carried since flying with Chuck Martin at midday sloughed off.
The beach was a golden color—picture perfect, in her estimation. For as far as she could see in either direction, the beach was empty, dotted with plenty of sand dunes shaped and created by the winds that sprang up off Chesapeake Bay. It was June, and the storms for the year had passed into history.
Molly allowed the tranquillity of the beach and the glassy-smooth cobalt water to soak into her. She muddled through the grasping sand in her tennis shoes. With a slight laugh, she stopped and took them off, then carried them in her left hand. It felt good to dig her toes into the grainy texture of the sand as she wove in and around the many dunes.
Nearly a mile from the parking lot, Molly found her spot. It was a cul-de-sac nestled between two fairly large hills laden with salt grass. In front of her, as she spread out her well-used purple beach blanket, was an unobstructed view of the bay. Although the sun’s rays were sliding across the eastern expanse of the bay, she could barely make out white sails of yachts dipping up and down on the surface. More tension flowed from her as she shrugged out of her backpack which contained a sack dinner and her textbooks.
Her legs crossed, her elbows resting on her knees as she munched on a tuna sandwich, Molly thought about Cam Sinclair. Funny, all week, at every turn, she’d seemed to run into him. And always he was a gentleman, nodding deferentially in her direction, opening doors for her or whatever, but never offering a smile or any indication of emotion in the depths of his haunting pale blue eyes or his continually pursed mouth.
Did Cam ever smile? Molly wondered, munching on the sandwich. What would his face look like if he did? She closed her eyes, trying to imagine just that. And then, when a keening sea gull flew low, she reopened them. With a laugh, Molly tossed a bit of her sandwich up in the air. The gull dived, catching the choice morsel with grace and quickly gobbling it down.
In no time, Molly had a plethora of gulls circling above her between the two dunes. She gave her potato chips to the beggars, and time spun to a halt. The slight breeze, the salt air, the warmth of the sun’s rays, plus the dozens of gulls who cautiously edged toward her towel or flew around her head, made it a magical time for Molly.
Finally out of food, she shrugged her shoulders at the birds. All she had left was an apple, and Molly used her small pocketknife to cut off bits of it to toss to the gulls who stayed around her blanket, begging. Test-pilot school was forgotten. Chuck Martin no longer existed. Her laughter was full and lilting, absorbed by the inconstant breeze and pleading cries of the seabirds.
The flock of gulls suddenly took wing as a unit. Molly saw the black shape of a dog hurtle up and across a nearby dune. Before she could move, she saw a sleek black Labrador bounding toward her, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Startled but pleased, Molly stood.
“Hi there, fella.” As the dog came up to her, she saw the Lab was female. Extending her hand, Molly smiled as the dog fearlessly approached, wagging her thick tail furiously. She was wet, with water glistening on her ebony coat.
“Excuse me. I mean girl. Hi. How are you? And who do you belong to?” Molly leaned down. The dog wore a leather collar with a rabies tag, as well as another tag. Looking closer, Molly smiled.
“So, you’re Miracle. I wonder what you did to earn a name like that?” She petted the dog’s sleek, damp head, taken by the animal’s affectionate nature.
Molly had crouched down, her arm around the dog’s neck as she patted her, when she saw the outline of a man appear on the crest of the same dune. The sunlight was behind him, and she narrowed her eyes to try to make out who it might be. Obviously, the dog’s owner.
“Miracle! Heel!”
Molly straightened, her heart racing. No, it couldn’t be! The voice was
The beach was a golden color—picture perfect, in her estimation. For as far as she could see in either direction, the beach was empty, dotted with plenty of sand dunes shaped and created by the winds that sprang up off Chesapeake Bay. It was June, and the storms for the year had passed into history.
Molly allowed the tranquillity of the beach and the glassy-smooth cobalt water to soak into her. She muddled through the grasping sand in her tennis shoes. With a slight laugh, she stopped and took them off, then carried them in her left hand. It felt good to dig her toes into the grainy texture of the sand as she wove in and around the many dunes.
Nearly a mile from the parking lot, Molly found her spot. It was a cul-de-sac nestled between two fairly large hills laden with salt grass. In front of her, as she spread out her well-used purple beach blanket, was an unobstructed view of the bay. Although the sun’s rays were sliding across the eastern expanse of the bay, she could barely make out white sails of yachts dipping up and down on the surface. More tension flowed from her as she shrugged out of her backpack which contained a sack dinner and her textbooks.
Her legs crossed, her elbows resting on her knees as she munched on a tuna sandwich, Molly thought about Cam Sinclair. Funny, all week, at every turn, she’d seemed to run into him. And always he was a gentleman, nodding deferentially in her direction, opening doors for her or whatever, but never offering a smile or any indication of emotion in the depths of his haunting pale blue eyes or his continually pursed mouth.
Did Cam ever smile? Molly wondered, munching on the sandwich. What would his face look like if he did? She closed her eyes, trying to imagine just that. And then, when a keening sea gull flew low, she reopened them. With a laugh, Molly tossed a bit of her sandwich up in the air. The gull dived, catching the choice morsel with grace and quickly gobbling it down.
In no time, Molly had a plethora of gulls circling above her between the two dunes. She gave her potato chips to the beggars, and time spun to a halt. The slight breeze, the salt air, the warmth of the sun’s rays, plus the dozens of gulls who cautiously edged toward her towel or flew around her head, made it a magical time for Molly.
Finally out of food, she shrugged her shoulders at the birds. All she had left was an apple, and Molly used her small pocketknife to cut off bits of it to toss to the gulls who stayed around her blanket, begging. Test-pilot school was forgotten. Chuck Martin no longer existed. Her laughter was full and lilting, absorbed by the inconstant breeze and pleading cries of the seabirds.
The flock of gulls suddenly took wing as a unit. Molly saw the black shape of a dog hurtle up and across a nearby dune. Before she could move, she saw a sleek black Labrador bounding toward her, its pink tongue lolling out of its mouth.
Startled but pleased, Molly stood.
“Hi there, fella.” As the dog came up to her, she saw the Lab was female. Extending her hand, Molly smiled as the dog fearlessly approached, wagging her thick tail furiously. She was wet, with water glistening on her ebony coat.
“Excuse me. I mean girl. Hi. How are you? And who do you belong to?” Molly leaned down. The dog wore a leather collar with a rabies tag, as well as another tag. Looking closer, Molly smiled.
“So, you’re Miracle. I wonder what you did to earn a name like that?” She petted the dog’s sleek, damp head, taken by the animal’s affectionate nature.
Molly had crouched down, her arm around the dog’s neck as she patted her, when she saw the outline of a man appear on the crest of the same dune. The sunlight was behind him, and she narrowed her eyes to try to make out who it might be. Obviously, the dog’s owner.
“Miracle! Heel!”
Molly straightened, her heart racing. No, it couldn’t be! The voice was
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