Lifeguard - James Patterson [2]
So I was sitting on the beach wall that beautiful day. I shot a wave to Miriam, who lived in the large Mediterranean next door, who was walking her Yorkies, Nicholas and Alexandra, on the beach. A couple of kids were surfing about a hundred yards offshore. I was thinking I’d do a run-swim-run. Jog about a mile up the beach, swim back, then run hard up and back. All the while watching the ocean.
Then like some dream—there she was.
In a great blue bikini, ankle-deep in surf. Her long reddish brown hair knotted up in a twist with a flutter of tendrils.
Right away, it was as if there was something sad about her, though. She was staring vacantly at the horizon. I thought she was dabbing her eyes.
I had this flash: the beach, the waves, the pretty, lovelorn girl—like she was going to do something crazy!
On my beach.
So I jogged down to her in the surf. “Hey . . .”
I shielded my eyes and squinted into that gorgeous face. “If you’re thinking what I think you are, I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Thinking what?” She looked up at me, surprised.
“I don’t know. I see a beautiful girl on a beach, dabbing her eyes, staring forlornly out to sea. Wasn’t there some kind of movie like that?”
She smiled. That’s when I could see for sure she’d been crying. “You mean, where the girl on a hot afternoon goes in for an afternoon swim?”
“Yeah,” I said with a shrug, suddenly a little embarrassed, “that’s the one.”
She had a thin gold chain around her neck, and a perfect tan. An accent, maybe English. God, she was a knockout.
“Guess I was just being cautious. Didn’t want any accidents on my beach.”
“Your beach?” she said, glancing up at Sollie’s. “Your house, too, I guess?” She smiled, clearly toying with me.
“Sure. You see the window above the garage? Here, you can see it.” I shifted her. “Through the palms. If you lean this way . . .”
Like an answer to my prayers, I got her to laugh.
“Ned Kelly.” I stuck out my hand.
“Ned Kelly? Like the outlaw?”
I did a double take. No one had ever said that to me. I just stood there with a dumb-ass, starstruck grin. Don’t think I even let go of her hand.
“Sydney. New South Wales,” she said, displaying her Aussie “Strine,” her accent.
“Boston.” I grinned back.
And that was how it started. We chatted a little more, about how she’d been living there for a couple of months and how she’d take long walks on the beach. She said she might come back this way the next day. And I said there was a chance I might be there, too. As I watched her walk away, I figured she was probably laughing at me behind those $400 Chanel sunglasses.
“By the way,” she said, suddenly turning, “there was a movie. Humoresque. With Joan Crawford. You should check it out.”
I rented Humoresque that night, and it ended with the beautiful heroine drowning herself by walking into the sea.
And on Wednesday Tess came back. Looking even hotter, in this black one-piece suit and a straw hat. She didn’t seem sad. We took a swim and I told her I would teach her how to bodysurf and for a while she went along. Then as I let her go she hopped the right wave and crested in like a pro. She laughed at me from the shore. “I’m from Australia, silly. We have our Palm Beach, too. Just past Whale Beach, north of Sydney.”
We made a “date” for lunch at the Brazilian Court in two days. That’s where she was staying, one of the most fashionable places in town, a few blocks off Worth Avenue. Those two days were like an eternity for me. Every ring of my cell phone I figured was her canceling. But she didn’t. We met in Café Boulud, where you have to make a reservation a month in advance unless you’re Rod Stewart or someone. I was as nervous as a kid going out on his first date. She was already sitting at the table in a sexy off-the-shoulder dress. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. We never