A Taste of Sauvignon (9 page)

“T
his is my buoy. One end's attached to my anchor—see? It screws into the sandy bottom—and my flag's on the other. That way everyone can tell at a glance there's a diver down below.” Esteban held up the end of a flexible black belt lined with pouches, its heft obvious from the way it hung. “My weight belt. The pockets are filled with lead shot, like sandbags. That compensates for the positive buoyancy created by my wet suit.”

The clear explanations given in his confident tone of voice had a calming effect on Savvy. He sounded like he knew what he was doing. Reluctant to seem like even more of a nervous Nellie, she bit her tongue.

Her face must've given her away. He added, “I've been doing this since I was a kid.”

“A little kid? You mean, like a ten-year-old? Or a teenager? Don't you have to be a certain age—?”

He stopped her with a halting hand. “Trust me, Savvy. A kid.”

Her name on his lips replaced her anxiety with that melty feeling. For some reason, she did trust Esteban. Wasn't he the boy next door? She'd sat in his dining chair. She knew his
mami
, for God's sake. Plus, if anything happened to him, she'd kill him.

Esteban dropped his weight belt, propped his hands on his hips, and looked out to sea.

“See the floats and the dive flags out there?”

She could barely make out the red squares with the diagonal white lines, bobbing to the south.

Nonchalantly, he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it onto a towel, catching Savvy totally by surprise. She averted her eyes from the rippling contours of his torso. But when he stepped out of his Levi's, her eyes got a mind of their own, fastening themselves to his narrow hips, his long shanks.

Heaven help her. Was that even legal? A truck farmer in a Speedo?

He lay back on his towel and propped himself up on his elbows, a delicious stretch of caramel-colored man-god.

“You want to watch the ocean a while, before you dive. Scope out the biggest wave you're likely to encounter, get the pattern of the wave sets,” he said over the crashing of the water and the wind.

Somehow, Savvy managed to un-drop her jaw. What the heck was she supposed to do now? Stand there like some—what was it Shane had called her? Tight-ass?

Kicking off her sandals, she lowered herself to the other towel, aping his position. She stole a glance at his splayed legs. Her natural tendency was to cross hers at the ankles . . . but apparently, not his. Then again, he had a certain . . .
impediment
that she lacked. In fact, maybe crossing his legs wasn't even a possibility. The thought boggled the mind.

With difficulty, she tore her gaze off his lower half to watch a pelican dive into the spray, then let her head drop back to follow an osprey riding a wind current. She could do this.

She pointed to some flat, bronze-colored formations on the shore. “What are those honeycomb patterns in the rocks?”

“Those are tafoni. Caused by the constant pounding of the salt water. The composition of the sandstone is tight in some places, loose in others. That's what makes that lacy pattern.”

Savvy nodded.

Long, dark strands of his hair blew back, exposing his profile. “This sun feels great,” he said. He lay back again with his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

Savvy gulped. His face in repose was beautiful, his roped biceps pure, male muscle. Some men lifted barbells, others shoveled compost, she supposed.

She studied the smooth planes and valleys of his torso. She recalled hearing somewhere that North American Indians didn't have much body hair. She wondered what—

Unexpectedly, Esteban turned on his side, his entire . . . er,
package
. . . flopping over with him.

Might CVS let her return those size-medium condoms in her collection?

His forearm skimmed her stomach when he reached across her for the cooler, sending a shockwave through her.

Must. Act. Normal
. As if lying beside a naked copy of the David in public was something she did on a regular basis. She couldn't show the way she really felt, like Jell-O inside, all wet and wobbly.

“So, what do you think? How's it look out there?” she asked, faking a world-weary yawn.

“Awesome.” He tilted back his Coke bottle and gulped half of it down.

So why wasn't he splashing into the waves this very minute, instead of lying here on the sand next to her? That's what achievement-oriented Savvy would be doing, instead of—

“Doesn't look too bad right here, either,” he said in answer to her unspoken thought, eyeing her lazily.

For once, Savvy was tongue-tied. Her hands chafed to touch him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd simply sat still and enjoyed the scenery. She was always working toward something. Grades, the bar exam, a promotion. Her gelatinous insides and pounding pulse only added to her confusion.

He rolled over onto his stomach, his face inches from hers. “Sorry about that thing with Shane. He's not worth getting riled up over.” He fingered the ribbed edging of her sleeve, making the skin on her upper arm tingle where the backs of his fingers brushed against it.

“If I weren't worried about losing my license to practice, maybe I wouldn't have freaked so badly . . .” she managed to get out.

