The Good Widow(29)
Nick’s reaction is instantaneous. His arm shoots to the left and pulls me upright so swiftly that the members of our group don’t even notice. He guides my hand back to the rope, holding it until my grasp is steady.
“Remember, safety rule number one was don’t let go.”
“Maybe I should’ve paid more attention,” I say loudly over the sound of the engine, hating that I’ve been so vulnerable in front of him. Hating that I’m showing him the reasons I fear James had wanted Dylan over me: I can be cranky, irrational, and clumsy as hell.
We speed out to the ocean, finally stopping near a cove. I pull my hand from the rope; I’ve been gripping it so tightly that there is a bright-red burn mark on my palm. I begrudgingly admit to myself that the ride to the caverns was almost pleasant. It wasn’t quite exhilarating, but when two silver dolphins sprang from the water, I felt a pinprick of happiness—the first I’d experienced since James’s death—but it was so quick I could almost tell myself I’d imagined it.
Adam drives the boat into a cave and ties it up to two steel posts he’s clearly used many times before. I swallow my urge to make a sarcastic remark about his use of the word secret to describe the things we’ll see today as he and the two other guides start handing out snorkel gear. I shake my head when Adam comes to me.
“What? Don’t want to get your hair wet?” Nick says so only I can hear as he takes two sets of gear.
I start to tell him I’m scared of the water, but James’s cutting words about using my fear as a crutch comes to mind.
“I guess I don’t get why we have to snorkel with Adam to get info from him. Can’t we just talk to him on the boat while everyone else goes to look at the”—I stop to make air quotes—“exotic fish?”
“Because we have to blend in. We can’t just come right out and say what we’re really doing here.”
“Why not?”
Nick gives me a hard look. “Come on, Jacks. No one is going to tell us anything if we come at them like that. We need to caress the information out of them. Just like last night with the bartender; we need to pretend we’re nothing more than James and Dylan’s friends who are taking the same sightseeing trip they did. So that means we need to snorkel.”
“Is that what you did with the concierge and the front desk girl? Caress upgrades and details out of them?”
Nick smiles. “Something like that.”
“You sure we can’t caress him in the boat? With our life jackets on?” I try.
“No. Today we are tourists, and we came on this tour because we are really interested in the secret sea life in these caves.”
“You caught that too, huh?” I smile, my nerves starting to calm. Well, until I look down at the face masks he’s holding; then my heart starts pounding. I have to tell him the truth. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Why not?”
“Never mind,” I say, playing with the strap on my life jacket.
“Tell me,” Nick says kindly, keeping his eyes focused on me.
“Okay,” I say, his gaze settling me. “I have a slight fear of that.” I motion toward the dark water.
Nick doesn’t skip a beat. “I think I can help. Close your eyes.”
“What? Why? So you can throw me in there?” I picture my mom standing over me in the pool.
“Why the hell would I do that?” He shakes his head, then places his hands on my shoulders. “Just trust me.”
I don’t want to shut my eyes, be in total darkness. I want to keep them open—look around, get the answers I need. But trust him? No thanks. Been there, done that. Didn’t work out so well.
But.
His eyes.
They are steely gray with a few flecks of gold, and when they fixate on you, they are so comforting. When I look into them, I almost feel like I can see right into his soul.
“Will you just close them?”
“Fine,” I finally say, leaning in slightly to let the Bermuda-shorts couple move past, both of them jumping into the water with abandon.
Show-offs.
Nick starts to speak, and his voice is calm and steady. He asks me to imagine white light encapsulating me and reminds me to breathe deeply. It feels awkward standing here with my eyes squeezed closed, but my shoulders give way to the tone of his voice, relaxing as he whispers. His breath tickles my ear, telling me a story—one in which I am brave, living in a world where I conquer my fear of the water and finally learn to enjoy what has terrified me for so long. My initial instinct is to laugh—imagining myself in a Hunger Games–like competition, clad in a scuba suit with fire painted across it, as I thrash through the water like it’s an enemy I’m overtaking—but I don’t, because his words are working. I am listening. Until I hear only the sounds of the waves lapping against the rocks and distant voices.
“How do you feel?” he asks when I look at him.
“Much better—how did you do that?”
“In my job I come across a lot of people who are experiencing trauma. Meditation and visualization calms them. A lot of guys on the force who are more old school, they don’t do it. But I’ve noticed a huge difference in how it helps victims—and me.”
He says the last part so quietly I almost don’t hear him. I think about the terrible things he must see when he’s working—nothing compared to my silly fear of water. I say as much to him.