She cast again and reeled in, honing her technique. Heather wasn’t the type of person who would take things on by half measures. She was purpose-driven. She couldn’t just linger in a tub of hot water and soak; she scrubbed up and out she went. When she went to the beach, she had her sketchbook in hand. Fishing would give her another reason to go to the water, she thought, pleased at the prospect. It was a sport she could practice and improve in. Better yet, perhaps she could begin sketching fish, and who knew? If her instincts proved correct, she might submit a proposal for fish stamps as well. Heather felt the tingling sense of knowing that she always got when inspiration struck.
Bo let out a whoop. Turning, Heather saw the rod bowed sharply, and the reel’s drag began to scream. Bo spread out his legs and braced himself for the powerful run as the fish muscled toward the rocks.
“You got one!” Heather clapped her hands and laughed with a child’s awe and wonder as he reeled the fish in. He began walking down the rocks to the shoreline. She followed, watching, mouth agape as the large, glistening silvery-blue fish emerged from the water, flopping at the end of the line. Bo declared it a nice-size bluefish and bent to grab it. Heather drew near, feeling sorry for the fish yet excited that he’d caught it. Holding the fish firmly with one hand, Bo removed the hook. As he did so, a pelican flew so near Heather heard the flapping of its large wings. She watched as the big bird landed on the rocks a few feet away, adjusted its wings, then stared at them with an air of expectancy.
“Hey, look who showed up,” Bo exclaimed, looking over his shoulder at the pelican. “Right on time.”
“You know this pelican?”
“Sure. That’s Pete. Pete the pelican. That’s what I call him, anyway. He shows up whenever I catch a fish. Pelicans are opportunistic, you know. Then again, a lot of birds are. I once saw a pelican catch a fish and some gull came to sit on its head. Well, when the pelican opened its bill to drain out the water, the gull stole the fish right from under him.”
Heather laughed, delighting once again in one of Bo’s stories.
“Not that this old bird steals from me,” Bo assured her. “Petey and I, we’ve worked out a deal. I throw him a couple of fish I don’t want, and he leaves the fish I do want alone.” He turned back toward the pelican and tossed him the bluefish. “Ain’t that right, Petey?”
The pelican stretched out its wings and neck and in an impressive display caught the fish in its beak. It jauntily flipped the fish into the air and caught it again, letting it slide in headfirst.
Heather laughed.
“We’ve got to be sure to keep our hooks and line away from ol’ Pete,” Bo said with a grin.
She eyed Pete and thought how wonderful it was to see a strong, healthy pelican after the injured bird they’d rescued.
She watched Bo as he cast again into the water. He was so at ease in the outdoors. A lowcountry man at home with the sea, sky, and land in equal measures. With every movement he exuded confidence, skilled and sure in his element. He was so different from any man she’d known before. The young men she’d dated spent their free time watching sports on television or playing video games. She’d spent a lifetime with her hand against the glass and looking out from her gilded cage. Bo had lured her outdoors as surely as he’d lured the fish with his bait. Bo could be her guide, opening up a whole new world for her.
Bo looked over and caught her staring. He smirked and put down his rod.
“Okay, break’s over,” he said, coming toward her. “Time for you to catch one.”
Chapter Fifteen
HEATHER AND BO had enjoyed the morning together, each catching several fish that Bo promised would make for good eating. Satisfied with their catch, they’d stretched out on the blanket to eat the picnic Heather had packed. Suddenly a cool gust of wind, tasting of rain, had them grabbing for their paper cups.
Dark clouds were moving in with a gusty wind, the storm seeming to approach ever closer, just as Bo had predicted. Heather saw whitecaps forming on tips of the choppy, turbulent water of Breach Inlet. Pete had already flown off, having eaten his fill, to find a safe place to weather the coming storm. “I don’t like the look of those clouds.” Bo frowned at the sky. “We’d better pack it up,” he said with a tone of regret. “When those fronts start picking up the speed, it’s a race to the ocean.” He sprang to his feet. He took one large, final bite, then set down his sandwich. Wiping his hands on his pants, he climbed up the rocks to the sandy plateau where he began collecting and packing up the fishing gear.
Heather set to work gathering the partially eaten sandwiches—lean grilled chicken with homemade pesto on rye—and the cut fruit and homemade cookies she’d prepared, sorry that their time was cut short. She’d included a bottle of white wine that was chilling nicely in the cooler, but they hadn’t opened it. Bo had informed her that alcohol wasn’t allowed on the beach. Another strong gust of wind whipped a paper napkin from her hand and sent it twirling toward the sky. She leaped after it, chasing it down the beach, finally stomping her foot on it just before it reached the water.
She lifted it high in the air to show Bo, waving it back and forth. Looking up, she felt the first raindrop splatter on her face.
“Oh-oh!” she called out. “Rain’s coming!”
The warning was too little, too late. Instantly more raindrops fell, fat and cold, that left imprints on the sand. There was no time to lose. She dashed back up to toss the remaining food into the cooler. The sprinkle was quickly turning into a steady, pattering rain.
“Hurry!” she called to Bo. She was just gathering the woolen blanket when the sky opened up—a sudden downpour of crashing, pelting drops that left her drenched in seconds, gasping from the shock of icy water. There was no point in trying to outrun it. Her clothing clung to her skin and her hair was plastered to her head. She stood, arms out, blinking in the deluge, and looked over to Bo. He was standing equally still on the plateau staring at her, an inscrutable look on his wet face. Looking down, Heather realized her soaked shirt didn’t leave much to the imagination. The outline of her breasts and nipples poked out from beneath, as though the shirt wasn’t even there. She flushed, feeling exposed. But looking back at Bo, she saw he’d already looked away and was making his way toward her in long strides, carrying the rods and bucket of fish.
“Head for the truck!” he shouted over the downpour. In one smooth swoop Bo reached down to pick up the cooler by the handle and walked off. Heather gathered the now soggy, heavy wool blanket and trotted after him. He tossed everything into the back of the truck, then reached out to take the blanket from her and threw that in as well.
“Hop in!” he called, his voice muffled by the sound of raindrops pelting the ground.