Chapter 8
Calista
“Authenticity lives in imperfection. Don’t worry if your art isn’t perfect, it’s not supposed to be.”
—Eloisa Hobby
Some would have panicked. Many would have scrambled, grabbing at whatever their frantic hands encountered. Most would have done both.
Calista did neither.
She barely registered the blur of feathers and beady eyes—the ostrich’s unexpected assault—before the ground vanished beneath her feet.
Whether by instinct, years of black-belt-level practice, or a wide self-destructive streak, she went limp.
The tried-and-true defense mechanism of the opossum. Tonic immobility. Playing dead.
Her body relaxed, absorbing the impact as she tumbled down the hill.
Tall grass slapped against her skin, angry bees buzzed as she disturbed their wildflowers, and her stomach lurched with the uneven terrain. Nausea coiled in her throat. Fantastic, they’d find her dead and covered in vomit.
She squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering to the fall. If it was her time to die, well, at least she’d see Mamá again.
Images and sensations careened through her mind, blending past with present—Demetra pushing her on a playground swing, her mother’s laughter warm and sunlit in the Texas air. The scent of jasmine and sea salt.
Athena’s stoic face on those courthouse steps, while Calista’s own was tear-streaked. Athena’s tentative smile on the ferry to Marshmallow Landing. Calista could use a marshmallow landing right about now.
The satisfying thwack of a perfect drive, the ball arcing against an azure sky.
Eloisa’s kind eyes offering a lifeline she wasn’t ready to grasp.
The acrid taste of anger propelling her away from that green at Chevron.
Children’s joyful shouts at a fantastical birthday party Calista had planned, filled with surprises and unique twists.
The weight of the locket at her throat was a constant reminder of everything she’d lost. Her therapist’s gentle voice. You are more than your past, Calista.
Each memory flickered in a heartbeat as her life distilled into fragments. This was it, the end of her life. She braced herself, expecting pain or oblivion.
But instead . . . stillness.
Calista lay on her back, eyes clenched shut, ankle throbbing, heart hammering. Slowly, she cracked one eye open and then the other, staring up at an endless sky dotted with fluff-bunny clouds drifting by.
Music reached her ears, faint at first but growing louder. Was it a heavenly chorus? Pearly gates beckoning?
Dearly beloved . . .
No, no. It was Prince. “Let’s Go Crazy.”
Huh?
She propped herself up on her elbows, looked to her left, and let out a soft gasp.
She had stopped inches from the cliff where the ground mysteriously cupped upward like a curling wave.
Just beyond, a hundred feet below, the shimmering blue ocean lapped against the shore.
The salty air stung her eyes, and she exhaled slowly, releasing a long-held breath.
Dropping her shoulder blades back to the earth, she let the tension seep from her limbs.
The music grew louder, and the iconic guitar riff carried on the island breeze. Calista sat up, cross-legged in her long skirt, and swiveled her head, searching for the source.
A golf cart sped toward her as fast as it could go, mowing down wildflowers as it bounced along the uneven terrain and stirred the silence with rock music.
Aww, the poor flowers.
She hoped they’d spring back. Shading her eyes with her palm, she squinted, trying to identify who was behind the wheel. Unmistakable, even from a distance. The man’s poufy Elvis-esque hair ruffled in the wind.
Reid Thornton.
Calista groaned and fell back onto the grass, legs still crossed. Of course it would be him, of all people, to come upon her. She cocked one eye at the sky. “Really?”
The cart halted a few feet from her.
Reid killed the engine, cutting off the music and leaving Prince hanging mid-note. The golf cart had a pretty sweet sound system—Bose if she wasn’t mistaken. Calista knew her audio because her work assistant, Skylar, shared his passion with anyone who would listen.
“Calista?” Reid rushed over. Concern etched his face. “I saw you take a tumble, and I thought . . .” He shook his head, the rest of the sentence hanging in the air between them. “Well, never mind that. You didn’t go over the cliff, and I, for one, am thrilled you’re okay. You are okay . . . right?”
Since when did he care about her well-being? She wanted to ignore him. To pretend she was invisible among the camouflaging wildflowers, but her throbbing ankle had other ideas.
“Hunky-dory.” Damn, her stupid voice quiver.
“Yeah, because people who are ‘hunky-dory’ lie spread-eagle on cliff edges.”
Despite herself, Calista twitched her mouth upward. She’d forgotten his knack for dry humor, the way he could disarm her with a single line.
“I’m not spread-eagle.”