“I can't believe he lit up a doobie with you in my truck.” He grinned with the memory.

“Is that what you two do when you're together?”

“Smoke weed?” He—and his Patagonian package—rolled back over with a chuckle. “Never tried the stuff. I've only been around Shane a few times, diving.”

Something about the water caught his eye.

“Speaking of which, I think it's time. Surf's low, tide's high.”

He got up and pulled a black wet suit from his duffel. Savvy couldn't tear her eyes away from his upper arms, thighs, and calves as they contracted and relaxed in his struggle to wedge himself into it. Now she saw the purpose of the Speedo. It'd be really hard to tuck board shorts into that skin-tight neoprene that molded to his body.

“Will you be warm enough?”

“Never fun having ice-cold water streaming up your legs, but you get used to it.”

He stuck a wicked-looking knife into a sheath on his weight belt as a finishing touch.

“What do you consider shallow?”

“Fifteen feet or so, where the reef begins. You'll see my flag.” He fiddled with the strap on his face mask, propping it up on his head until he needed it, then slung his red float onto his back and set out for the waterline.

“You look like a giant turtle that's walking upright,” she said.

Without turning around, he raised a hand to acknowledge he'd heard her. “That's what everyone says the first time they see abalone divers.”

“How long can you hold your breath?” she called after him.

“Long enough,” he shouted back.

“Don't worry about me. I'll be waiting,” she yelled.
Right here. By myself. Worrying.

He stopped in his tracks, paused, then turned and marched back to her until his face was mere inches from hers.

“Let's get one thing straight,” he said, dead serious. “Don't get in the water. No matter what. You know that, right?”

She nodded once. “Right.”

He turned and started back.

She couldn't control herself. “What if something happens to you?”

He stopped again, his shoulders rising and falling in resignation before he turned and trudged back to her yet again.

“Nothing's going to happen, but if it does, scream and wave your arms to those guys out there.”

“M'kay,” she said in a small voice to his back.

E
steban knew better than to dive alone. But he'd driven all the way out here, and it was his first dive after that endless winter. This might be the only time he'd get out in the foreseeable future. Next to tending his precious lavender plants, whose progress wasn't exactly encouraging, diving was his favorite pastime. The only thing he spent his hard-earned extra money on was on dive gear. His wet suit alone had set him back five hundred bucks. He'd like to get his money's worth.

Plus, he had Savvy with him, and his macho blood wouldn't let him look like a
verga
in front of her.

He'd be fine.

He set a game plan. Fifteen dives, one minute each, and done. If he could lie on the sand with Savvy awhile, steal a few kisses, and eat a dinner of subs and fresh abalone, he'd go to bed happy tonight.

He always winced at that moment when the icy water seeped into his suit, but today was different. Today Esteban felt Savvy's cola-colored eyes burning a hole through him. He couldn't let his body language show weakness. Uttering a choice Spanish oath, he forced himself to walk without hesitation into the roiling surf.

Once the water reached his spine, he knew it wouldn't get any worse. When he got to the rocks, he lowered his mask, bit into his snorkel, and peered under the water to check on the kelp situation. It was too early in the year for seaweed to be visible above the waterline, but he knew the slippery stuff had already begun growing down there, attaching itself to the rocks, providing a home for all sorts of marine life—including abalone.

A quick glance didn't turn up much. Hardly any kelp at all in this location, but the visibility was only one to two feet due to the turbulence. He'd have to go out a little farther.

He came up and squinted across the sparkly water at Savvy lounging on the beach, blissfully ignorant. He'd let her believe what most non-divers thought—that shallow diving was safer than deep. Truth was, going down below fifteen feet was actually both easier and safer. At that depth, the waves were just gentle swells. Up here, it was hard to see, and the rough waves wore out a diver a lot faster.

There was another reason he didn't want to go out too far, too. He wanted to keep an eye on her.

He looked around. A stretch of reef forty feet farther out looked vaguely familiar. If that was the spot he thought it was, he'd taken a few nice-size abs from it a couple years back. He started swimming, towing his float with his gear on top of it.

The closer he got, the more he liked what he saw. There was a nice stretch of rock wall down there, with lots of promising holes where abs loved to hide.

After setting his flag and anchoring his buoy, he adjusted the weight on his belt until he reached neutral buoyancy.

Next, he floated on his back for a minute, breathing deeply to build up oxygen in his blood.
Dios,
it was cold. When he was ready, he blew the water out of his snorkel, reached down with one arm, and lifted the opposite leg straight into the air in a smooth motion, letting his body weight propel him down, down until his feet entered the water and he could further drive himself by kicking.

