the storm had worsened even in the past half hour. The Jet Ski driver had no doubt been taken by surprise as well, though he continued to meander rather than making for shore. “Hey,” Reuben called over the sound of the engine.
The man didn’t hear him.
Reuben edged the boat closer, ten feet away, until the guy looked up, face slack with surprise. “We can take you back,” Reuben shouted. “Climb aboard and we’ll tow the ski.”
The man didn’t react. Reuben assumed he hadn’t heard and was about to repeat the message when the craft abruptly turned around and sped off toward the Florida coast, heaving on the angry waves.
Reuben shot a look at Silvio, who was shaking his head. “Told you. Thickheaded. He’s got to learn the hard way.”
Reuben’s stomach tightened for some reason he could not fathom. He did not think the man had been circling in the midst of a storm for pleasure. There was something intense about the hostile stare, the tight mouth—something cold and hard. Contrary to Reuben’s assessment, the guy was obviously quite competent on his Jet Ski.
Silvio patted his shoulder. “Come on, boy. Enough good deeds. Back now. Got to batten down.”
Reuben snapped out of his reverie after one more look at the departing jet skier, who was nearly out of sight. He was ready to push back toward Isla when something caught his eye, a glimmer of color that did not match the angry gray of the sea. He looked again and saw only the roiling surf.
“Let’s go,” Silvio repeated.
“Hang on,” Reuben said, wiping the spray from his face. “I saw something.” Seconds ticked into a full minute. Another glimmer—yellow. Something yellow. His heart contracted. A swimmer?
“Hold her steady,” he shouted to Silvio as he climbed to the edge of the boat and over the metal railing, which was heaving so violently he could not hope to fish the woman, or whatever it was, out of the water.
“Ya crazy, boy?”
Reuben ignored him as he pinpointed the location of the yellow flash and dove in. The violence of the water disoriented him, and he closed his mouth to keep from swallowing. Now he could see nothing but a wall of ocean, pitching and heaving around him. He did a slow circle, salt stinging his eyes.
Silvio’s right. You are crazy. It had probably been a plastic bag or a towel lost by a careless beachgoer, certainly not a woman. He turned to swim back to the boat when he saw it again, only this time he was not imagining it.
Out of the gray surge he saw a woman’s raised hand, silhouetted for a moment against the waning sun. Then the waves rose up between them and she disappeared.
TWO
Antonia realized the error in her plan. Though the water was in the seventy-degree range, her teeth had begun to chatter and the inactivity left her chilled and numb. She couldn’t see the man on the watercraft at the moment, but she knew he could stay on that Jet Ski much longer than she could tread water. It was too far to shore, and even Isla Marsopa was impossible for her to reach without being seen.
Panic began to edge up in her gut as the waves slapped harder at her face and shoulders. She was beginning to lose her sense of direction as the cold gripped her. At one point she thought she heard a motor, but the roaring sea confused her ears. The sky was dimming. Soon it would be too dark for him to spot her, but it would also be impossible for her to find her way back to shore.
She would be adrift, gradually sucked under into a dark void until her lungs filled with water.
Antonia knew there were many more lives hanging in the balance than her own. If she died, who would help support Mia and Gracie? Who would send the small payments to their mother, who had moved into a trailer home in Jacksonville when she could no longer manage the house? Antonia tried to quell the panic and kicked harder to keep her chin above water. Soon she would have no choice but to make for Isla Marsopa and hope she could avoid detection. She did not allow herself to imagine what Reuben would say if she managed to make it to his shore.
What seemed like an endless amount of time went by before she realized she could not even hear the Jet Ski anymore, nor could she spot the driver’s bulky form over the cresting waves. Had he really gone? A wall of water obscured everything else from view. She did not dare believe it, but gone or not, she had to make for Isla before she drowned. She remembered her father’s voice, patient and soft, teaching her to swim when she was a child. Let the water hold you up, Antonia. Don’t fight it.
She tried to relax, but her fear had risen high enough to override good sense. Forcing her arms into action, she pushed in what she hoped was the right direction. Waves sucked and pulled at her and every stroke was a fight. Chin down, she fought as hard as she could against the ocean, but, like her father also reminded her many times before he passed, The ocean always wins.
She would not let it win now. Teeth gritted, she kicked hard and cut through the waves, making what she thought was good progress until she stopped to rest and felt herself being sucked back toward the mainland, in spite of her efforts to tread water.
Father God, help me.
It was dark now, and a spatter of rain had begun to fall. Her ears rang with the sound of the ocean. Ahead she imagined she saw a light. Had she gone farther than she thought? Was it the light from the old hotel? A boat? With a final burst of energy she fought her way toward it until her arm came into contact unexpectedly with something soft and pliable. She grabbed at it, but her fingers slipped loose.
Then a hand took hold of her wrist, and she felt herself being towed along. Poor light and the spray of surf and rain made it impossible to see who was dragging her along, but she knew it did not matter anyway. Staying in the ocean meant death. She tried to kick her feet and help her rescuer, but her legs had become so cold and numb she was a helpless weight.
Then there was a boat. Cold metal. Calloused hands reaching down. Strong arms holding her up. Wind teasing goose bumps onto her skin. A familiar old man plucked her from the ocean, leading her to a seat and wrapping a musty blanket that smelled faintly of trout around her shoulders.
She was shaking so badly that her vision blurred. Blinking hard and clamping her jaw shut to keep her teeth from rattling, she shook the hair from her face and looked into the broad cheekbones, the full lips, the chin with a scar and those eyes that held so many secrets. Reuben Sandoval stood on the heaving deck, water dripping from his cropped hair, molding the T-shirt and shorts around his lithe body.
She was too cold to feel surprise, shock, dismay or any other emotion. It was as if she had landed in a strange dream and the only functioning part of her body was the part that said, Thank You, God, that I am alive.
Reuben knelt on the deck and looked intently at her, as if he were trying to convince himself what he saw was real. He said something in a voice so low she could not hear it over her chattering teeth. He reached toward her, and for a brief moment she felt a combined terror and longing. Instead of embracing her, he pulled the blanket more firmly around her shoulders.
Then he took the captain’s chair next to her and asked Silvio, the old man whom she recognized, to take them back.
Back where?
To the mainland where her small battered house waited?
To the dock where she remembered suddenly she’d left her art