“No?” He loomed over her, blocking out the sun, a big grin on his stupidly handsome face. “Oh, I see. You folded your legs underneath your skirt.”
“Stop staring at my nether regions.” He’d lost that right thirteen years ago, but she wasn’t about to churn that up again. She shifted slightly, trying to maintain some dignity despite her position.
“Is something wrong with your limbs that you can’t straighten them?” he asked.
He crouched beside her, concern returning to those striking blue eyes as he searched her face. “Seriously, Cal, are you hurt?”
The old nickname she’d once forbidden him to use punched her in the gut. She moistened her bottom lip. “My ankle. I twisted it, running away from a deranged ostrich.”
Reid blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say ostrich?”
“You heard me.”
A beat passed, and then Reid burst out laughing. “Only you could come to an idyllic island and end up in an altercation with Big Bird.”
Calista tried to hang on to her scowl, but she felt it crumple at the edges. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s kind of funny, but you’re right, I’m sorry. Near-death experiences are serious business.”
“I could have tumbled into the ocean.”
“Not really.” He eyed the way the ground curved upward at the cliff’s edge. “You didn’t have enough momentum.”
“Maybe not, but I crossed my legs to sit up when I heard your music, and now I’m afraid to move since, for the moment, my ankle doesn’t hurt.”
“Are you cutting off your blood supply?” He reached to lift her skirt.
“What are you doing!” She slapped both hands on the ground, pinning her skirt down, her heart skipping a beat.
Grinning, he stepped back and held out a hand. “You ready to get up?”
She exhaled. “Okay, let’s do it.”
“I’m here. I got your back.” Oh, he’d said that before, and he had not, in fact, had her back. He seemed to realize that as his face flushed. “I promise.”
“We’ll see.” She grasped his outstretched hand, and he hauled her to a standing position. She hissed through clenched teeth. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”
“Here, lean into me.” He wrapped an arm around her waist, and she caught a whiff of his cologne—sandalwood, palo santo, and citrus. He still used the same fragrance he had at sixteen.
Then, boom!
Memory engulfed her, spinning images of things she thought she had buried thirteen years ago after Reid broke her heart.
The musty smell of the clubhouse locker room, the cool metal against her back, her eager sixteen-year-old self, raging with hormones and need.
The feel of Reid’s calloused hands on her bare skin, eager yet gentle. Hushed giggles and whispered promises.
In the distance, outside, the thwack of late-night golfers hitting balls on the driving range.
His warm mouth against her neck. The rough texture of the towel they’d spread on the bench, moonlight filtering through the tall windows, casting shadows.
The tang of their nervous sweat mixed with the aroma of his cologne.
Her heart had pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.
The way he nicknamed her Cal with such reverence.
Fumbling fingers and awkward angles. Bumping chins and grinding hips.
Escalating desire and . . . a moment of discomfort, then his body was inside hers as they rocked together.
Afterward, the comfort of his arms around her as they lay panting, skin to skin.
“Cal?” Reid asked, dragging her back to the present.
“Uh-huh.” She shook her head, dislodging the memory’s cobweb sticking to her brain.
“Does it hurt?”
“Hell, yes,” she said, talking about the memory, not her ankle.
“Can you move it?”
Calista rotated her foot, wincing.
Reid nodded. “Probably just a sprain, but we should get some ice on it. Come on, I’ll give you a ride to Crafters’ Corner.”
Calista hesitated. Getting in a golf cart with him felt dangerous in a way that tumbling down a cliff hadn’t.
“I can walk.” She raised her chin.
Reid arched an eyebrow. “Cal, it’s almost five miles. On uneven terrain. With a sprained ankle.”
“I could crawl.” Okay, yes, she was being ridiculous.
“Stubborn as always.” There was a fondness in his tone that clipped her chest. “Look, I know you’re not thrilled to see me, but can we call a truce? Just until we get you some medical attention?”
Calista studied him, searching for any hint of the boy he’d been. Something that reminded her of stolen moments behind the caddie shack, of nervous laughter and the taste of his lemon ChapStick.
She sighed, relenting. “Fine, but only because the alternative is death by ostrich, and I refuse to give that feathered maniac the satisfaction.”
Reid’s grin rebounded. “That’s the spirit. Now, let’s get you to the golf cart.”
He tucked her closer to him, and Calista tried to ignore the warmth of his body heat. With his support, she hobbled to the golf cart and sank into the passenger seat. Fine, she was grateful for him. There, she admitted it.