A line in the sand, p.1
A Line in the Sand, page 1
Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!
You are just one click away from…
• Being the first to hear about author happenings
• VIP deals and steals
• Exclusive giveaways
• Free bonus content
• Early access to interactive activities
• Sneak peeks at our newest titles
Happy reading!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Teri Wilson
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Monika Roe/Shannon Associates
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Excerpt from A Spot of Trouble
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Excerpt from With Neighbors Like This
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Charm
Chapter 1
On any given weekday evening, the dog beach on the small barrier island known as Turtle Beach, North Carolina, was typically occupied by two Dalmatians, six or more octogenarians, and any number of canines of dubious origin.
Plus one mermaid.
Make no mistake, Molly Prince, the mermaid in question, was every bit as human as the aforementioned octogenarians. Mermaiding was simply Molly’s day job, but sometimes she wore her costume home instead of changing out of her emerald-green sequined fishtail and clamshell bustier. For modesty’s sake, the bustier was attached to a flesh-colored body stocking adorned with a sprinkling of rhinestone starfish and draped with no fewer than six strings of pearls. Getting out of the thing was no easy task.
Molly would get to that once she and Ursula, her Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy, got to the quaint oceanfront cottage they called home. Ursula was a recent addition to Molly’s life and due to the puppy’s extreme separation anxiety, she rarely left Molly’s sequin-clad side. The little chestnut-and-white spaniel was also prone to bursts of the zoomies, hence their regular stops at the dog beach after work.
“Look at that little dog go.” Ethel Banks, resident of Turtle Beach Senior Center and one of Molly’s favorite octogenarians, peered over her purple-framed bifocals and grinned as Ursula charged at a flock of sandpiper birds chasing waves along the shoreline.
Three aluminum walkers were lined up in front of the smooth wooden bench where Ethel sat alongside Opal Lewinsky and Mavis Hubbard—or, as everyone in town called their little trio, the OG Charlie’s Angels. Nibbles, a teacup Chihuahua, sat shivering in the basket of the walker belonging to Mavis.
“Ursula really loves other animals,” Molly said. “You should have seen her today at the aquarium. She sat right in front of the shark tank, totally rapt.”
Opal snorted. “Like Mavis and her new boyfriend Larry every night when Jeopardy! is on.”
Molly bit back a smile. Was it weird that her senior citizen friends seemed to have more active social lives than she did?
Mavis muttered something in response—laced with snark, no doubt—but whatever it was went into one of Molly’s ears and right out of the other one. Her attention had snagged on a man wading knee-deep through the waves, just beyond the shallows where Ursula pawed at the tiny silver fish that always skittered through the foamy water.
“Do any of you know who that guy is?” Molly felt herself frown.
The dog beach was too close to the crest—local speak for the southernmost tip of the island—to be safe for swimming far from the shore. The surf close to the crest was rougher and the riptides stronger, due to warm water from the bay spilling into the salty depths of the open sea. Swimming past the sandbar wasn’t allowed, for humans and dogs alike.
Opal, Mavis, and Ethel narrowed their gazes in the stranger’s direction and then shrugged in unison.
“Where’s his dog?” Molly did a quick inventory of the canines enjoying their freedom on their small designated strip of sand. She’d been here enough times to know precisely who each dog belonged to.
“All the pups here are accounted for,” Ethel said. Clover the corgi woofed in agreement at her feet.
Weird. What was he doing at the dog beach, dogless?
“He’s staring into the water like he lost something.” Opal pressed a hand to her heart as a wave rocked into the man’s chest. “He really shouldn’t be so far out there.”
Mavis shook her head. “Definitely not.”
Ursula romped back toward them and spun in excited circles around Molly’s mermaid tail.
Oh, yeah…the costume.
Super. Molly was going to have to go out there and warn the stranger about the riptide while she looked like Daryl Hannah straight off the set of Splash in 1984. Not ideal, but she didn’t have much of a choice. Molly certainly didn’t want the guy to drown, and she was currently the only person in sight who was fully ambulatory. The dog beach was dotted with more walkers and electric scooters than actual canines. Where were the Dalmatian owners? They always helped bring the median age at the dog beach down by a decade. Or three.
“He’s drifting farther out,” Ethel said. “Molly, maybe we should do something.”
“I’m on it.” Molly took a deep breath and headed toward the shoreline in urgent-yet-tiny footsteps, since her fishtail was almost as confining as it was glittery. The costume was never a problem on the turquoise vintage Vespa she used to get around the island. Of course, she didn’t normally have to rescue swimmers on the way home from work.
