Sweet Waters by Julie Carobini Read Free Book Online

Mustang cheap, solely because Camille campaigned for something cute and colorful—in this case, apple red—and a far cry from the four-door gray Nissan I sold to our former neighbor’s mother before moving out here. What I’ve noticed most about our new ride is the way it boisterously announces our presence even before we reach our destination.
    Also this week we found plenty of time to wet our toes in our new, old hometown. Camille and I wandered along the foot-worn paths that led to cliffs so battered by waves that natural stairways have been created in the rock. I missed Mel more than I let on to Camille, but I knew how much she’d hate all this frolicking in the great outdoors.
    Until today. Today we came upon a cove protected by overhanging rock and shallow tides, and so brimming with vibrant purple urchins and golden sea stars that goose bumps alighted across my skin. I have the unmistakable sense that I’ve been here before. And if so, then Mel has surely been here too.
    I check my watch. Her first interview is in an hour. The sure sound of a door slamming pulls my attention to the top of the cliff, and I glance up. Will the deserted spot I covet soon be invaded? No one appears, although it is tough to tell from beneath the bill of my baseball cap. All this sun is a new phenomenon, so I’ve been careful all week to shield my light skin from its assault.
    Camille has removed her flip-flops, and now wades in a tide pool one rock formation over from me where rolling waves lap. I try, again, to remember this place, but all I can conjure are vague images, as if the pictures in my mind are veiled by sheens of running water. The briny smell of the ocean fills my senses, and I allow my eyes to flop shut in an effort to pull memories from my subconscious.
    â€œThe tide’s rolling in, ladies.”
    My eyes jerk open, and I tip my head up just as a man lands not two feet from me in the thick sand. So much for using the nature-made stairs. From beneath my cap I can see that he appears to be ready for a hike in the nearby redwood forest with his battered hiking boots, scarred denims, and long-sleeved tee. His eyes crinkle as he narrows them, staring out after Camille. “Can she swim?”
    There’s a familiar smoothness to his voice. It’s the firefighter who hopped the counter at the Red Abalone Grill last week to rescue the fallen owner.
    â€œY-yes, of course.” Why am I stammering? “We all learned how when we were very young.”
    He doesn’t look at me but stands with arms crossed and feet apart, much like a security guard might if he was, say, protecting the stage door for one Eliza Carlton. I almost expect him to turn his head to one side and whisper into a mic.
    â€œIt’s a good thing,” he says. “Although this isn’t the kiddie pool at the Y. That water may look calm, but it can be unforgiving. You might want to tell . . .”
    â€œMy sister.”
    â€œYou might want to caution your sister about the tides. They can be dangerous if you’re not used to them.”
    Do we look like country bumpkins? “She’s good. I know, because I taught her myself.”
    He’s unimpressed, still standing there like he’s keeping watch. The only thing missing is a pair of red lifeguard trunks. His presence has set my relaxed beach walk on edge and resentment settles in my back, its rigid tension crawling up my spine. Trent always seemed to know what was best for me too.
    â€œWatch for algae that spreads over the rocks. Green, slippery stuff. She wouldn’t be the first young woman to need stitches after a fall off the rocks.”
    â€œMm-hm. Okay, thanks, but she’ll be fine.” You can go now. “When we lived in Missouri, we swam in the Lake of the Ozarks often. More miles of shoreline at the lake than the entire state of California—and I’m not kidding.”
    â€œAnd does the lake have swells like