Wild Child. Cindi Myers
the door. “You two go on. I promise I’ll change into my swimsuit, take a quick look at my e-mail, then I’ll catch up with you.”
“All right then.” Candy lingered in the doorway. “If you’re going to be here for a few minutes longer, can you do me a favor?”
“Sure.” Favors she could handle—obligations were the real bitches these days.
“Call me on my cell in a minute?”
“Okay. Any particular reason why?”
“Pretend you’re a business colleague. But wait until we’ve had time to get to Matt’s place. I want him to see that I can be serious about work.”
“Even when you’re on vacation?” She nodded, holding back a smile. “Gotcha.” Apparently Candy didn’t see the irony in pretending to do exactly what she’d lectured Sara against. Maybe because her fun-loving friend was a pro at mixing business and pleasure, while Sara had never been able to figure out how to juggle the two.
When they were out the door, Sara fished a brand-new bright-orange bikini from her suitcase and slipped it on. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror made her flinch. Her fish-belly white complexion was not a pretty sight. Why hadn’t she thought to buy a bottle of fake bake when she was out shopping for the bikini? The glare off her white skin was liable to interfere with satellite transmission or something.
Grabbing a bottle of sunscreen and the laptop, she went out onto the beach house’s broad veranda and settled into a cushioned lounge chair. At least here she could see the beach and enjoy the sound of waves crashing on the sand. Even if she was at her computer, lounging in a bikini with the ocean as a backdrop didn’t exactly count as work, did it?
She looked down the shoreline for some sign of Candy and Ellie, but staggered rows of beach houses blocked her view of them. She’d give them a few more minutes to reach Matt’s place before she called.
She signed on to her e-mail and waded through half a dozen spam messages, all promising extreme outcomes in the subject line. As if she needed increased anatomy or free designer knock-offs. When she spied a message marked with the word Urgent! she didn’t even have to check the sender to know this was from Uncle Spence. Stomach fluttering with dread, she opened the e-mail and read through a message completely in caps and heavily punctuated with exclamation marks. Maybe she should ask Ellie to switch Spence to decaf.
While she was composing her reply, her cell phone chirped. She retrieved it from her tote bag and checked the number. Frowning, she hit the answer button. “Hello, Uncle Spence.”
“Sara, why haven’t you answered my messages?” Spence’s Southern gentleman’s drawl was laced with tension. “I’m leaving for the golf course to play eighteen holes with Benton Granger. He’s going to want to know about that deal you’ve been working on for him.”
“Tell him everything’s on schedule for his closing next Thursday.” She logged off her e-mail.
“Are you sure? We haven’t heard back from the title company yet, have we? And what about the survey?”
“The survey came in Friday. It’s in the file. And the title company is supposed to call tomorrow.”
“You should call them today.” In the background she heard the hushed, reverent commentary of the Golf Channel announcers on TV. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my years in this business, it’s that you have to stay on people to get them to complete tasks in a timely manner.”
She rolled her eyes. Spence Montgomery’s business philosophy in a nutshell: management by nagging. “Everything will be fine,” she said. “Don’t worry.”
“It’s my job to worry. And yours, too. It takes worry—and a great deal of hard work—to stay on top in this business. I’d have thought you’d have learned that from me, if nothing else.”
She had learned it all right. Since she was seventeen and her uncle had given her a job as a clerk at his business, Anderson Title, he had taught her the importance of hard work. And she’d been a good pupil; once she’d graduated college, he’d promoted her and she’d taken on more and more responsibility every year. The business had blossomed into a multimillion-dollar concern, processing over a hundred mortgage loans a month.
Sara loved the business. And she loved Uncle Spence. She owed all her current success to him. But he really did worry too much. “When you see Mr. Granger, tell him everything is going great.”
“It would be better if you were here to make sure of that.”
“I’ll be back in the office next week. I’ll take care of his account then.”
“I think you should call the title company today. Just to make sure they haven’t run into any snags.”
“Uncle Spence, I’m on vacation.”
“One brief call won’t make that much of a difference. And it would set Granger’s mind at ease—and mine as well.”
She checked her watch. It was a little after one o’clock. She could phone Marsha, then hit the beach. “Okay. I’ll call. And I’ll e-mail you to let you know everything’s okay. But then I’m turning my phone off.”
“Don’t do that! What if I need you?”
There had been a time when she’d been flattered by Spence saying he needed her. But the warm fuzzies had worn off some time ago. “You’ve been in this business a lot longer than I have. I’m sure you can handle anything that comes up.”
“You’re responsible for your own clients, Sara. Remember, at Anderson Title we pride ourselves on our customer service.” The implication that he would be disappointed if she provided anything less than the best hung heavy in the air.
She sighed. She couldn’t say no to Uncle Spence. “All right. But please promise not to call me unless it’s an emergency.”
“That’s my girl.” The cheerfulness was back in his voice. “I promise. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Goodbye. And don’t worry.” She might as well tell the waves to stop moving.
She checked her watch again. Candy and Ellie ought to have reached Matt’s beach house by now. She punched in Candy’s number. The line rang and rang, but there was no response. Odd. Maybe Candy was too involved in a conversation with Matt to answer.
Sara shrugged and set aside the phone, then clicked on the address book on her computer to retrieve Marsha’s number. While she waited for the program to open, she stared out at the ocean.
A figure appeared on the horizon—the dark outline of a surfer against an expanse of blue sky and foaming white water. As she watched, he moved closer. She could tell it was a man now, broad-shoul-dered, wearing Hawaiian print board shorts.
She leaned forward, holding her breath as he rode the crest of a perfect curl. Knees slightly bent, arms held a little apart from his body, he was precisely balanced on the board, a picture of grace and strength.
Her heart twisted with longing as she watched the man. Oh, to be able to tame the ocean that way. To have such command over the waves and your own body. When she was a girl, she’d spent a lot of time on the beach, mooning after various surfing gods. She’d never gotten farther than being “allowed” to hold surfboards while her crushes headed off with some other bikini-clad babe.
Of course she’d also been skipping school, experimenting with drugs and hanging out with the wrong crowd. She was one short step away from juvenile delinquency when her mother’s brother, Spence, had reined her in.
But she hadn’t been all bad in those days. She smiled, remembering. Sure, she’d been a little reckless. A little wild. But she’d also been fun and spontaneous. Words that didn’t play a big part in her life these days.
Wasn’t that part of the reason she’d come on this vacation—to