The Night Mark. Tiffany Reisz
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her with its size and sudden appearance. They’d eyed each other for a few seconds before Faye had continued walking toward the end of the pier. She’d fully expected the bird to take off as she neared it, but it hadn’t. It stayed while she knelt on weathered gray wood and poured the ashes into the water and it stayed when she stood up again. It flew off only as she started to walk toward land. For a second—a foolish stupid second—she’d thought the bird was watching over her, making sure she didn’t take that long walk off that short pier.
“What are you?” Faye asked the bird, not expecting an answer. The bird merely shook its wings in reply, and Faye sensed it readying to take off.
“Hold on. Stay there one second, big bird. I want to get my camera. Just a camera. Don’t be scared.” Faye backed into the room, trying her hardest not to make the floor squeak under her feet. From her leather camera bag, she pulled out her Nikon. Carefully, she crept to the doors, but the moment she lifted the camera to her eye, the bird launched itself off the balcony. The one shot she captured was a blur of white in the distance. Faye laughed. Well, there was a very good reason she hadn’t gone into nature photography.
After an early breakfast of cereal and tea, she found Miss Lizzie weeding her garden out back. Faye sidestepped a discard pile of murdered plants. Discerning what was weed and what was garden took better vision than Faye’s twenty-twenty, and she wasn’t sure Miss Lizzie could tell the difference, either. Faye asked her if she knew anyone with a boat. Miss Lizzie suggested she talk to Ty Lewis in Room 2 on the first floor. He was a marine biology student doing some project on the islands over the summer. He went out on a boat often, Miss Lizzie said. Even if he couldn’t take her out he could probably point her in the direction of someone who could.
When she returned to the kitchen she found her man. Had to be him. He wore a T-shirt—a shark and octopus locked in battle on the front with the words The Struggle is Real underneath. He had dark brown skin inked with dozens of black tattoos up and down both arms—fish, it looked like, lots and lots of fish—and half a dozen silver piercings: eyebrow, both ears, nose and lip, plus a bonus upper-ear piercing. He had dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail. He was also handsome enough Faye had to remind herself she was thirty, not twenty.
Twice she reminded herself of that fact.
“Are you Ty?” she asked, pulling a mason jar—Miss Lizzie’s version of iced tea glasses—from the cabinet.
“I am if you’re asking.” He gave her an appraising look and the appraisal came in high.
“I’m asking,” she said. “Faye Barlow. And don’t flirt with an old lady. Our hearts can’t take that much excitement.”
“If you’re old, I’m Drake. What can I do for you?”
“I heard you have a boat? Or access to a boat?”
“I might have access to a boat,” he said between bites of scrambled eggs and sausage. He sat on the counter, not at the table. When was the last time she’d sat on a kitchen counter? High school?
“Would you let me pay you to take me out somewhere on your boat? I need to take some pictures of a lighthouse.”
“You can drive to the lighthouse. Best beach in the state. Don’t tell anybody that, though. I wanna keep the tourists at Myrtle Beach, where they belong.”
“Miss Lizzie said there’s another lighthouse, one on some place called Bride Island. Do you know it?”
“I know it. Hard to get near it, though. There’s a sandbar in the way.”
“Guess that’s why they needed a lighthouse. Can you get into the area at all? I have a long-range lens on my camera.”
“I can probably do that.”
“Today? Tomorrow?”
“This evening? Five?” He hopped off the counter and poured himself a massive glass of orange juice, so big it made her teeth hurt and her blood sugar spike just looking at it. Did college kids know that their days of eating and drinking like that were numbered? She wanted to tell him, then decided to spare him the awful truth that time was a thief, and a metabolism like his would be the first thing it stole.
“What’s the charge?”
“Dinner. With me. You know, after we get back from the boat.”
“You’re too young for me, and I’ve been divorced for about—” she pretended to check her watch “—ten days.”
“You celebrate the divorce yet?”
“Is that a thing people do? Celebrate the painful dissolution of a marriage?”
“Who wanted the divorce?”
“I did.”
“You love him?”
“No.”
“Like him?”
“No, but he didn’t like me, either.”
“You have kids?”
“No.”
“Good in bed?”
“Fair to middling,” Faye said, shrugging.
Ty laughed. “Then hell, yeah, it’s a thing to celebrate.”
“I will have an age-appropriate celebration. You’re too young for me.”
He looked at her, tight-lipped and disapproving. “I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m thirty.”
“Thirty? Oh, my God, Becky, where were you when JFK was shot?” he asked in a Valley girl voice.
She glared at him.
“You flirt weird. Did you learn this in one of those men’s magazines with a woman in a metallic bikini on the cover?”
“Possibly. Is it working?”
Faye sighed. “It’s working. But just dinner. I’m not sleeping with you. I’m supposed to be sad.”
“Are you sad?” he asked, stepping up to her and looking her right in the eyes. She couldn’t remember if Hagen had looked her in the eyes the entire last year of their marriage. She’d forgotten how scary it was to be seen.
“Yes,” she said.
“Because of the divorce.”
“No, not that.”
“Then why?”
Faye smiled. “Who knows?” A rhetorical question. She knew why she was sad, but Ty didn’t need to know.
“We’ll go to the ocean today,” he said. “It knows things. Maybe it can help you.”
Okay.
So.
Faye had a date with a twenty-two-year-old college student. That was unexpected. Probably a very bad idea, as well. Maybe a terrible idea. Then again, he did have a boat. And he was cute. And she was single again.
And... For a split second while flirting with Ty, Faye had been almost okay. The saltwater cure seemed to be working already. And for a woman who’d been in mourning for four straight years, Faye knew “almost okay” was as good as it was probably ever going to get.
But she would take it.
Ty had the boat, but Faye had the car. Unless she wanted to ride twenty miles on the back of Ty’s scooter, she would be driving herself on her own date. It was nice. She felt very modern. Old but modern.
Ten minutes into the drive to the dock on Saint Helena Island, Faye pulled over in a church parking lot and gave Ty the keys.
“You want me to drive?”