An Ordinary Drowning, Book One of The Mermaid's Pendant by LeAnn Neal Reilly Read Free Book Online Page B

the Earth. At the
end of the paved road, he left his bike at the top of a steep hill and picked
his way down a rutted dirt path to the rocky beach. He snapped a few photos and
then sat down on a boulder near the water. The sun hung low in the sky, its
reflection a golden fractal.
    After a
minute or two, he dug the essays from his backpack and flipped again to a
sentiment that had grabbed him:
     
    Of all celestial bodies within reach or view, as far
as we can see, out to the edge, the most wonderful and marvelous and mysterious
is turning out to be our own planet earth. There is nothing to match it
anywhere, not yet anyway.
     
    Lewis
Thomas was right, of course: the Earth was one of the seven wonders of the
modern world, one hidden beneath the feet of all those urban souls who tramped
unconsciously upon its skin, forever busy with their self-important tasks. His
own vision had long been clouded, his own soul long troubled. On impulse, he
rose and climbed back up the hill where he could look out at the blue horizon
and marvel at its vastness. No one noticed it, this vastness, sitting inside a
cubicle or walking along a sidewalk surrounded by houses or office buildings.
But here, where there was nothing to obscure his vision, to bring the world
down to his size, it was clear just how wide the sky was and just how small he was.
    He
glanced at his watch for the first time in hours. There was still time before
the sun set to write a few postcards. He thumbed through glossy photos of old
San Juan with its Spanish colonial fort and images of Caribbean parrots, orange
and green and yellow like sweet-and-sour lollipops with beaks and claws. What
should he send to Zoë? Historic buildings or living creatures? What would he
write in the two-inch by two-inch square that would strike the right balance
between “having a good time” and “it’s no big deal that I’m here without you”?
    After
shuffling through the postcards, he sighed and decided to put off writing.
Instead, he pulled out one of Punta Soldado that he’d bought this morning and
scrawled a note to Stefan, who’d joked about John never returning to
Pittsburgh:
     
    They named this point of land
after a soldier who went AWOL when he came to Culebra. I feel like going AWOL,
too. The beauty of the ocean calls to me, like a siren.
     
    What
would Zoë think if he admitted that Culebra answered some primeval need in him?
She’d take it personally, of course. An image of her large black eyes radiating
angry hurt flickered to life in front of his eyes. Perhaps he’d better keep his
note chatty and impersonal. After staring toward the setting sun for ten
minutes, he finally wrote this on the back of a postcard of Ensenada Honda,
Dewey’s harbor:
     
    Jackpot! I’ve found the last
unspoiled spot in the Caribbean. No casinos, no swanky resorts. I’m up with the
rooster, literally. Lots to see, do. The food’s great and the locals are
friendly. I’ll call this weekend to talk about our plans.
     
    He’d
filled the four square inches; his writer’s block had unfrozen once he’d
discovered the appropriately casual tone supplied by the exclamation “jackpot.”
There was hardly room to sign his note, but he hesitated anyway. He never wrote
a closing in an email to her, but a handwritten note demanded one. If he signed
just his name, would that be intimate enough? Did she expect a “love” or would
“cheers,” just squeezed in, do? He waited for the answer and when it came, he
knew that he couldn’t write “love” no matter what she expected. If he was going
to fall in love with her, it hadn’t happened yet. He was still falling. So he
signed only “John.”
    He
stayed at Punta Soldado until the sun sank into the water, its brilliance
extinguished in the rhythmic blue. Afterwards, he biked in the deepening dusk
through town until he reached Isla Encantada. Standing just inside the entrance,
he searched the dim interior, but only a handful of customers sat at the