think it’s time for me to leave,” Kathryn said, scooting back her chair.
A ting-ting-tinging sound drew everyone’s attention. Next to the fountain, Barry Huttner, the Times’s chief operating officer, tapped the side of a glass with a knife.
“Everyone, your attention, please!” he said. As the conversations quieted, he continued, “Our publisher, Mr. Tallant, would like to say a few words.”
“Wonderful.” Kathryn sat back down. “I’m stuck.”
Anthony Tallant walked up to the fountain, carrying himself with the confidence of a man who’d never known struggle. “Thank you, everyone, for joining us on this lovely afternoon at Taboo. I hope you’re enjoying the appetizers, courtesy of the Times.”
Somebody whooped, followed by a ripple of laughter.
“Well, one person is obviously enjoying them,” he quipped, then grew serious. “As all of you know, the Times turns one-hundred-thirty-five-years old this year, a milestone for not only the oldest paper in the state, but also San Diego County’s oldest business.”
More applause.
“One reason the paper has survived this long is its willingness to take risks and tackle new ideas. This year my vision has been for the paper to increase its readership, and toward that means we kicked off the Crest of the Wave, awarded by the most readers’votes for their favorite Times editor. I’m very pleased that since we announced this contest, our circulation has increased seven percent.” He waited for applause. “And although votes are still coming in, we can safely say the winner will be one of two people who’ve taken the lead. In fact, the reader response has been so fantastic, we’ve decided to put Kathryn and Coyote on the road.”
Someone yelled, “Road trip!”
Kathryn froze.
Coyote laughed out loud.
“Not literally on a road trip,” said Tallant. “But down the road to a PR event. Tomorrow, they’ll be at Ocean Beach to hand out prizes for a surfing competition, to be covered of course by the San Diego Times.”
Tallant talked for a few more minutes before wrapping up with his customary “thanks for the hard work” sign-off. As he exited, shaking hands, people started milling about again. Gail was at the bar, ordering.
“Tell Gail I had to go.” Kathryn stood, grabbed her jacket, still more than a little in shock she’d be giving out awards for a surfing contest. She reached into her purse. “Give her a ten for me, okay?”
Zoe waved her hand. “I’ll get it. Better leave while the leaving’s good.”
With a nod, Kathryn did. She headed quickly to the elevators.
At street level, she walked briskly down the street. Traffic hummed, palm trees swayed and the horizon glowed pink and orange with the setting sun.
What did people wear to surfing-award ceremonies? One thing she was certain of, a knockoff designer business suit was hardly surf-babe attire. Maybe she’d stop at a little dress shop tomorrow, purchase something new. A summer dress. Sandals. Maybe a cute sweater to go with it. Never knew about California beach weather—could be cold or hot, even in the dead of winter.
She thought of Coyote looking at her, the way his eyes had devoured her.
Maybe she’d also buy some very sexy underwear. White, sheer, lacy.
Security, security, security.
The old voice was back. Now that she was away from the party atmosphere, security again took a front-row seat in her mind. She needed to win the Crest of the Wave to buy her dream condo with the beachfront view, not lose her head—and future—over a teenage infatuation.
“That’s right, don’t blow it,” she lectured herself. So what if the man was a walking molten mojo, she had to keep her head on straight.
She pulled back her shoulders, picked up her pace and walked purposefully down the sidewalk. Going somewhere, having a purpose, rebuilding security, that’s what really mattered.
Which she kept reminding herself all the way home, because somehow it didn’t ring as true as it once had.
THE NEXT DAY, at 4:50 p.m. sharp, Coyote stood partway down Ocean Beach Pier looking east down the long walkway toward its entrance. Late-afternoon fog had rolled in, cutting visibility to fifteen or twenty feet. Everything else was cloaked in gray, giving the world a surreal effect.
He’d been standing here for ten minutes, watching for Kathryn.
He checked his watch again. Four fifty-one. He was never a clock watcher, except when it came to sports, but today he was on pins and needles waiting and watching for her. The award ceremony kicked off in nine minutes. At the end of the pier, several hundred or so feet behind him, surfers, family, fans and a ragtag assortment of the media—mostly from the Times—were gathered for the festivities. He’d already passed the word to his team that this story and photo were to be on page one of tomorrow’s sports section, and no way was Kathryn being late going to blow it for him. He’d be in the photo shoot solo, if need be.
Come to think of it, that wasn’t such a bad idea.
His picture, his name, his do-gooding for handing out awards. There was a whole new, younger audience who’d see that photo and cast their votes for him.
A cold wind whipped past, and he buttoned his jacket. Time to split, get back to the ceremony. If Kathryn didn’t make it on time, tough. To the Coyote would go the spoils.
He started walking to the end of the pier.
Soft running steps behind him.
He turned back and saw the form of a woman, her hair flying as she ran in his direction.
Kathryn.
As she grew closer, the mist cleared and he saw her more clearly. Her hair flying, the hem of her long polka-dot dress—make that red polka dots—fluttering behind her, a smile on her face when she recognized him.
She reached him, heaving breaths.
“Hi,” she said, sweeping a ringlet of hair off her cheek. She wore a bright red sweater that nearly matched the flush in her cheeks.
“I was worried you’d be late,” he mumbled, trying to sound worried.
“Me, too.” She laughed lightly. “Me, late! Can you imagine?”
Believe me, I tried. “No, it’s difficult to imagine.”
He wrapped her arm through his—it felt so natural, as though they’d done this a hundred times—and began walking with her. A little boy tossed a piece of bread into the air. A flutter of white broke through the mist as seagulls descended on the food, their calls greedy and shrill.
To the victor go the spoils, although it wasn’t such a pretty sight.
“If this gets any worse, nobody’s going to be able to see their awards,” Kathryn
