Chapter One
The day Remy Victoria Reed fished a drowning man from the Atlantic Ocean began in the most ordinary way.
Her phone alarm woke her at 8:00 a.m. in her cottage on Islehaven Island, twenty-four miles off the coast of Maine. She defrosted her usual breadless turkey sausage egg’wich in the microwave. She consumed it along with one tall glass of water (hydration was key) and one cup of coffee (morning caffeine—also key). She engaged in a thirty-five-minute power walk through mid-September foliage just beginning to shimmer with autumn color. Dutifully, she completed fifteen minutes of yoga on her living room floor followed by ten minutes of meditation. After she showered, it took four minutes to don a gray waffle-knit shirt and jean overalls. She wrestled with her long blond hair for thirty seconds before conceding defeat.
Her appearance would do seeing as how she had no expectation of seeing another human today nor, indeed, for the next few days. Even when she did see humans, they were locals well known to her. Most were much older. All were rugged types who’d be baffled to see her in makeup and disdained the notion that clothing had any purpose other than utility.
By 9:45, she’d entered her studio. After selecting her Masters of Classical Music CD, she fired up her boom box, tied on her canvas apron, and settled her safety glasses onto her head. It didn’t take her long to submerge into the world of imagination she inhabited when working on her wooden sculptures. Today, she chipped away at a two-foot-long block of lignum vitae, a gouge in one hand, a mallet in the other. She followed the chalk lines she’d sketched on the block, but even more she followed the whispering of the wood—which told her what it wanted to become.
Her next alarm sounded at 12:45, startling her. She switched off her music, then played her frequent game of where-did-I-leave-my-phone?
Her trusty microwave once again defrosted her lunchtime meal. She settled herself and a spicy chicken bowl (nutrition was key) at her kitchen table. As always, she sat in the chair facing her living room. Beyond the large picture window at the living room’s end lay her front deck, and beyond that—ocean. Pine trees pressed close on the sides of the house but like polite audience members, they didn’t infringe on the scene framed by glass.
As she ate, her attention alternated between two things. One, texting with distant friends and family. Two, staring at the sea . . . which had whipped up considerably since her morning walk.
Her view through the picture window was her constant companion and source of fascination. Incredibly familiar. Endlessly new. It changed with the seasons, yes. But its mood could also change within a matter of minutes, on a quicksilver whim. At times it smiled beguilingly immediately before gnashing its teeth.
She made herself down more water (hydration was key). Just as she set the glass back on the table, a cloud slid in front of the sun, slanting shadows across the floorboards.
An ominous chill slid down the back of her neck. No longer a woman who overrode her instincts, Remy went still.
She heard nothing amiss. Neither did she see or smell anything amiss. Stuffing her phone in her overalls, she neared the window and peered out. The trees rattled and swayed more than usual, but overall, everything was as it should be.
The sense of foreboding remained, insistent.
She played her second-most-frequent game of where-did-I-leave-my-glasses? Once she had her frames in place, she carefully scanned the setting.
A scrap of white out at sea caught her attention. Too far away to tell if it was a wave or . . . something else. She scooped her binoculars from the side table and swept their magnified field of vision back and forth across the water. Where was the scrap of white?
The circle moved to the left, catching a corner of the object she sought. There. She moved the binoculars back to it.
It wasn’t an object. It was a man. In a white shirt. Swimming with difficulty. Struggling. In clothing, not a wet suit. No boat nearby.
A man. Overboard.
Her pulse leapt into overdrive.
She threw the strap of the binoculars around her neck and rammed her arms into the waterproof jacket she kept on a peg by the front door. Today’s temperature had reached the mid-sixties, but the ocean water surrounding Islehaven was dangerously cold. Stuffing her feet into duck boots, she called her friend and nearest neighbor.
“Yep?” Leigh answered.
“I just spotted a man overboard. He’s trying to keep his head above water and he’s pretty far out there.” Her pitch was too high, her words too fast. “We need to go and—and rescue him. Right now. Immediately.”
“I’m still twenty minutes from home.”
“No!”
“Yes,” Leigh said in her gruff, no-nonsense voice. A lobsterwoman, Leigh started her day well before sunrise and drove back from the harbor around this time. “Go and bring him in. I’ll meet you at your dock.”
“Leigh!”
“You can do this. Keep your phone with you. I’m on my way.”
No point calling anyone else because no one could reach her dock in less than the twenty minutes Leigh had quoted. Remy pounded down the dirt path from her deck to the cliff’s lowest edge, where her grandfather had built wooden stairs to the dock below. She hardly needed to look as her feet flew along planks her memory knew by heart.
This was terrible! What if the man slipped beneath the surface by the time she got out there? What if she couldn’t find him? What if he died? Her brain circled down a toilet hole of horrifying possibilities.
She reached the dock. From the storage chest there she yanked on a life jacket, then tossed a second life jacket and a life-saver ring attached to a rope onto the floor of the only vessel waiting—a small boat with an outboard motor.
Pausing, she shielded her eyes with her hand. She could no longer see the man. She held up the binoculars. There. His head was still above water.
She freed the mooring and clambered inside the boat. It rumbled to life and she took off toward the man’s position as fast as the aging boat could go. Not fast enough.
The weather had taken a metaphorical eggbeater to the water, forming choppy peaks. Overhead, charcoal-tipped clouds rolled toward her angrily.
She leaned forward, willing the boat to go faster.
Twice she lost sight of him and panicked, thinking he’d slipped under the waves for good. Both times she idled the motor and, bracing her legs apart, rose to her full height of five foot seven. Both times she spotted him and continued forward.
Islehaven’s residents served as the local emergency rescue force. She’d helped retrieve people from the water a few times in the past. Once after a boating accident and once after a small plane with engine failure had landed on the water. Those times, she’d assisted others.
This time, Remy was it.
She neared the man’s position and slowed her speed. “Don’t worry,” she called in a highly worried tone. “Everything’s going to be okay.” This situation was not okay. SOS! SOS! Emergency situation, her mind shrieked. “Can you put on a life jacket?” If he could, that would keep him afloat and face-up even if he lost consciousness.
He didn’t respond. He continued to swim for shore but was so exhausted, he made no progress. Life-preserver ring it was, then.
“I’m going to throw this to you.” She brandished the ring. “Hang on to it until we get you on board.”