Sand Sharks

“You know good and well that Dwight was clueless. If anyone needed to be jumped on, it was Cal.”

The pragmatist, who only wanted to soak up sun, gave an impatient scowl. “He’s a child. Dwight’s son. She comes down hard on him, who’s Dwight gonna side with?”

The preacher shrugged. “So? Any other child—one of her nieces or nephews—and she’d either laugh it off or tell him, ‘Good try, kid, but it’s peanut butter and apples driving up. Y’all can stop for hamburgers on the way home.’ She wouldn’t take it out on Dwight. He was right. What’s the big deal?”

“Cal doesn’t respect her decisions.”

“He’s nine, for Pete’s sake! If she’s going to drop down to the nine-year-old level every time they butt heads, why should he respect them? Stomping off sure doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t stomp,” I said.

“You stomped,” they chorused.

“Very mature,” the preacher sniffed. “That only tells Cal that he won the round. Some role model you are.”

“Go to hell,” I said and blanked my ears to everything except the cry of seagulls and the rhythmic swoosh of waves breaking on the beach.

I was almost asleep when someone lifted my hat and said, “Cynthia?”

I blinked up at a vaguely familiar face.

“Oops, sorry!” said the man. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Jeffreys?” I asked. “Peter Jeffreys?”

He nodded and gave me a closer look as I retrieved my hat and sat up cross-legged on the towel.

“Deborah Knott,” I told him. “District 11-C.”

“Well, damn!” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I should have remembered. You taught a class for new judges over at the School of Government last year, right?”

I nodded. “Who’s Cynthia? Your wife?”

“Oh, hell, no! We split up three years ago. Cynthia Blankenthorpe’s a new judge from out in Mecklenburg County. Got appointed in January. This is her first conference and I promised to show her the ropes, introduce her to people.”

I’ll just bet he had, I thought, giving him a complete examination from behind the safety of my dark glasses. Pete Jeffreys is from Greensboro, District 18. He came on during the last election, one of those princes of the bench, ambitious for higher glory. There was already talk of his running for superior court in the next election cycle. Even on tiptoes, he wouldn’t stretch to six feet, but he carried himself like a taller man and was easy to look at. Hazel eyes, a thick head of straight brown hair, cleft chin, and—now that I was seeing him stripped down to swim trunks with a towel draped over one shoulder—a slender build that was nicely muscled. Not even the slightest hint of love handles. How had I overlooked him when I was still free and single?

“He was married,” my inner preacher reminded me sternly. “And so are you now.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said the pragmatist, taking off his sunglasses for a better look. “But there was something else…”

Then Pete Jeffreys said, “Any chance you could rub some of your sunscreen on my shoulders?” and what had been a normal friendly smile morphed into a conceited smirk.

Men who think they are irresistible have always been a big turn-off for me and smirks make me want to slap the entitlement right off their faces.

“Sorry,” I said with my sweetest smile. “I’m afraid my bottle’s almost empty and I’ll burn if I don’t keep it on, but I’m sure you can find some at the gift shop.”

“No problem,” he said easily. “There’s Cynthia now. She probably has enough to share. See ya ’round.”

“Not if she sees you first,” said the pragmatist as Pete moved on down the beach to where a woman was spreading a colorful striped beach towel.

Even from this distance, it was clear that Cynthia Blankenthorpe was at least five years older and several pounds heavier than me. Had Pete really mistaken those muscular thighs for mine?

So not good.

On the other hand, with that name, she was probably part of the Blankenthorpes who were connected to big- time banking in Charlotte. If he was already building a wider network for future campaigns, maybe it was wishful thinking on his part.

I tucked my key card inside my hatband and headed for the water. The tide was low and still receding. A group of teenage boys and girls were further out with bright green, red, and turquoise boards but the waves were way too gentle for any real surfing, which is okay with me. I’m not a strong swimmer and big waves intimidate the hell out of me, but I do love to bobble on the swells and paddle around in the shallows.

Which I did until I was pleasantly tired. It felt downright hedonistic to go back to my room, shower, and even lie down for a nap that might have stretched right through the night if Chelsea Ann hadn’t called me to ask if I could bring along an extra sweater.

“We want to eat outside, right? If the wind’s off the river, it could get a little chilly.”

I had planned to wear my white cotton sweater tonight, but I put it aside for her and opted for a red one over a red-and-white print sundress. Dangly hoop earrings, red straw sandals, and I was ready to roll.