Nobody's Hero. Carrie AlexanderЧитать онлайн книгу.
of rising tide.
“You’re fine.” He reeled in the line. The waves lapped at her shins. “Try again.”
Pippa got it on the third attempt and slipped the loop over her head and shoulders before clamping herself to the rock again. She closed her eyes and said, “Okay,” through chattering teeth.
Not okay. He gripped the end of the worn rope, praying it was strong enough. “You have to climb down. Or jump.”
She stared at the tumultuous gap between them. “In the water?”
At Whitlock’s Arrow, the surf boomed as loud as thunderclaps. He’d read Pippa’s lips more than heard her. “Keep hold of the rope,” he yelled, hoping she’d understand. “I’ll reel you in.”
She looked down, then clutched at the craggy rock. “I can’t!”
“You have to. I can’t come to you.” As it was, he could only hope he’d be able to catch her before the waves slammed her into the rock—or pulled her under.
She hunched her shoulders up around her ears and shook her head, her eyelids squeezed shut again.
“You can’t wait!” he roared. He didn’t give her time to think, just leaned farther over the edge of the rock and whipped the line taut between them, giving her middle a jerk. “Jump this way when I say go.”
He’d been watching the waves. They came in escalating series of seven. When the largest one broke, showering both of them with foam, he barked, “Go!” and gave the rope another pull.
Pippa plunged into the water and was immediately swept sideways into the current, heading directly toward a half-submerged rock. The rope caught her up short. The sharp snap sent a jolt juddering up Sean’s arm into his shoulder. She surfaced, white-faced and sputtering.
He pulled her in hand over hand, sliding dangerously low over the rock ledge, his thighs straining. The adrenaline that burned through him gave his numbed arms an extra shot of strength.
A wave descended as he reached in to haul her out. She was deadweight, and he had only enough time to press them both against the rock face, clinging like limpets as the icy water pelted them. When the waves receded he pushed her up and followed with a great heave, covering her as the next rush arrived.
Immediately he got Pippa moving, herding her along mercilessly until they were beyond the waves. They slumped onto the pebbly beach, and he pulled her roughly into his arms, chafing at her limbs to bring the blood up.
The sodden lump of her spiral-bound notebook fell out of the front of her windbreaker, along with her glasses. She reached for them.
He closed a hand over hers. “Dammit, Pippa. What did you think you were you doing, following me down here? Do you realize the danger you were in?”
The girl gasped for air. “D-don’t tell my mo-mom.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “You know I have to.”
Pippa’s shoulders shook violently against his chest. He felt as though he’d been cracked open against the rocks and emptied out, but still he cradled her, willing his warmth into the girl’s small body even when he believed he had none left to give.
He wouldn’t have this one’s fate on his conscience.
CLEAR MIND, pure heart, gentle soul.
Despite Connie’s best intentions, her lips tightened, her fingers curled toward her palms. Maybe it worked for some, but to her the mantra was a load of claptrap. She had way too much going on to forget for even a minute.
Breathe, woman. Relax and give it another go. You’re on a picturesque island sixteen miles off the Maine coast. You can’t get any more idyllic. The oms should be rolling off your tongue.
Connie had plunked herself on the ground outside the guesthouse. Her friend Lena swore by meditation, but then Lena was the sort of woman who kept a yoga mat in her desk drawer, which happened to be in her corner window office in the busiest business tower at the intersection of Boston’s noisiest streets. Lena was the calm at the eye of the tornado.
Whereas tornado was Connie’s middle name. When she made time for the gym, it was to take a kickboxing class. No oms, just right jab, left jab, kick, kick, kick.
Kay Sheffield, who’d yoo-hoo’d Connie from a leisurely breakfast on her seaside patio to say there was a touch of yellow in the maze hedge and that if Connie couldn’t replace the section—yeah, sure, overnight—she might want to consider green spray paint? Pow.
The supplier who’d screwed up a gravel shipment, leaving Connie and her day workers empty-handed at the dock in the morning fog? Punch.
Graves, who’d absconded with several of her tools, even though they were clearly marked Bradford Garden Designs, and had then said—to her face—that she must have lost them? Bam, bam, bam. Three lightning kicks, right under the chin.
Connie untangled herself out of the pretzel pose and leaned back on her hands to look up at the cloudless sky. Meditation wasn’t working. No surprise. When Philip had been sick as a dog from chemo and she’d been half out of her mind, trying to take care of him and Pippa while beginning work toward her master gardener qualification, the only calm she’d known had been in their tiny backyard. Little by little she’d weeded, planted and pruned until the space had become a lush green paradise.
She’d always remember the quiet evenings in the garden with Phil, how he’d made her promise that she wouldn’t give up on her dream, no matter what.
Connie squeezed her lids shut. If he could see her now, he’d bust with pride.
He’d also be terribly concerned about Pippa. He’d always known the right way to comfort their daughter without coddling her, while Connie couldn’t seem to get it right no matter what she tried. She was either too harsh, to toughen Pippa up, or too open and easy, to encourage Pippa’s independence.
Then again, everything was ten times more difficult without Phil. Whenever Connie thought she had herself under control and her life in order, she was reminded how alone she was without him.
Were her struggles the result of missing her husband, or simply the lot of every single working parent?
Probably both, she conceded. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without a partner. In recent weeks, her loneliness had even led to a few thoughts about agreeing to one of Lena’s setups.
But she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Lena’s men were business executives with sky-box connections to the Sox. Connie was a hot-dogs-in-the-bleachers woman. Only a rare man would pique her interest. None had landed on her doorstep.
“Mrs. Bradford?”
The sudden shout of her name was a shock. She sprang up as Sean Rafferty came around the corner of the house at a brisk clip. “Sorry to disturb you.” He was out of breath. “I caught a glimpse and—”
“No, that’s fine.” She slapped the pine needles off her butt. “I was taking a break, is all.” Why should that fluster her? “I, uh, didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but since you’re here, I ought to…” She stopped to inhale, which should have slowed her galloping pulse. “Apologize.”
The man pulled up short, apparently speechless.
“I was wrong. I admit it. I jumped to conclusions about you, Mr. Rafferty, and I’m sorry. You’re not a—a—” She gestured with both hands, trying to think of polite words rather than the blunt ones she was more accustomed to using. Watching her salty tongue around her new class of clientele was a job in itself.
“A monster?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.
“A child molester.” A spade was a spade, even if it was in the hands of a resentful gardener like Graves.
“That’s good, because…” Sean inclined his head toward the front of the house.