, no decor, and immaculate as an operating theater. She edged up to the bow and leaned her arms on the rail, staring into the green depths. Her mind was back in New York, in that hospital room with the uniformed cop outside, guarding a dying man. Tears slid uncontrollably down her face, plopping into the still water, and she rested her head on the rail, letting emotion wash over her.
After a while, Camelia found her there. He stood awkwardly to one side. Her sobs shook her slender body, but for the life of him he could not find the right words of comfort.
“There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been said, Mel,” he told her finally. “Nothing to do that isn’t already being done.”
She nodded. “I know.” Her voice was muffled and he went to stand next to her at the rail. He wanted to hold her, just the way he had that first day he had met her. Only now he knew her, and the ache for her was different.
Something caught his eye. Something drifting, pulling on the anchor chain. He leaned over the rail, peering at the shape, just visible under the shifting water.
He searched around for a grappling iron, found one in the locker, and hurried back. He leaned over the side, maneuvering until he hooked it. He was sweating; it was a dead weight and he couldn’t lift it. Somehow it had hooked onto the anchor chain.
He let go of it. “Mel, honey,” he said, and, God bless her, she lifted her head and gave him a watery smile.
“I told you that ‘honey’ thing was catching,” she said with a hiccup.
“Baby,” he changed it firmly, “why don’t you go and take a nice little siesta on one of those comfy loungers back at the house.”
Her eyes opened wide. “Why?”
He sighed, but he guessed he would have to tell her sometime. “I think we may have found something of interest on the boat. I’m gonna call the local sheriff, have him come out here.”
She hung over the rail. “I don’t see anything.”
“Something’s caught on the anchor chain. I need help to get it up.”
Her eyes rounded with alarm. “You don’t think . . . ?”
“I don’t know what I think. Meantime, go and make yourself a cup of tea or whatever southern belles do when they are not wanted around.”
“Chamomile tea,” she said, mopping her red eyes with a tired-looking Kleenex. He offered her his handkerchief.
“Déjà vu all over again.” Still sniffing, she managed a grin, remembering when she had guessed he was married because of the clean handkerchief he always carried. “But don’t think you’re getting rid of me so easily, Detective Camelia. I’m staying right here until we find out what’s in the water.”
“You might not like it,” he warned.
“I’ll take my chances.”
Mel walked back along the deck. She took a seat in the shade while Camelia called the local cops. He came back, sat next to her. “They’ll be here in ten,” he said, and they sat silently, looking out at the ocean. Waiting.
39
The Sheriff’s Department was efficient. They brought a diver with them, plus enormous grappling irons, steel cutters, and a couple of burly deputies. They shook hands, said they were glad to meet them, and got to work.
Banished to the terrace, Mel watched the diver slip over the side, then disappear under the water. In no time at all, he popped back up again.
“It’s some kind of cooler,” she heard him say. “Except somebody went to the trouble of wrapping a load of heavy chain around it. Fucker weighs a ton.”
The sheriff handed him the steel cutters and he dived back down. Mel waited expectantly for him to emerge, but this time he took forever. She could see Camelia pacing the deck, hands behind his back, looking as out of place in this seascape as a dandelion in Times Square. The wind ruffled his sleek dark hair and she smiled. Camelia was a hunk, though he probably didn’t