Beach House Reunion (Beach House #5)(57)

“I know,” he replied easily, reaching out to take her turtle team bag. “I thought I’d tag along, if that’s okay.” He pointed to his chest. “I even wore my turtle shirt.”

“I saw,” Linnea said, raising one brow with amusement. “I have to say, I’m surprised you have one.”

“Are you kidding? My mom’s on the team, remember?”

She laughed. It was just like Emmi to give her son a Turtle Team shirt every year, convinced he’d want one as much as she did. As far as Emmi was concerned, nothing was cooler than being on the turtle team.

“So, no surfing today?” she asked.

“It’s a lake out there today. We’re not missing anything. Shall we go? Mom’s already sitting by the phone, waiting for calls.”

They walked along the beach in the same relaxed manner in which they paddled out on their boards. Completely at ease, they talked about anyone and anything. Linnea always started her walk toward Breach Inlet. Then she’d turn around and head all the way north to Ninth Avenue. Beyond that was someone else’s area to monitor. It was an easy walk, no more than half an hour, designed to get all the volunteers’ turtle track sightings reported by seven o’clock.

“Have you found any leads yet for a job?” he asked.

“No,” Linnea replied. “But I’ve narrowed my search.”

“Location-wise?”

“No, I’m pinpointing what part of the field I’m most interested in. As for location, I’m open to moving, but I’ve concentrated on the South.”

“Do you want some help?”

She turned her head, curious. “You know the business?”

“No. But I’m a whiz at search engines. And . . . you might consider broadening your location search. California might be someplace to start looking. Lots of opportunities.”

“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.”

He looked at her and said, “What are friends for?”

Linnea swiped a pesky mosquito from her face, then stopped to tuck her hair into her turtle team cap. Something at the water’s edge a distance away caught her attention. She squinted at the large, dark shape.

“John!” she called out, pointing. “Do you see that?”

Not waiting for an answer, she took off at a clip toward the bridge at Breach Inlet. Her heels dug into the soft sand along this always-changing section of beach. The turbulent water of Breach Inlet roiled as she trotted toward the mysterious shadowed hulk that lay unmoving near the base of the bridge.

It was a sea turtle! Her breath caught in her throat, and she ran faster, her heart pounding in her chest. An adult. Probably a female. As she drew closer, her heart nearly broke at the tragedy of losing a nesting female holding future generations.

John came to a stop behind her and whistled softly. “That’s a big one.”

“Yeah,” she said, and began rolling up her pants. It was the biggest she’d ever seen, a full-grown turtle, maybe three hundred pounds and three feet long. It was unmoving and covered with barnacles. Not a good sign. The first thing she had to do was drag it ashore before the current towed it off into Breach Inlet. She stepped into the chilly water and felt a yank back on her arm.

“You can’t go in there,” John said, holding her back. “It’s like quicksand, and the currents in Breach Inlet are deadly.”

Linnea jerked her arm free. “I’m getting that turtle. It’ll get swept away, and we’ll lose it.”

“No,” he said sharply. “I’ll get it. Wait here. I’ll push it to you.”

Before she could stop him, he stepped into the sloping sand of the shoreline. She held her breath as the gelatinous sand sank around his feet. Fortunately, a motorboat sped by, creating a strong ripple that pushed the turtle closer to shore. John took a few more slow steps out along the shallow slope. There was an abrupt drop-off not far offshore, she knew, and the water roiled beyond, deathly and dark.

“Be careful, John!” she called, clutching her hands.

But John was already at the turtle’s side, a few feet beyond the shore. Any farther and they wouldn’t be able to fetch her. They only needed to get her a few feet farther up on the sand. John stood behind the turtle and grabbed hold of the shell. With a guttural grunt, he pushed her forward, and like a surfboard, the turtle sailed closer to the beach. Linnea rushed into the water, the sand sucking at her feet. The turtle’s shell was slimy with barnacles and algae, but it was the chunk of shell missing from her rear that stole her breath. But there was no time to stare. John was already at the turtle’s back. They had to lift the turtle up the sand. He gripped the opposite side of the carapace and, looking up, met her gaze, his eyes shining with determination.

“Ready?”

When she nodded, he shouted, “Lift!”

John gave another grunt, and his arms strained under the tremendous weight of the turtle. But Linnea could barely move it.

“Wait,” she called, catching her breath. She hurried to the front of the turtle. It wasn’t smart to stand near a loggerhead’s jaws, but she wasn’t even sure this one was alive. John moved to the back of the shell. As she bent to grab the front of the shell, she saw one of the eyes flicker open a slit.

“John, she’s alive!”

His face focused with new intent. “All right then,” he said. “Ready?”