Ursula romped after Molly, just like she always did.
“Don’t worry. We’re just going to stand right at the edge of the water and yell at that guy to come back to the shallows. We’ll be on the couch in front of the Great British Baking Show before you know it,” Molly said, not altogether sure if she was talking to her dog or herself. Possibly both.
But just as they moved from the sugary sand of the dunes onto the damp shore, the tide rushed in. The man bobbed up and down in the water, and he finally looked up as he seemed to realize how far he’d wandered offshore. A wave smacked him right in the face.
Oh no.
Molly’s stomach tumbled. “Hey, are you okay?”
Ursula paced at the water’s edge, leaving a trail of frantic, tiny paw prints in her wake.
Molly waited a beat for the man to resurface, but all she could see was sunlight glinting off something shiny floating in the water. She shaded her eyes with her hand. Eyeglasses. Not a good sign at all, considering they were missing the head that they belonged to.
“Wait here!” she said to Ursula. “I’m going in.”
Hoyt Hooper, the senior center’s bingo caller, rolled to a stop nearby in his mechanical scooter. His pug, Hops, sat in the scooter’s basket, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt that matched the one Hooper was wearing, down to the last hibiscus. “That man’s got to be in trouble. I’m calling 911.”
Molly nodded. “Good idea.”
But would they get to the dog beach in time to help him? Doubtful.
She glanced at the red Igloo cooler strapped to Hoyt’s scooter with a bungee cord. “Hoyt, remember that safety demo the fire department gave at the library last year?”
He nodded. “Yeah, why?”
“I’m going to need your cooler.” According to the fire department, a fiberglass cooler could be used as a flotation device in an emergency situation. And this was definitely beginning to feel like an emergency.
“Does this mean you’re going in after that guy?” Hoyt grabbed the Igloo and handed it to her.
Ursula’s tail wagged as she licked the spilled ice cubes.
“I’ll watch your pup. Be careful, Molly,” Hoyt said as he climbed off his scooter. “Please.”
“It’s going to be fine,” she said, not quite sure whether she was talking to Hoyt, Ursula, or herself.
Molly waddled as fast as she could into the water while Hoyt scooped Ursula into his arms and the other seniors made their way toward the scene with their walkers leaving winding trails behind them in the sand. The dogs gathered round, barking at the ocean while their ears flapped in the salty breeze. Molly suddenly felt like she was in a very bizarre episode of Baywatch.
It occurred to her that she didn’t even know if her costume was waterproof. She’d never actually gotten it wet before. Some mermaid she was.
She held her breath, dove into the waves and breaststroked her way with one arm to the place where the man had disappeared, clutching the cooler tightly with the other. The water this close to shore was murky, filled with tumbling seashells and stirred-up sand. Molly’s eyes burned, and her chest ached. A wave splashed into her face, and she couldn’t see a thing. Then she blinked a few times and spotted him.
The man’s arms flailed at the waves. He gasped for air. Molly could feel the riptide pulling at her ridiculous fishtail, threatening to drag her out to sea. She clutched the cooler as tightly as she could.
No way. She was not going to die like this—costumed, while the greater senior citizen and dog populations of Turtle Beach looked on. Absolutely not. She flat-out refused.
“Grab my hand,” she yelled above the roar of the waves and sea spray.
The panicked man’s head jerked in her direction. Their eyes met, and his gaze filled with a combination of wonder and relief. Molly’s heart thumped hard—adrenaline, no doubt. Still, there was just something about those soulful eyes that made Molly’s head spin.
She only hoped it wasn’t because they were about to drown together. Drowning was nowhere on Molly’s to-do list, and the stranger was far too cute to get lost at sea. She simply couldn’t picture him with a Tom Hanks Cast Away beard, crying over a volleyball with a face.
Why on earth were these crazy thoughts flitting through her head? Was she drowning right now?
She reached for the man as hard as she could, kicked her mermaid tail against the current and yelled at the top of her lungs.
“Wilson!”
***
The first, and last, time that Max Miller had eaten a raw oyster, his first impression had been that it tasted like he’d just licked the ocean floor. Salty…wet…
And gritty. So very gritty. Max had not been a fan, nor had he been inclined to repeat the experience. Besides, oyster reefs were currently the most endangered marine habitat on the entire planet. Best to leave the poor, non-delicious things right where they belonged.
At the moment, though, Max was having some sort of gustatory flashback, because that highly memorable oyster taste was permeating his senses again—in his mouth, his nose, the back of his throat. Even his eyeballs, glued shut with sand and salt and any and all manner of fish excrement (sometimes being a marine biologist afforded a person with more knowledge than was preferable in moments such as this one), seemed to taste the oyster.
