More To Love

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 their gear,” she repeated smugly now. Pretty nautical for a woman who had never before set foot on an island. Never even set foot outside West Virginia until four months ago.

She was going to like this new Molly just fine. She had…well, maybe not style. At least not yet. But she had attitude, by heck, and that was the first step!

That had been four days ago. That very afternoon Stu and Annamarie had caught the last ferry headed north, after writing detailed instructions on how to care for the two African Gray parrots and Shag the cat. The next morning Molly had introduced herself to the next-door neighbor, Sally Ann Haskins, who told her how to find the general store, the post office, and tried to tempt her into taking a puppy off her hands.

“Mama Dog’s plumb worn out. I’m going to get her fixed. She had seven this time. Last time it was eleven, poor thing. You sure you couldn’t use a nice retriever pup? Your sister said she had too many animals already, but she said you might be interested.”

“I’d love one, but—” Mama Dog flapped her tail lethargically, but didn’t even lift her head when Molly knelt and reached for one of her squirming babies. “But the place where I live has this rule about animals.”

“Reckon I could offer it as a prize in the fishing tournament? Biggest catch of the day gets a free puppy? Fishermen mostly drive pickup trucks, and every pickup has to have a dog to ride in the back. It’s a state law.”

So then Molly had told her all about the ferryboat encounter with a fisherman in a dogless pickup truck. “Just when I was starting to think he had real possibilities, he threw his beer can overboard.”

“You know the old saying, garbage in, garbage out.” Sally Ann worked for the ferry department, which Molly considered wildly exciting. “Maybe the jerk’ll hook into his own beer can and wreck his gear. They say there’s a big low headed up the coast. Last three years in a row, the weather’s been so bad, most folks left after the first day. You don’t want to try surf fishing in gale force winds—the sand’ll cut the skin right off your face.”

“Mercy. Why not schedule it for when the weather’s better?”

“You know anybody that can schedule the weather? They set it for when the fish are supposed to be here.” Sally Ann finished ironing a uniform shirt, unplugged the iron and plopped it on the kitchen range to cool. “Trouble is, if the weather closes in, they wait until too late to get off the island. Once the highway’s flooded, they’re stuck with nothing better to do than shoot pool and tell lies about the big one that got away.”

“Still, it doesn’t sound like good planning to me.”

Sally grinned. A strawberry blonde, she had a weathered face, perfect teeth and the biggest, bluest eyes Molly had ever seen. “Makes for some fun, though. Socializing’s a big part of these tournaments. If the weather shuts down and they get tired of baling hay, they head for the pubs. And let me tell you, if this low hangs around too long, there’ll be some hot old times down at Delroy’s Pub.”

One hand on the doorknob, Molly paused. “Uh—did you say baling hay? I thought they were fishing?”

“Catching eelgrass. With the water so rough, the bottom’s all tore up. Seaweed’s about all they haul in.”

The next day dark clouds closed in, bringing stiff winds that tore new leaves from ancient trees and set small boats to bobbing like corks at the wharf. It was raining, but not heavily when Molly left the general store with a sack of apples and headed back to the cottage. Rain or shine, she was determined to walk each day as part of her new regime.

Diet and exercise. Ugh! Traffic had tripled since she’d arrived only a few days ago. Idly she wondered what had happened to her ferryboat acquaintance. Had he left? Was he shooting pool and swapping lies, or fishing in the rain?

The fish wouldn’t know if it was raining or not…would they?

Remembering Sally Anne’s warning, that he might try to score a little something on the side just to make the trip worthwhile, she had to laugh. It was flattering to think a warning would even be necessary. The new Molly must be coming along faster than she’d thought, if she had to worry about men trying to pick her up.

“Hi there, pretty lady.”

Molly nearly dropped her apples as the familiar-looking dark green truck pulled up beside her. “Oh, hi. How’s fishing, uh—Jeffy?”

“Tournament’s over. We drew a lousy spot this year, but at least I didn’t get skunked. I’m staying on a few more days, long’s I come all this way—headed out now to look over conditions. With the wind like this, the beach’ll get cut up some. Might be a few promising new sloughs. Wanna come along for the ride?”

A small voice in the back of her mind whispered, “Watch it, lady, you might’ve shed a few pounds, but you’re not ready for prime time yet.”

The old Molly was aghast to hear the new Molly say cheerfully, “Well…sure, why not?” She accepted the callused hand and hauled herself up into the high cab. So he was something of a slob. So his grammar wasn’t perfect and he belched and tossed beer cans. Back in Grover’s Hollow some of the nicest people she knew probably did the same thing when no one was looking. But he was friendly, and after all, she wasn’t committing herself to anything more than a drive along the beach, which she certainly couldn’t do in her own car.

Rarely did Rafe Webber find himself in an awkward situation, thanks to excellent instincts and an impeccable sense of timing. On the few occasions when he blundered, he usually managed to finesse his way out with the minimum amount of damage. This time things might be different. His instincts had been signaling trouble ever since Stu had called to tell him he was getting married to the most beautiful, brilliant, wonderful woman in the world. Rafe had strongly advised a cooling-off period, meaning, wait until I have time to check things out, little buddy. Unfortunately Stu had been too charged up to listen.

Rafe had been on his way out of the country at the time. He’d been held up a lot longer than he’d expected, missing Thanksgiving and Christmas completely. Not that he was sentimental—no way! Still, he’d always made a point of getting together for holidays, just to give the kid a sense of stability. He’d read somewhere that establishing traditions helped ground rebellious adolescents, which Stu had been when Rafe had first got him. For the past ten years, Rafe always cooked his special turkey dinner, regardless of the holiday.

So he’d missed the wedding, too. By the time he made it back to the States, the deed was done. But tomorrow was the kid’s birthday, and regardless of the bride and an inconvenient nor’easter, he wasn’t going to miss that. He’d checked the weather when he’d filed his flight plan. Two separate low-pressure areas were due to join forces just off the North Carolina coast, but he figured he had plenty of time to slide on in before the weather closed in. What he hadn’t figured on was finding the whole damned island foundering under a load of surf fishermen. While it might be good for business, it was a damned nuisance when a guy got in late, needing a decent rental car and a room for a couple of days.