Under the water, he righted himself and relaxed. This
was
the reef he'd fished before. He thought about presenting a big fat abalone to Savvy . . . savoring its fresh taste with her.

Neon-bright anemones swayed in the frigid green water. A couple of starfish drifted along the bottom, at the whim of the currents. A shy greenling hurried away from him with a flick of his tail. Farther away, some coral caught his eye. These first few dives were only for recon. Once he spotted an ab that looked like it met the seven-inch requirement, he'd gauge it to check. Sometimes they appeared bigger through the mask than they actually were. If it was a good one, he'd try to pry it off the reef before it saw him and clamped onto the rock. You had to work fast so you didn't startle the ab or run out of breath, and he felt like a thief every time, measuring as fast as he could, sliding his pry knife between the snail and the rock, the whole job over in a matter of seconds.

He spotted a clutch of ribbed fan shells—scallops—and bent to scoop them up as a nice addition to their supper, but an unexpected wave rolled in and swept him away from the reef, scattering the scallops with it. With a hard scissor kick, he righted himself and climbed up . . . up. Breaking the surface, he sucked air into his lungs and shook his hair out of his eyes. He was farther from his float than he'd thought. Getting back to it would use up precious extra energy.

He went back and looked for the scallops, but they were gone, dispersed by the chop. So he flashed his light under the rocky outcroppings where the big boys liked to hide, careful not to give himself away by swirling the water. No luck.

The water made his bones ache. Fifteen dives might be pushing it. He had to find something in, maybe, ten.

On his fourth dive he spotted some abs, none of them legal. At least he knew he was in the right place. There was a nice horizontal opening he wanted to check out next.

He reached his glove into the crevice and sure enough, felt a big, flattened football shape. Quick as a wink, he rammed his pry bar under it and
bam,
pulled out a nice, heavy ab.
Yes!
He couldn't wait to show Savvy. Kicking with all his might, he swam toward the light, broke the surface, and held it up. Her return wave compensated a little for his shivering. He slipped it into a pocket in his float, sucked in some more air, and headed back down.

One ab down, two to go for his daily legal limit of three. It'd be great if he could find one for Madre, too. She loved abs almost as much as—

Esteban's mind went blank as a rogue force sucked his head down into the water, then dragged his body back with it. His snorkel was ripped from his mouth. Everything went white and bubbly. Where was he? Which way was up? Over and over he tumbled until his back banged up against the sharp reef.
Mierda. That hurt
.

When he finally clawed to the surface, lungs screaming for air, he spun left, then right.
Where was his float?
He caught a couple flashes of crimson way off to—was that south? Confusion clouded his brain. No. Those flags belonged to the divers he and Savvy had seen earlier. And then he saw his own beautiful float, rising and falling in the waves a good sixty feet back toward the shore.

I'm done
. He panted, treading water until he caught enough breath to swim. He attempted to fix his snorkel, but his fingers were too clumsy. It took several tries before he finally got it twisted around under his mask strap and into his mouth. He'd just get back to the float and call it a day. He was lucky it'd been his back that bashed against the rocks and not his head.

By the time he reached base, he realized he wasn't shivering any more. Now he felt strangely calm. Almost . . . drowsy. He blinked and shook his head. He couldn't give up yet. He needed one more ab. One for Savvy, one for . . . who was it that he wanted it for again? He'd remember later. Right now, he had to go down one last time....

 

Savvy was on her feet, looking out to sea. She hadn't seen Esteban in—three minutes? Four?

She'd been staring at the same spot for so long she was beginning to imagine things that weren't there. Still, she couldn't tear her gaze away from that red flag, its carefree bobbing against the bright blue sky making a mockery of her fear.

When she thought she spotted his head in the trough of a wavelet on the far side of his float, she stood on her toes and craned her neck.
Please, be him. What is he doing all the way out there, the stupid—tsk.

“Please, come in now,” she whispered. But he couldn't hear her. No one could. She was helpless and completely, utterly alone.

Her mind swam with all the things they'd done wrong. He shouldn't have dived by himself. She shouldn't have let him. She hadn't even thought to check his departure time on her phone. How long had he been out there? Probably no longer than twenty-five minutes, though it seemed like hours. She'd stuck a toe in the surf a while ago, only to jump back in shock. How could anyone withstand being completely immersed in that temperature? And for such a long time?

