By the time Carson reached the dock the thrumming of boat engines could be heard in the distance, signaling the end of her peaceful time in the cove. She climbed onto the dock and pulled off her paddleboard, shivering as splashes of chilly water struck her bare skin. Hearing another percussive whoosh, Carson dropped to her knees on the floating dock, raised a hand over her eyes, and squinted. A large gray head emerged from the water a few feet away. Carson didn’t move, not wanting to spook the dolphin. Bright eyes, smart and watchful, gazed at her from the water for a few minutes. Then the creature opened its mouth and emitted a series of short, squeaky sounds.
The dolphin closed its mouth, then tilted its head to peer up at her speculatively, as though to ask, So now what?
Carson laughed. “You’re so beautiful,” she said to the dolphin, reaching out her hand.
Immediately the dolphin dove, lifting its tail into the air.
Carson sucked in her breath and stared at the empty rings of water where the dolphin had been. A chunk was missing from the dolphin’s left fluke, like it had been bitten off. Carson rose shakily to her feet and stood scanning the water while the memory of the shark incident flashed through her mind. She recalled how the dolphin had sped toward the shark like a bullet and rammed into its side. The shark had seemed to fold into itself for a second, and just as quickly, it had swung around in attack. She’d seen the mighty jaws lurch for the dolphin’s tail as it tried to escape.
“Oh my God,” Carson gasped. This had to be the dolphin. The one that had saved her from the shark. Could it be possible? It made sense that the dolphin would come to the relative quiet of the estuaries to heal. Her mind went over the way the dolphin had looked at her, studied her, and how it had come back a second time to check her out.
The dolphin had recognized her.
She laughed shortly, stunned by the possibility. Her rational mind told her it couldn’t be true. But then again, why not? Like humans, dolphins were self-aware and highly intelligent.
Carson scanned the water of the cove. In the distance, against the blue-green water, she spotted the gray dolphin as it gracefully arched in and out of the waves. It was heading out into the harbor. Carson cupped her hands at her mouth and called out, “Thank you!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Mamaw called an old friend and within the week Carson had a job as a waitress at Dunleavy’s, a small Irish pub on Sullivan’s Island. That’s how things were done on the island, where family connections were tighter than a tick on a dog. Carson had to swallow her pride, but in truth, she was happy to have the job.
Carson didn’t have savings, stocks—nothing. Her life on film crews had always been on the go, traveling from one exotic location to another. Some people couldn’t keep up the fast pace, but living out of a suitcase came naturally to her. Her father had never let the moss grow over them, moving them from one apartment to the next. So being here at Sea Breeze the last few weeks had been a nice slowing down. She was gradually getting back into the Southern rhythm.
And she had to admit she enjoyed working at the pub.
Dunleavy’s was a family-owned pub on Middle Street, a popular few blocks of quaint restaurants and small shops on Sullivan’s Island. The pub had great beers on tap, fresh popcorn, and homey decor. There were picnic tables and umbrellas outside where folks could sit with their dogs. Inside, beer cans and license plates decorated the walls and the screen door slammed when you walked in.
Carson worked the lunch shift and made decent tips, but even after two weeks she had a lot to learn. She was trying to carry one too many plates from a table when her hand slipped, knocking over a beer glass and sending it shattering across the floor. Thankfully the lunch rush was over and only a few patrons remained at the small wood tables, but each of the six heads turned toward the clatter, as well as the faces of her boss and fellow waitress, Ashley.
“Careful there,” Brian called out from his post at the bar. “Again . . .” he added with a rueful shake of his head.
Carson gritted her teeth and smiled at the manager, then bent to pick up the broken glass.
“What’s the matter with you today?” asked Ashley, rushing over with a broom and waste bin. “Step back and don’t cut your fingers. Let me sweep up.”
Carson leaned against the table. Around her the few tourists went back to their plates and a soft buzz of talking resumed.
“I’m the world’s worst waitress,” Carson whined.
Ashley chuckled as she swept. “Well, you’re not the best, but you’ve just started. Don’t worry. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you bring a menu to that guy who just sat down in your section,” she said with a nod of her head.
Carson reached over to grab a menu.
“Put on your pretty smile,” Ashley teased. “It’s Mr. Predictable.”
“Stop it,” Carson said with a smirk.
“He always sits in your section.”
“That means he likes the window, not me.”
“Yeah, well you don’t see his moon eyes following you when you walk away.”
“Really?” Carson asked, mildly surprised. Not that she should have been. She was accustomed to the glances of men, but her radar was off and she’d not registered this one. She turned her head to slyly check out the man in question. He was tall and lean, a little too angular, and had the slightly disheveled T-shirt–shorts–and–sandals look of a local. His hair was dark brown with curls that went askew under his cap. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes, couldn’t, for that matter, remember much about him.
“He’s not my type,” Carson said.
“You mean he’s not the cool Hollywood dream boy you usually hang out with in L.A.?”
Carson had told Ashley about some of the men she’d dated in L.A.—mostly actors and filmmakers. She got a kick out of seeing Ashley’s eyes widen, impressed with the roster of men who were either movie star good-looking or very cool. Mr. Predictable was neither.
Carson smirked and tightened the strings of her apron around her uniform, a green Dunleavy’s T-shirt. “Why don’t you take his order? He’s more your type anyway . . . the scruffy good ol’ boy.”
Ashley sighed lustily. “He’s cute. But I’ve got a boyfriend. I’m off the market. Besides”—Ashley put her hand to her heart with an exaggerated expression of horror—“I couldn’t do that to the poor man. He’d be so disappointed if he saw me come to the table instead of you.”