Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) (7 page)

“Ma, no. But thank you for thinking of me. I’ll be in your driveway at eleven fifty tomorrow.”

“You’re a commitment phobe,” she said, and not for the first time. “You’re forty-two years old, Gil. Who are you savin’ yourself for? Stop spending your life just
observing
everyone. You need to get out there and date! You need—”

“I need to finish my dinner and get some work done tonight, Ma, so I can take off tomorrow afternoon.”

She exhaled heavily on the line.

“Love you,” he added before she could take another breath and continue expounding upon his, apparently, never-ending list of needs. “See you tomorrow.”

His mother begrudgingly rang off. Not that she wouldn’t return to this particular tirade at the earliest opportunity, especially since they’d have two full hours alone together in the car the next day. He steeled himself for the fun he knew was coming.

He poked at his now-cold shrimp as Nancy ignored him—either out of indifference or pity, he wasn’t sure. Her tail was a fascinating thing. He let its movements hypnotize him for a few moments as Nancy used it to propel herself around the tank. Her skin, too, was a kind of miracle, just porous enough to require moisture, but also water-resistant enough to allow for a semi-aquatic life.

On more than one occasion he thought of how similar this was to being an artist. That a special type of membrane was necessary to deal with rejections of one’s work and the slings and arrows of public opinion. And yet...yet...an artist’s skin still had to be thin enough to let in new experiences, new people. To let life affect a change, when it might be beneficial, significant, constructive, and possibly even inspiring.

Maybe—though he’d never admit this to her—his mother was right. Maybe he was too detached. He did look at life like an observer, after all. He dated a fair bit, but he did resist commitment. As a bachelor for over four decades, though, and given his observations of family life, it would take an extraordinary woman to get him to feel a real relationship was worth the risk.

“And present company aside,” he said aloud to Nancy, who swam blithely in ignorant bliss, “I don’t have a non-related female in my life who fits the bill.”

Under Pressure

T
he second time it happened, Ellen had to rush out of an executive board meeting, effectively truncating a two-and-a-half-hour discussion on recent state-initiated tax law changes by a full twenty minutes.

She instinctively ran to the same fifth-floor restroom stall, but had a harder time convincing herself that she was
just fine,
even after the episode was (mostly) over.

When she was able to return to the boardroom, she apologized to her startled colleagues, claimed a relapse of her flu, shot a handful of rapid-fire instructions at her secretary, and didn’t even bother with the medicinal peanut M&Ms.

No. Not this time.

This time she drove straight to the doctor’s office in the stout gray building next to the hospital. She’d be right by the emergency room if she needed it. No wasting precious minutes with preliminary phone calls. No ordering of carryout. Apparently, she looked so dreadful, so near-zombie-like when she stumbled into the clinic, that not even the nurse or the receptionist dared to patronize her with stupid small talk.

“I need to see Dr. Cole,” she told them. “Now.” And they believed her.

Dr. Cole appeared within two minutes of her arrival, escorted her to a private examination room and listened attentively as she detailed her symptoms from both this episode and the last one. He even took notes. Then he fiddled around with his stethoscope for a few minutes more, checking her heartbeat and blood pressure and such, before delivering his diagnosis.

Ellen couldn’t have been more stunned.

“What do you mean by ‘panic’ attack?” she said, staring at Dr. Cole with as much incredulity as she could muster. “That’s for people who are
scared
of things. Anxious, cautious, unassertive, passive people.” People more like her sister. Ellen crossed her arms and glared harder at the doctor. “I’m not one of
those
types.”

“Ms. Slater,” he began in an infuriatingly patient tone, “I’m not implying in any way that you’re weak. Panic attacks can be caused by many factors, not the least of which is cumulative stress over time.” He paused to level a significant look at her. “I know from our prior conversations that you have an intense relationship with your job, and there’s a possibility that it may be a contributing factor.”

“What
are
you implying, then? That I’m a workaholic?” she asked, hearing the challenge in her tone, the defensiveness.

