Page 3 of Spindrift

“Okay.”She killed the engine and tied up. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“I’mfine,” Emilia said again.

“Look.Emilia, right? You’re not fine. The water is fucking cold, and no offense, butyou look like you drank a bottle of wine.”

“Halfa bottle.”

“Closeenough. Do I need to explain vasodilation to you?”

Indignationflashed across Emilia’s face.Good, thought Morgan. Indignation was proofshe wasn’t totally wasted—and that she had a decent vocabulary. Morgan held outher hand, and despite the resentment evident in Emilia’s eyes, this time sheallowed Morgan to help her off the boat and up the ramp to the boathouse.Morgan told herself she didn’t notice the strength in Emilia’s hands or the wayher cold fingers locked around her own. Noticing things like that would onlyget her in trouble.

• • •

Idiot, Emilia berated herself as hotwater from the grimy shower chased the cold out from underneath her skin.You’rea fucking drunken idiot. This was lower than she’d been in a long time, andthe irony of the situation gnawed at her. How many times her mother ranted abouther father’s irresponsible drinking? How many times had she herself asked himto be more careful? And yet, here she was, drunk and freezing in a boathouseshower.

Nellwhined and poked her head underneath the gap in the shower stall door. She bentover and stroked her dog’s head with a wet hand, wishing she was anywhere buthere.

Atleast Morgan was a woman. Emilia didn’t think she would have been able to stopherself from throttling one of the salt-of-the-earth types she’d seen eyeingher around the harbor, or worse, one of the hipster men who gathered around thebars and talked about building their own boats with money from their trustfunds, though they never put it that baldly. She would have preferred, however,to be rescued by a less attractive woman, or at least someone who wasn’t MorganDonovan.

Orto not have required rescue at all.

You’relucky there was someone here,an irritating and logical part of her brain informed her. She shut the thoughtdown, but not before an icy wave of nausea washed over her. If she’d drowned,her mother would have thought she’d done it intentionally, and Emilia neverwanted to see that kind of fear in her mother’s eyes again.

Thewine made her head spin in the cramped space of the shower. Morgan probablythought she was an alcoholic.Just like my dad.She closed her eyes andlet hot water beat against her lids. Yes, she downed half a bottle of winewhile sitting in the boat her father had named after her, but sitting in theboat sober had been out of the question. It had too much of her dad in it.Nexttime I’ll wear a life jacket, she promised herself.And I’ll leave thewine behind.That wouldn’t prevent the dinghy from sinking or a bank of fogfrom whisking her blindly out to sea, but it was a start.

Onthe other hand, at least she’d gotten her first swim of the season out of theway. She used to compete with her dad to see who could brave the cold waterfirst, both of them shrieking and shouting as the frigid water of the Atlantic closedover their belly buttons. Hot tears joined the water flowing over her body.

Adry towel appeared over the door a second after she shut off the shower. Thereminder of Morgan’s existence helped distill the fresh bout of grief, and shefanned the spark of irritation because she preferred it to the alternatives.Morgan didn’t know anything about her. Sure, she was grateful for the rescue,but the smugness in the other woman’s bearing galled her. She clearly foundEmilia incompetent, and while nothing that had happened tonight, admittedly,suggested otherwise, the assumption hit too close to home.

“Thankyou.” She whipped the towel over the side of the door and around her body.Nowplease leave.

“Noproblem. I’ve got some clothes, too. They’ll probably be too big, but they’redry.”

“Idon’t—” she began, but a green flannel shirt and a scuffed pair of work pantsfollowed Morgan’s words. She contemplated putting her wet clothes back on. Theidea felt childish as well as cold, and so she shrugged into the soft, wornshirt and tried to ignore the shiver of gratitude from her traitorous body. Thefabric smelled like pine and salt and something else—sandalwood? She shook herhead to free her hair from the collar. The pants, unlike the oversized men’sshirt, fit snugly. Almost too snugly. She cursed Morgan’s slimmer hips as sheshimmied into the dungarees.

Nellthrust her snout into her hand when she emerged, barefoot and still shivering,into the darkness of the boathouse.

“Stillalive,” she told the dog as she shoved her feet into her sodden sneakers.Morgan was nowhere in sight. “Think we can sneak away?”

Herdog licked the lingering salt from her skin and did not offer comment, buthearing her own words out loud sobered Emilia more than the cold water. Herhumiliation was no excuse for downright hostility. She owed Morgan a thank youfor the clothes, and more importantly, slipping away would make her look evenmore ridiculous than she already did. She squared her shoulders and walked outof the boathouse.

Thetiny Seal Cove marina boasted lockers, a bathroom and shower, complimentaryparking, and a few picnic tables in various stages of decay. Morgan sat at oneof the tables idly scratching her dog’s ears. The easy confidence in the wayshe lounged on the bench made Emilia want to grind her teeth. She would killfor an ounce of that self-assurance. Instead, her feet slipped in her wetsneakers, and her soaked clothing dripped from her hands.

“Better?”asked Morgan.

“Yes.Thank you for . . . well, you know.”

“Noproblem. Do you need a ride?”

Shit.Her keys, wallet, and phone werestill in the boat, and her skiff bobbed on the mooring out of reach andprobably taking on water. She could wait around until Morgan left and thenborrow another skiff, retrieve her possessions, and pretend that none of thishad ever happened, or she could ask Morgan for more help.Not happening.

“I’mfine.”

“Youkeep mentioning that.”

“Imean, I don’t need a ride. I walked here. You don’t need me taking up any moreof your time.”

“Actually,you’re doing me a favor. I’m avoiding my least favorite social event of theyear.”

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