~ The Mermaid And The Eagle ~

by

Kay Layton Sisk

Clarissa McBride stood at the edge of the Gulf waters and hesitated. The moon gave little light to her present endeavor and that was just as well. If she hadn’t had the nerve to forgive the sea in the light of day, then she should just have to forgive it in the dark of night.

She scooted her right foot forward, felt the tide tickle at her toes, suck them into the sand in its wake. The surf was gentle now, not roiling, not angry as when she had last felt it around her.

She took a step backward. Coward! she chastised herself and took two steps forward, let the water bubble around her ankles, invite her to go further. She wrapped her fists in her nightgown and lifted the fabric to her knees. She didn’t have to plunge herself in to complete this healing process, but she did have to get wet.

Casting a look over her left shoulder, she could barely see the lights of her condo complex. She’d wandered much farther down the beach than she had intended. What had started as a march-to-the-water-put-your-big-toe-in-and-hightail-it-out-of-there had devolved into a one-sided conversation with herself as she paced further down the beach, a will-I-or-won’t-I that had found her far from home when the I-will won.

Now or never, Clarissa. Just get it over with--and then go back to living! How much time has God given you to waste?

She knew the answer: she had wasted one year of her unknown future--and she didn’t figure how God could be pleased.

Clarissa straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and spoke to the open water: “I’m better than this. I swear I am. I’m going to beat the fear. I am going to win.”

Taking a child’s game “big step,” she walked into the next wave.

~ * ~

Mick Carruthers’ impatience boiled over at the last traffic light on the boulevard. He gunned the Harley through the yellow, caught a touch of red reflected off the metal as the light changed. He had no need for the pettiness of traffic control, what with the evening’s venture going poorly and tomorrow being a quagmire of explanations.

The entrance to the beach proved too tempting. Blowing off steam by letting the wind abuse his body as he blazed through the Texas Gulf surf had all the makings of a good idea whose time had come. Which was what he had thought earlier in the evening also. Surely he couldn’t lose twice in one night.

The helmet was off his head and bounced onto the back of the bike the instant he skittered down the concrete ramp meant exclusively for walkers. He didn’t hesitate to use it as a launch platform.

The moon gave little light to the beach, but the surf was coming in and the breeze was strong. The wind puffed out his jacket and ripped at his face, pushing his ponytailed hair behind him like a horse’s tail on a racetrack. He was just beginning to unwind, to put the evening’s affairs in perspective and start realizing how he could best deal with them, when he saw her.

The gossamer sheerness of the gown did little to disguise her figure. The fabric blew around her, encumbered below her calves where it clung wetly. She was still in the tidal pool, but the water that sucked at her feet pulled her along with it. Her arms were lifted to the sky and Mick sensed the satisfaction on her face without being able to see it. He set his jaw and gave the Harley more gas. If this woman thought she’d wandered down the beach to commit suicide, she could forget it. Not on his watch, not on his beach, not after the evening he’d just had.

One with the machine, he maneuvered into the eddying tide and paralleled the beach. Driving and balancing with his left arm, he prepared to scoop her up from certain death with his right.

~ * ~

It wasn’t the noise of the motorcycle that caught Clarissa’s attention over the surf, so much as the rapidly approaching light. Here she was, celebrating freedom from fear--fear of the water, of death, of being alone--only to be faced with another one: the fear of being run down in the surf by a motorcycle.

She lowered her arms and began to gather her gown around her, running foremost in her mind. But run to where? The dark water offered no respite, and the bike was certainly more maneuverable on the wet sand than she.

Yet what surprised her most was the arm extended from the side of the motorcycle and the way she was lifted onto the seat.

~ * ~

Mick braked even as he picked up the wraith in the surf. She struggled against him on the seat and kicked his right leg as he came to a stop. He anticipated the second blow, and all she got for her trouble was a bone-jarring whomp on her heel from the chrome.

He didn’t know if the screech and resultant epithet were brought on by his interruption of her suicide attempt or the blow to her heel. She struggled against him to the point that he finally dropped her into the damp sand. He stood, his legs still across the seat, and put his hands on his hips. Sweat trickled down his back.

She gazed up at him with eyes widened by fear. She was leaning back on the heels of her hands, her legs askew, the gown nipped and tucked in ways he would have found provocative in a hotel room. But her breathing was labored, her bottom lip quivered, and as she pushed herself to her feet, she crouched and seemed to take his measure. Obviously not liking what she saw, she ran.

Mick bounded after her and had her once again around the waist before she’d gone ten yards. She twisted in his arms and kicked at him, even leaning over to attempt a bite to his gloved hand.

“Whoa, I’m not going to hurt you!” He turned her and managed to gain some control by grabbing her wrists and crossing them in back of her. She was thin, but deceptively strong. He put both her wrists into his right hand to give her some space. He must have looked imposing to her; he hadn’t seen fear like that in anyone’s eyes since he was a teen. Then the fear had been Javier’s.

“I’ll let you go if you promise to stay put.” For an answer, she tried to pull her hands free. “You’re not going to beat me on this,” he explained. She stopped the struggle and her arms went limp. “And I’m too smart for that one, too.” She pulled against him quickly, managing to unbalance them both. He grabbed her before they tumbled to the sand and pulled her against himself once more. “Come on, let’s go.” He half-lifted her and started back toward the bike.

She kicked. “I am NOT going anywhere with you!” He felt her gathering her breath for a scream.

“Go right ahead, yell your head off. Nobody’ll hear you! You didn’t come here so you’d run into company. You’re down here to be alone.”

“Well, if that were true, you’re certainly misplaced!”

“You are not the first person to ever point that out to me.” They were at the bike, and he set her back on her feet. “Now let’s understand a few things.” He still held her with wrists crossed behind, but this time his grip was sure and strong. “I don’t allow suicides.” Her mouth dropped open. “Now we are going to get on this bike together. And we are going to go wherever you live and I am going to see you to your door. Capiche?” She stared at him blankly, and he gave her hands a gentle shake. “Cat got your tongue?”