siestas.
She dragged in a breath, and it was filled with the warm smells of sand and salty sea, plus the more pungent aroma of Uncle John’s infamous chicory coffee as it wafted from inside the house.
Having been born and raised in the Crescent City, John swore his java was the cure for anything from a concussion to the common cold. Of course, John was also a vocal proponent of marijuana, claiming he smoked it for his glaucoma, even though Alex was pretty sure his eyes were just fine.
In short, Uncle John enjoyed his substances.
She remembered one evening when he’d found her sitting out on the dock. For nearly thirty minutes while the sun sank into the sea, he’d regaled her with his theory that it was crazy-pants that humans drank the milk of other mammals.
I mean, it’s not natural. If it were natural, you’d see a hippo gettin’ a gullet full of gazelle milk, right? He’d waved his joint in the air. Scientifically speakin’, we’re pretty screwed up as a species.
When Alex had asked him, How high are you? his answer had been, Yes. Then he’d grinned and declared, But see, that’s the thing about bein’ stoned. It makes you interestin’. Much better than alcohol, which makes you dumb.
She found herself smiling at the memory, and was surprised because she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of smiling. Not today.
Meat ambled by her, stopping to sniff her toes before following his nose around the side of the porch. Li’l Bastard strutted in Meat’s wake, clucking contentedly. And once again, that word drifted through her head, as sweet as a lullaby.
Home…
If she couldn’t find a way to reconcile her feelings for Mason, what would that mean for her future on the island?
The Deep Six guys needed her. Because even though the colonial Spanish documents pertaining to the sinking of the Santa Cristina were written in a language very similar to the one still spoken today, the writing itself had drastically changed over the centuries.
The flowing script, called procesal, had rounded symbols connected by long Arabic-like letters. She was one of about twenty people alive who could translate it, thanks to an interest she took in it after doing her undergrad thesis on Mel Fisher’s hunt for, and eventual excavation of, the renowned Atocha. Afterward, she’d spent a year in Seville, Spain, under the tutelage of a master in procesal.
But she could read the old documents for the guys from anywhere. And even though it would break her heart to leave, she didn’t know if she could stand staying, what with—
She felt his presence behind her before she heard his footfall.
“Alex?” His deep voice was soft. His tone inquisitive.
She clutched the broom handle tightly and briefly squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to prepare herself for the visual onslaught that was Mason McCarthy. Turning slowly, she made extra sure what was in her heart didn’t show on her face. “Yeah?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
She wondered what her response should be to this seemingly inane bit of information. So it is? Bon appétit? Did you know the abbreviation “lunch” is taken from the Northern English word “luncheon,” which is itself derived from the Anglo-Saxon word “nuncheon” or “nunchin” meaning “noon drink”?
For a woman usually brimming with words, she suddenly was at a loss in coming up with anything appropriately frivolous or pithy. Also, a noon drink sounded pretty good right about now.
“I made BLTs,” he added.
She nodded hesitantly. “Ohhh-kay. Should I tell everyone to come—”
“No.” His eyes were so intent on hers, she couldn’t have looked away even if she wanted to. “Only made enough for you and me. Thought we could have a picnic.”
Her mouth fell open and a breeze picked up a strand of her hair, depositing it inside. She pulled it out at the same time she croaked, “Why?”
A line appeared between his eyebrows. “’Cause we’re friends, right?”
She blinked. Friends? He still wanted to be friends?
Well, of course he did. Because in his mind, he’d done nothing wrong. In his mind—
“And I didn’t sleep with Donna,” he added, and her jaw unhinged a second time. The wind saw the move as another invitation.
My right boob for a hair tie! she thought wildly as she yanked a strand of hair from her mouth again. The beach house ate her ponytail holders. That was all she could figure.
He looked away, out toward the beach where Wolf and Chrissy stood fishing. “It didn’t hit me ’til I was packing the picnic what you musta thought when