“Not necessarily,” he said, consulting some papers in her medical file. “But, given that your recent lab work on May fifteenth was entirely without abnormalities,” he held up one of the lab sheets and pointed to it like it was Exhibit A in a legal investigation, “there are some causes we can already eliminate from our list. For instance, you appear to have no thyroid issues. No anemia. Those are both medical conditions that can sometimes trigger an attack.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Of course, there are others, so we need to be comprehensive. I’d like to run a few blood tests again, along with a couple of new ones. Plus, I’d like to take a chest x-ray and have my colleague, Dr. Whiteman in Cardiology, take a look at you more closely. We want to rule out any heart-related concerns.”

“So, if this Dr. Whiteman decides that it’s not my heart then, chances are, I’m probably not dying?” Ellen asked, equal parts relieved and curious.

“Probably not, Ms. Slater,” the imposing doctor said with an almost-smile on his pale, dry, authoritative lips. “But panic attacks can make you feel like you are. Many sufferers experience palpitations, sweating, accelerated heart rates, blurry vision, trembling, shortness of breath, nausea, dizziness, confusion, some areas of tingling or numbness—”

“My vision was fine,” Ellen insisted. “Totally fine. The whole time. And I don’t remember any tingling or being confused.” Well, she’d been confused about what was happening to her, but not about anything else.

Dr. Cole looked interested. “But you’re saying you had
all
of those other symptoms?” When she nodded curtly, he said on a sigh, “Let’s begin by just doing these other tests first. It’s standard procedure when cardiac conditions may be a factor. But, I’ll be candid with you. I suspect my initial diagnosis is correct, and I would highly suggest you consider reducing your trigger behaviors. If you’re unable to do that on your own, we can certainly look into medications later that might help you control your reaction to those triggers.”

“What trigger behaviors?” she said. “All I was doing both times was...work.”

Again, he sent her one of his significant glances. That annoying, know-it-all bastard.

“That’s right, Ms. Slater. So, something at work, or something you were thinking about while you were there, may have been the trigger. Can you recall what was running through your head prior to both episodes?”

She couldn’t.

“Well, a few things to consider then,” he said. “Heredity, for one. Did any of your family members suffer from panic attacks or take medication for anxiety?”

“Not that I know of,” she said, thinking back.
Had they?

“Also, environmental factors, such as one’s parents’ espousing an overly cautious worldview during one’s childhood, or the stress of one’s work situation building up over time, have both been found to be closely correlated with panic attacks. Were family issues or, perhaps, demanding work commitments in your thoughts this afternoon?”

Ellen tried again to recall what was going through her mind during the board meeting. She remembered thinking about her parents and her sister. That “overly cautious worldview” thing fit her family to a tee. Her parents, especially, had been suffocating when she was growing up. Cold, demanding, and unforgiving people. Thinking about their attitude made her throat tighten and gave her that familiar jolt of wanting to get far away. To be elsewhere. But it didn’t cause her to
panic
.

As for her job, she loved it. Sure, it had its stressful days, but she thrived on activity. She still had no idea what could have set off such a crazy reaction, not to mention all of that sweating. And this time she’d ruined a blouse she really liked. This bizarre illness or condition—or whatever the hell it was—was wreaking havoc on her wardrobe.

“I really just don’t have a clue,” she admitted.

“That’s all right,” Dr. Cole said, sounding unnervingly competent and reassuring. “We’ll figure it out and get you back to one-hundred percent in no time.” She was trying very hard to still hate the man but, unfortunately, not succeeding as well as she’d like.

She watched as he filled out the lab request form and called over to cardiology to set up an appointment for her. While her next two days would be filled with decidedly un-fun tests and procedures, the discomfort ahead wasn’t what was worrying Ellen as she walked down the long corridor to get her blood drawn.

It was that she was going to have to talk to Jared about all of this soon. That something in their idyllic little world—a world they’d painstakingly crafted for themselves and polished through years of tiny adjustments until it was just perfect for the two of them—was going to have to change in some way. Jared really wasn’t fond of change.

And she wasn’t either. Not when it wasn’t a change of her own making.

In the Circle

T
hursday morning dawned bright, not a trace of the tempest that raged the night before or a drop of rain left on the baked concrete in front of the bungalow.