But when at last Max managed to pry his eyes open, there wasn’t an oyster in sight. Just a mermaid, gazing down at him with worried eyes the color of a stormy sea while her lush, blonde mermaid hair whipped around her face. Max closed his eyes again. Mermaids weren’t real. Maybe he was dreaming, or maybe he’d died. He certainly didn’t feel particularly alive at the moment.
Salty bile rose up the back of his throat. He gagged and sputtered until someone—the imaginary mermaid, probably—rolled him onto his side and he coughed up what seemed like a gallon of seawater. An upturned Igloo cooler sat about a foot from his head for some odd reason.
Max groaned into the sand, and then a wet, warm tongue swiped the side of his face. Someone was attempting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but they were doing a terrible job of it.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Max was not fine. His gut churned with equal parts nausea and humiliation. This was the first day of his new life in Turtle Beach, North Carolina. He’d hoped to slip seamlessly into the sleepy little town by the sea, not land with such a splash—pun definitely not intended. Max wasn’t a punny person in the slightest. An ex-girlfriend had once told him that he had a PhD in place of a sense of humor.
“Ursula, no,” the mermaid said.
Max squinted at her through sand-crusted eyes, but all he saw was an extreme close-up of a face that was distinctly canine in nature, as opposed to mythical sea creature-esque. The dog, a tiny white-and-chestnut-colored spaniel, licked Max’s face again in direct opposition to the mermaid’s command.
Max turned his head. Three elderly women gripping aluminum walkers loomed over him. A dog the size of a squirrel sat trembling in the basket of one of the walkers. The block lettering on its identification tag spelled out the word NIBBLES.
Where on earth am I?
Max had known that a small island like Turtle Beach would be different from Baltimore, but his Uncle Henry had in no way prepared him for how truly quirky it apparently was.
Mermaids? Little toy spaniels named Ursula? And why so many dogs? An enormous poodle with pink bows on its ears poked at Max with a narrow snout. He felt like Alice, falling down a very deep and uncommonly sandy rabbit hole.
Ursula came toward him again, pink tongue lolling out of the side of her tiny mouth. Max sat up in order to avoid another attempt of mouth-to-mouth. He coughed a few times, rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, he found the mermaid staring down at him. Not a hallucination after all. And here he thought she’d just been an imaginary by-product of his near-death experience.
“You’re from out of town, aren’t you?” The mermaid jammed her hands on her iridescent, scaly hips.
The scales weren’t real, obviously. They appeared to be satin, covered in copious amounts of sequins. Now that Max had gotten a proper look at the woman, he realized that she was in costume, of course. Still, how odd.
“Yes.” Max nodded. “Just arrived today.”
He didn’t have the energy to say more. It took every last shred of energy to form words and pull himself to his feet.
“You’re really not supposed to swim this close to the crest. The riptide is too strong beyond the shallows,” she said.
Strands of long, wet hair clung to her face. Max had the absurd notion to peel it away from her eyes and kiss her full on the lips, right there in front of the growing collection of dogs and retirees surrounding them.
He angled his head toward her, searching her gaze. “You saved me.”
It was a statement, not a question. She’d been the one who’d just pulled Max from the water. In his panic, he’d thought he’d imagined a mermaid coming to his rescue. She’d been real, though. Go figure.
“Indeed she did,” one of the senior citizens said. She wore purple glasses and an identical expression to the corgi panting at her feet.
“It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” the woman beside her—the Chihuahua enthusiast—gushed.
The mermaid rolled her eyes, and her porcelain face went seashell pink. She shoved his glasses at him. “It wasn’t romantic in the slightest.”
Disappointment settled in Max’s gut, along with what felt like a liter of salt water. He wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Had he hit his head on something in the ocean?
He slid his glasses in place. The lenses were hopelessly smudged so he removed them and tucked them into the pocket of his sodden dress shirt. As he did, a small fish leapt out and flopped onto the sand.
Max glanced down at it. The tiny critter was a Membras martinica, more commonly known as a rough silverside. He picked it up by the tail and tossed it back into the surf before returning his attention to the mermaid.
“You called me Wilson.” Max felt his lips twitch into a grin. Cast Away. He loved that movie. “The name’s Max, actually.”
The mermaid eyed him with concern and crossed her arms. She started to shiver like Nibbles. “And you’re okay, right? Do I need to call 911 or anything?”
