to ask if there was any possible way she could come down and take care of the critters for just a few days. It was only a five-hour drive, one way. Ferry included.
Molly had gone right out and splurged on three new outfits suitable for a beach vacation in late April. If she could have found a T-shirt that said Live For The Moment, or Go With The Flow, she would probably have bought it, never mind that she was built more for tents and tunics than T-shirts.
She remembered singing “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” under her breath as she’d stood there on the ferry watching the water of Hatteras Inlet flow past. Where better than an island to adopt that attitude?
The teenage girls had giggled and postured. They were a bit underdressed for the weather, which was still cool. But then, if she’d had their figures she might have done some showing off, too. The ferry had been loaded with fishermen, some of them young and attractive. A few were asleep in their vehicles, a few more were outside comparing fishing gear. Most were watching the girls, except for one who was—mercy, he looked like a young Sly Stallone!—watching her!
Watching her?
Pretending she hadn’t noticed, Molly concentrated on a big black bird sitting on a post out in the water, his wings spread as if he were about to take off.
“Cormorant,” said the Stallone look-alike, edging closer along the railing. “Drying his wings.” Up close, he was only a few inches taller than Molly’s modest five foot two, and already he was showing signs of a beer belly, but he had a nice smile.
She glanced up at the cloudless sky, then back at Sleepy Eyes. “How did they get wet?”
“Diving for dinner.”
She remembered trying to look as if she knew precisely what he meant, but as the whole experience had been so new, she probably hadn’t been too convincing.
“First time down here?” he asked.
“Actually, it is.”
“Me, I come every year, spring and fall. Me and my buddies enter tournaments all up and down the coast. The weather can turn on you real quick this time of year, though. You shoulda waited a few weeks.”
“Fishing tournaments?”
He pointed to the small pennant flying from the antenna of his dark green pickup truck. “O.I.F.T. That’s Ocracoke International or Invitational, anyway you want to call it.” He went on to describe several such tournaments and his prowess at each while Molly soaked up the novelty of sunshine and seagulls, a moving deck underfoot and the full attention, for the moment at least, of a handsome young man. Could someone have waved a magic wand, turning plain, plump Molly Dewhurst into someone her own mirror wouldn’t recognize? Had the lumbering old ferryboat been a pumpkin in a previous incarnation?
“Cut bait’s what you want. Some like bloodworms, but me, I like salt mullet best.”
All right, so his charm was a little on the rustic side. No one had ever accused her of being a snob.
Reaching into the back of his truck, he took a can of beer from the cooler, offered it to Molly, and when she refused, popped the top and drained half the contents in one thirsty gulp.
Molly fingered a strand of blowing hair away from her eyes. Sunglasses. She should have thought to get herself a pair. Big ones. Then she could ogle all she wanted to without getting caught at it. She’d invested in a new lipstick, a new hairstyle and the new outfits, but spending money on herself took practice. She hadn’t quite got the knack of it yet.
“Where you staying?” he drawled. He had one of those raspy voices that went with his sleepy eyes.
Molly swallowed hard and tried to sound terribly blasé. “It’s a cottage. My sister’s. Actually it’s not hers. She’s only renting it.”
“So maybe I’ll see you around?” Was that an opening or a dismissal?
She took several mental steps back. She didn’t do casual flirtations. The old Molly had never had a chance to learn, and the new Molly needed to work on self-confidence first. “Maybe so,” she said airily. “If I don’t see you again, good luck in the tournament.”
“When it comes to fishing, I make my own luck.” He flashed her a lazy grin. “There’s sixty teams in this one, with a mile-long waiting list. If you’re a betting woman, put your money on ol’ Jeffy Smith.”
“Thank you. I’ll, uh—do that.” Molly remembered thinking at the time that men based their ego on the strangest things. Her ex-husband, for instance, made certain everyone knew he’d gone to Yale, never mind that he’d lasted only a single semester. Jeffy Smith evidently took pride in his prowess as a fisherman—or maybe in being a member of an exclusive group. But he’d been friendly. He’d seemed nice. He was attractive in a rough sort of way. And as she had recently cast off her old persona, determined to take a cue from a recruiting slogan and become all she could become, she’d responded with a smile.
And then Jeffy had tossed his beer can over the side, patted his belly and belched. So much for her ferryboat Prince Charming. He was obviously a man’s man. But then, she’d reminded herself, her ex-husband had been a ladies’ man. Of the two, she preferred the slob.
Correction. Of the two, she preferred neither. Still, it was a shame. Her very first shipboard romance, and it had ended before it even began.
“We’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. Now, remember, if you need any help learning how to hold a rod, you just call on ol’ Jeffy.” His eyes had twinkled. He had black eyes, black hair and a three-days’ growth of beard. Molly hadn’t known if it was a fashion statement or one of those things men did when they were off the reservation. With Kenny, it had been just the opposite. When he was home, he never bothered to shave or even comb his hair, but if he’d been going out anywhere at all, it was full-dress parade, from the fancy designer shoes he had charged to her account to the expensive cologne he splashed on his throat before he buttoned his designer shirt and knotted his designer tie.
Once when he’d gone on and on about designer this and designer that, she’d asked him who designed the clothes that didn’t bear a designer’s label. He’d given her a blank stare and asked for fifty dollars to tide him over.
That was another thing about Kenny Dewhurst. He was totally devoid of a sense of humor. He was equally devoid of any funds except those provided by his doormat of a wife.
Ex-doormat, Molly remembered thinking. Breathing deeply of freedom, diesel fumes and salt air, she had smiled at the semi-handsome slob leaning on the railing beside her while the heavy engines throbbed beneath her feet. Here she was, under a cloudless blue sky, off on an island adventure, and before she even set foot on the island, a friendly man had struck up a conversation with her while only a few feet away three really cute girls, size zilch, were flirting with his fishing buddies.
The engines had changed pitch as the ferry swerved into a narrow channel. Her Stallone look-alike had said, “Guess I’d better load up. So…I guess I’ll see you around, huh?”
“Probably. I understand it’s a small island.” Nice going, Molly. Not too eager, not too cool. She had climbed back into her car and watched through the rearview mirror as he rejoined his friends. There were some knowing grins, a few elbows to the ribs, and then they stowed their gear and climbed into their muscle trucks.
“Stowed
