“Are you leaving then?” Tristan asked her, almost casually, as if he was no more than mildly curious. She couldn’t blame him, of course. He had bigger things on his mind—life-and-death things. Family things.
“As I said before, don’t worry about me.” She checked her phone. “We have thirty minutes to get to the airport.”
“Shit. I haven’t even been down to my boat.” He shouldered his duffel. “And I still have to get to my house and grab my passport.”
“Let’s go, then. Tell you what, make a list while we drive. What needs to be done, and who I should contact about getting it done. I won’t leave Lost Harbor until everything’s under control. If I know one thing about this town, it’s that the people will be there for you. They were there for me and they didn’t even know me.”
“Yeah. Good plan.”
They hurried out to Toni’s truck, where she slid behind the wheel again. Definitely a strange feeling, driving on the left side of everything, but she was already getting used to it. The biggest problem was getting distracted by the incredible scenery—russet hills covered in dying fireweed, a burst of yellow from a lone birch tree, the silver surface of the bay, the parting of clouds to reveal a snowy mountaintop.
“Termination dust.” Tristan took a break from dictating a list into his phone to wave at the mountain on the other side of the bay.
“What’s that?”
“First snowfall in the higher elevations. Signifies the end of summer. Hence the termination.”
“That’s rather grim.”
“Only if you don’t like winter. Some do.”
“Do you?”
“I love winter. That’s when I get to take a vacation.” He returned to his list. “Boat. Lucas Holt can handle everything. Tell him to check for bullet holes. Ask him to call Morty at Northern Welding to postpone. I’ll haul my boat out later on.”
By the time they reached the tiny Lost Harbor airport—more like an airstrip with a small terminal building—the list took up a lot of space on his Notes app.
He sent it to her with a ding on her phone. “I owe you, Lulu. I don’t like dumping all this on you, but it’s mostly just connecting with the people who will actually do everything.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I owe you.” She stopped the truck with a jerk. “I’ll never forget what you did for me and Raul.”
He turned toward her, his sea-gray gaze sweeping across her face. He still hadn’t shaved. Her hands itched to feel the thick golden scruff, but she could tell that his entire focus was on getting on that plane.
“I’ll see you again,” he said, as if it was absolutely certain.
She smiled, neither agreeing or disagreeing. Who knew what the future held? Not her, since a week ago she didn’t know Lust—ahem—Lost Harbor existed. It sure was living up to its name—both of them.
“Take care of your father,” she said softly. “Don’t let the medical stuff distract you.”
His gaze zeroed in on her, and she knew he was really listening. “Go on.”
“Just be with him. Give him your best. This time will never come again.” Such bittersweet advice. She twisted her mouth to one side, refusing to add tears to this moment.
He leaned forward and tipped up her chin with one hand. “This isn’t over, Lulu. I promise.”
“Oh? How do you know I’m not going to hop on the next plane after yours and take off for Fiji?”
“I don’t. But if you do, expect me to show up in a thong when you least expect me.”
A smile trembled on her lips, only to be captured by his mouth, along with her sigh. This kiss held so many questions, so many reassurances, so much possibility. She surrendered to it completely, immersing herself in the powerful, drugging sensations. Tristan. I think I might love you.
Finally, after what felt like an entire story packed into one kiss, he drew away. Shaken by her last thought—I think I might love you—she touched her fingers to her mouth.
“Get on with you, then,” she said in her best Cockney accent. “Time for kidney pie, don’t you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Goodbye. Kidney pie. It rhymes.”
“Okay.” With a perplexed laugh, he swung his long legs out of the truck. “No need to come inside. The truck is yours as long as you want it. Toni’s idea. They have Bash’s rig.”
“Now that, I’ll take, since I’m not keen on hitchhiking from the airport. You’ll let me know how your dad’s doing?”
“Of course.” Turning away from the truck, he pulled his phone from his pocket and texted something. Her phone dinged. And then he was gone, disappearing inside the terminal, giving her one last glimpse of his tall form before the glass doors closed behind him.
And then, she really was alone.
Not wanting to draw things out too long, she drove slowly out of the airport parking lot. It wasn’t until she reached the next stoplight that she glanced at her phone to see what Tristan had texted.
This isn’t over. I promise.
Twenty-Five
At least once a year, Tristan traveled to Chile to visit his parents, and every time he had to adjust to speaking Spanish all over again. And every year, it seemed his accent got worse. This time, he had to get used to a lot of medical terminology that he barely knew in English.
From the Santiago airport, he took a taxi to the Centro Medico Nuestra Señora de la Paz, where he met his mother outside his father’s room. She clung to him, shaking so hard he worried she was having a medical crisis of her own.
“It’s okay, Mama. I just saw the doctor and he said Papa needs heart surgery but that he should come through it fine. He’s in good health otherwise. I guess all those years fishing paid off.”
But his mother just sobbed on his shoulder. His jacket grew wet from her tears. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said when she’d finally gotten through her tears. “I didn’t want Victor to see me crying. I feel better now. Go on, say hello to your father. He’s been asking for you.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He held onto her, hands on her upper arms. Her dark eyes, so much like Toni’s, cleared.
“Si, Tristán. I’m fine. I’ll find some tissues and clean my face off. I don’t want your father to get upset. Go ahead.”
Drawing in a long breath, he pushed open the door and found his father stretched out on the hospital bed, electrodes on his shaved chest, monitors blinking green. His eyes opened when Tristan walked in, and he managed a wide smile. “Good to see you, Tristan.”
Tristan got his build from his father, along with his gray-green eyes and his deep love for the ocean.
“Far,” he said, using the Danish word for Dad, which he and Toni liked to do sometimes. He bent over to hug him gingerly. “You look pretty good, considering.”
“Ja.” As a Dane, Victor Gammelgaard had learned English early in life, and had very little trace of an accent. But occasionally a Danish word would slip through. “No flattery. I’m glad you’re here, Tristan. Your mother needs you.”