I considered a quick stroll along the beach but didn’t want to chance running into Vivian until after I’d fulfilled my promise to go shopping for better beach shoes. It was time to finally venture out to St. Armand’s.

Armed with an E-Z map from Mr. Niihau—who’d looked at me like I was insane to need directions, but he kindly gave them to me anyway—I drove the nine miles from Siesta Key, the barrier island just offshore from the city of Sarasota, down the lengthy Tamiami Trail and followed the signs north and west until I got to the John Ringling Boulevard exit. Breathtaking views of the beach abounded in this region of Florida. And crossing the bridge onto Lido Key made me feel as though I was on a grand adventure for the first time in a very long time.

Even at ten a.m., this neighboring island was bustling with shoppers. I had to hunt for a parking spot. As I whizzed by the palm-tree-lined streets of St. Armand’s Circle, I was reminded of a confetti cake. The buildings and tourists were like handfuls of cheerful pastel swatches, tossed in the air and swirled together as if in celebration.

I finally found a space and parked. Then I wandered into the heart of the party.

“Wanna try a fudge sample?” a teenage girl in a Fudge Fantasia apron asked me. The girl had slices cut up and waiting on a tray in front of her, just steps away from the fudge shop’s entrance, and she held out a little plate. “Turtle is our special of the day.”

I swallowed in anticipation just looking at it: Dense, dark fudge topped with pecans and curlicues of caramel. “Thank you,” I said. Then, after taking my first bite, “Ohhh, wow.”

The girl nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I love it, too. On sale today for twenty-five percent off per pound.” She pointed at a placard with the reduced amount listed.

“I’ll think about it.” I knew this wasn’t an outrageous price for high-quality fudge, but I also knew my limited budget and that I’d want to come back later and explore the delectable displays inside the fudge shop. “It’s delicious.”

“We’ve got Oreo Crumble and Peanut Butter Swirl today, too,” the teen added with more than a hint of devious temptation in her tone.

I laughed. “Seriously, I
promise
to return.” Maybe I could afford a quarter pound. Or even a half pound.

“Good.” The girl glanced to either side, handed me another little plate and winked. “Take one for the road.”

The teen was going for the hard sell, but it was effective. As I gobbled down my second piece of Turtle fudge, I knew for certain I’d be back.

For the next hour or so, though, I simply meandered down the streets surrounding St. Armand’s Circle in delight and amazement. The postcard I’d seen at the corner grocery store hadn’t succeeded in convincing me that there were would be
this many
cool shops and restaurants assembled in one relatively small space. The area had a high-end, bazaar-like atmosphere that I immediately connected with and appreciated.

I peered into a number of sophisticated stores, exotic boutiques, and artsy galleries, appreciating the beautiful, handcrafted work of the artisans—many based in Florida, but quite a few from destinations around the globe. I couldn’t help but run my fingers across the expertly tooled leather handbags, admire the ceramic birds and dolphins, marvel at the crystal wave sculptures, and enjoy the color fusion of clothing, paintings, and jewelry. Such a remarkable array of shades and textures.

Eventually, I spotted The Golden Gecko, which was one of the shops the Elvis guy mentioned, and I wandered inside. Like many of the others, it was an assembly of fascinating crafts, this time with a special focus on decorative lizards and amphibians for yard and home. In the window, there was an enormous wrought-iron alligator. Near the door, I found a painted wooden iguana in the shape of a child’s chair. And, of course, there were clay, ceramic, glass, and bronze geckos throughout the shop—sitting on tables, perched on shelves, hanging on walls.

I saw several paintings, too. These weren’t primarily of slithery creatures, although I did catch sight of a few baby lizards in the corner of one canvas. No. The focus was on the waves and the water. They were seascapes, brightly, beautifully painted in vivid acrylics. Like a visual love letter to the stunning beaches of the Sunshine Coast, and very much like my first impression of walking to the shore: The unbelievable blues of the sky and the Gulf, the clarity of the water, the powdery whiteness of the sand, the surprising burst of color in the form of a swimmer’s bathing suit or a child’s pail and shovel, the small but perfect shells.