Crystal Cove (Friday Harbor #4)(30)

* * *

After a broken night’s sleep, Justine woke up early and began the day as usual, filling and starting the commercial coffee machine in the kitchen, setting the tables in the dining area, and preheating the ovens for Zoë.

When Zoë arrived, looking as fresh as sunshine and daisies, she took one look at Justine and asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Justine grumbled. She was sitting at the kitchen table, holding a mug of coffee with both hands. She lifted the mug to her lips and drained its contents without stopping.

After stirring cream and sugar into a fresh mug of coffee, Zoë brought it to her. “The date didn’t go well?”

“The date was fantastic. Incredible food and wine, great conversation, with the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever met. By the end of dinner, I was ready to have sex with him on the hood of the nearest car.”

“Then why…?”

“He didn’t want to. Something about ‘too soon’ and ‘for my own good,’ which everyone knows is guy-speak for ‘you’re not bangable.’ And then he took off like he was heading out of the forest covered in bees.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Zoë said, a tremor of laughter in her voice. “Is it possible that he respects you enough not to want to rush into anything?”

“Guys don’t think like that. Their idea of a great first date is not, ‘Wow, I’d really love to watch that woman eat and then go home by myself.’” She shook her head morosely. “It’s all for the best. He’s too rich. Too controlling. Too everything.”

“What can I do?” Zoë asked, her eyes soft with concern.

“If you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on Annette and Nita while they work today?… I’m going to paddle out to Cauldron Island and visit Rosemary and Sage.”

“Of course. I’m glad you’re going to see them. It always seems to do you good.”

* * *

It was nearly impossible to dress for a combination of seventy-five-degree air and fifty-degree water temperature. Kayak outfitting that provided a decent amount of warmth in the water would be unbearably hot and restrictive while paddling. Given such a choice, most kayakers decided to forgo wet suits and take their chances. Justine decided to compromise by wearing a short-sleeved Gore-Tex dry top, and neoprene knee-length pants. It wouldn’t be as comfortable as a simple base layer tee and shorts, but if she capsized, she would need the extra protection.

Sudden immersion in cold water was dangerous even for experienced swimmers and kayakers. Justine had experienced it a couple of times in the past while taking a kayaking class. Even being prepared for it, the cold shock was nasty and overwhelming. It forced an involuntary gasping response, which was big trouble if your face was underwater. And even if your head was above water, your larynx could close up your airway, a form of death known as “dry drowning.”

The day was overcast, the wind brisk, a light chop to the water. A low-pressure system was moving in, which might result in light rain and stronger winds. Having managed those conditions easily in the past, Justine wasn’t worried.

“I wouldn’t stay out for long, if I was you,” a boater at the Roche Harbor dock said, while Justine folded up her kayak dolly and stowed it. The elderly man was standing with a cup of coffee in one hand and a doughnut in the other. “Front’s coming in.”

Justine gestured with her phone before zipping it into a dry bag. “My weather app says it’s going to be okay.”

“App,” he scoffed, and ate another bite of his doughnut. “Clouds yesterday looked like mackerel scales. That means a storm’s coming. See those gulls coming in, flying low? See all the smelt feeding at the surface? All signs. Mother Nature’s the app I’ve used for fifty years, and she’s never wrong.”

“Those smelt haven’t checked the local Doppler,” Justine said with a grin. “The forecast is fine.”

He shook his head in the manner of a seasoned mariner who was rarely heeded by impudent youngsters. “Forecasts and dead fish: Both of ’em go bad quick.”

After fastening her life jacket, Justine set out with efficient forward strokes of her paddle, pacing herself for the hour-long trip. The wind cut through the warmth of the day and kept her comfortable. Gripping her paddle, she concentrated on planting the blades behind each successive oncoming wave.

The wind changed, forcing Justine to zigzag from her original heading. Bending low to lessen the wind resistance, she grabbed and pulled water with the paddle. It was a high-intensity workout. Her momentum was broken by the constant bracing necessary to keep the kayak from broaching and turning parallel to the waves.

The wind gusts, now needled with rain, hit with escalating force. Quartering winds pushed her in one direction while the water pushed her in another. The fetch of the waves lengthened, energy rising in foamy liquid hills. Squinting at the sky, Justine was startled by how dark and thick the cloud cover had become, the leading edge thick and abnormally tall.

It was happening too fast. It didn’t make sense.

This isn’t natural, she thought with a stab of fear.

“Don’t try to bluff fate,” Rosemary had once warned her.

She had been paddling for at least an hour—she should have reached Cauldron Island by now. As she tried to get a fix on her position, she was stunned to realize that the fifty-foot bluff of Cauldron Island was still at least a mile away, and the current had pushed her well off course. If she didn’t make headway fast, she was going to find herself tossed like a child’s toy in the rough-and-tumble of Haro Strait.