Exasperated, she huffed and looked around yet again for someone, anyone, to call on. But the divers Esteban had shown her had moved farther down the coast. Shane might still be back by the cars. By the time she ran
there,
though, Esteban might be back
here
, needing her. Not that she had a clue how to help him, or even the kind of trouble he might run into. What were the ways he'd said divers got hurt, back when they were sitting at the bar at Bodega? Riptides? Exhaustion? Getting stuck in a hole?

Where is he?
She focused on the flag, willing him to appear, while the minutes ticked by.

Finally she let her aching arm fall from where her hand had shaded her eyes for so long, and paced the sand, only to stop and peer out again. How far was it to the float? How deep? How long would it take her to wade and swim out there? Could she make it without hurting herself, making things worse? And what about her glasses? She couldn't see a thing without them.

Where are you, Esteban?
Maybe that was his head, bobbing among those of the other divers down the coast. No. He never could have made it that far. She was grasping at straws.

She cupped her mouth. “Esteban!” she screamed, knowing in her heart of hearts it was useless.

Desperately, she looked around for something, anything useful. Grabbing a towel, she turned toward the other cluster of divers, their flags tiny postage stamps flapping in the wind, and jumped up and down, waving it back and forth. “Hey! Help!”

The seagulls laughed and laughed.

Her phone. She snatched it, punched in 911, and waited. No service. They were too far out. In disgust, she flung it onto Esteban's pile of clothes.

She'd taken a lifesaving class when she was thirteen. Everyone had to take it back at Five Oaks. It was required—and why was she even thinking about middle school now when she should be out there, finding him?

She whipped off her dress—
you were right about the frumpy skivvies, Mer, ugh—
folded her glasses, jammed them in her bag, and ran down the beach and splashed into the water, the sharp rocks crucifying her feet. She'd get off them and start swimming as soon as—
Ahhhhhhggg!
It was freaking freezing!

“Esteban!” she screamed as her chest hit the surf. Then she remembered. He had a wet suit. She had nothing. But now she was committed.

“Esteban!” Her voice was consumed by the roar of the wind and the crash of the tide. She struggled to stay on the surface of the cold, turbulent sea. A wave washed over her and she choked on a mouthful of salt water. Long strands of hair pulled loose from her chignon, whipping in her face, blocking her already useless eyesight.

The float was a vague red shape in a world of green and white. If she could only keep her eye on it, she could reach it, hang on to it, and decide what to do from there. The current rushed by perpendicular to her as she fought to keep going.

Bizarre thoughts rushed through her head, like that time her car had hydroplaned and it was flying diagonally across the dotted white line, out of control, and she was in a time warp, completely powerless waiting for it to crash over the opposite bank, even though she knew that in the next few seconds there was going to be major hell to pay in terms of a permanently scarred face or broken limbs or at the very least, big-time vehicular damage. She might die of hypothermia before she ever reached that damn float . . . or get eaten by a shark. Esteban was going to be pissed. . . . This was going to ruin her plans to seduce him. . . . She'd spent all that time picking out that new green dress—why green? She never wore green—and that lacy white underwear for nothing. If only her arms could move as fast as her brain, because she didn't care if she never made that land deal, never made partner, none of that mattered now. All that mattered was getting to Esteban. Saving him.

It was taking forever.

And then she imagined she glimpsed a black hood. Was that him, hanging off the side of the float? If he could see her splashing toward him, why wasn't he waving back? Yelling at her for disobeying him? Saying hello, good-bye, or go to hell?

She dug down deep, mustering the reserves to up her pace, cycling her arms, keeping her head out of the water, her eye on the blurry prize. She'd never swum so fast or so hard, or been so cold.

And the whole time she swam, she had a terrible dread that something was very, very wrong. At long last, she flung herself onto the float. “Esteban!”

“S-Savvy?”

“Esteban! What's wrong with you?” she gasped. “Where were you? Didn't you see me coming? Why didn't you answer me?”

“C-c-cold,” he stuttered. “S-s-sleepy.”

She gaped at him in disbelief, shoving the wet hair out of her eyes with numb fingers.
Cold? Damn right it was cold! Bracing, not sedating. He sure picked a helluva time to take a nap. . . .

A line from that middle-school water safety class came back to her.
The main symptoms of hypothermia are confusion, slurred speech, and drowsiness.

“Esteban, listen to me. Hold on to the float. I'm going to get us back.” She grabbed onto a nylon rope and took a stroke in the direction of the shore, only getting a short distance before she felt an opposing tug.
It's anchored. To the bottom.
She couldn't waste precious time, breath, and energy diving down who-knew-how-deep to figure out how to undo it. Besides, she wouldn't be able to see down there.