I watched from a distance, admiring their energy and envious of their optimism. In a prior life, I would have marched up to them, introduced myself, and offered to volunteer. Offered to join their ranks and save as many baby turtle lives as possible.
In that other life, I’d ducked out on my doctoral program and joined Greenpeace, hell-bent on saving the ocean from overfishing. Those excited kids, chattering on the beach, I’d bet money they hadn’t heard of land sickness. Had no concept that you could spend so much time at sea that when you stood on land, you vomited until your inner ear acclimated.
Those kids would make a difference, just like me. The kind of difference one made if you plugged one small hole in a ship that rammed an iceberg.
The bikini-clad girl stepped back, admiring her work. She had an even tan, svelte curves, and a scripted tattoo barely visible on the inside of her forearm. An open conversation starter for the right guy. A decade and a half ago, I would have been that guy. The guy asking her if she wanted to go surfing, if she wanted to catch some waves. Asking if she wanted company when she watched the turtle nests at night.
I stood there watching her, this young girl who was everything my former self would’ve been intrigued by. He would’ve followed her around, offering help and friendship while hoping for more. Enamored by her love of nature and her belief she could make a difference.
She twisted slowly, as if aware of a nearby gawker. She smiled a full smile, the smile of youthful innocence, and held up her long, lean arm and waved.
I gave a quick nod and moved on along the beach.
“Hey…are you Adrian Tate?” Her melodic tone rose above the crashing surf.
“Mm-hmm. And you are?” I asked, curious how she knew my name.
“Luna Fisher. I knew your grandmother.”
Ah, Nana Pearl. Two hundred year-round residents on the island. No doubt everyone knew her.
“She said you work with Greenpeace.”
“I did.” Uneasy, I dug my toes into the sand and leaned away from her, gazing down the beach in the direction I’d come from.
“Luna, do we need to photograph this?” one of the college kids shouted to her. Another guy stood, his straight hair falling into his face. He stepped forward, watching me with a possessiveness I recognized. I too had been in love before.
Luna held her hand over her brow, shading her eyes from the rising sun, as she nodded an affirmative answer to her friend. Then she addressed me, friendly and open.
“I’m with the island’s Nature Conservancy group. We all are. We’d love to have you come down and talk with us.”
I dug my foot deeper into the sand.
“How many turtles are nesting on the island these days?”
“We had eighty-six nests last year. Expecting more this year.” Excitement punctuated her words. And pride.
“Sweet.” I fingered the sea glass in my pocket while she talked to me about the coastal science program.
A strong wind gusted, portending the line of thunderstorms headed our way. Sand granules whirled about, stinging my skin. A gold choker with a starfish pendant glinted in the sun around Luna’s neck. My gaze trailed down until I stared at the small triangles barely covering Luna’s rounded, perky breasts. Her shorts fell low on her hips, and the thin line of matching bathing suit bottoms stuck out along the waistband. The tiny shorts curved around her ass, and thin strings from the denim cut-offs traced her lean tawny thighs.
She was still talking, telling me things I should care about, about the conservation program on the island and success rates. The college guy glaring our way, he knew what I’d been staring at, where my mind had gone. The old guy gawking at the college kid.
I looked to the guy, even though he stood a good fifteen feet away from us. “Sounds like a good program. Best of luck.”
Chapter 4
Luna
I knocked hard on Poppy’s door. Any patience evaporated with the third mosquito bite. I twisted the knob, discovered it was open, and let myself in. Poppy lived in one of my favorite marina side homes on a quaint street named Transom Row. A picket fence ran along the front of her tall, narrow cottage, and she had planted colorful flowers in front of the fence and in window boxes along her porch rail. The white and purple blooms spilling out below her windows complemented the bright pink roses along the fence.
I would’ve expected the rent to be astronomical, but she said she got a deal by signing a year lease. The owner couldn’t make it here as often as she liked, and while she wasn’t ready to sell, she liked having someone living in it so it didn’t sit vacant. The front porch looked out onto Transom Row. Tall, narrow beach homes lined the street in a variety of hues, with white picket fences separating the sidewalk curb from the tiny, blossoming front yards. The center of the street featured a landscaped divider dotted with swaying palm trees.
The back porch of Poppy’s place looked out onto the marina. Across the marina, you could see Jules, the restaurant she used to bartend before COVID hit. That was a while ago, though. Jules was now back in full swing, and Poppy had found a new career that clearly paid well.
“Poppy?” I called, stepping into her bright kitchen. The owner painted the cabinets lavender and added a bluish clear beach glass backsplash. Large windows lined the back wall. Thanks to the open downstairs floor plan, you could cook with a view of the marina, and just beyond the marina, the mouth of the Cape Fear. If you
