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It’s quiet and peaceful, and for a moment, I can imagine that this isn’t a disaster. That I’m here with my great love, and we chose this for a perfect solitary honeymoon, and the world is completely at bay.
I lean toward him as if I might rest my head on my shoulder.
Whoa, Bailey. You’ve had one too many.
I jump to my feet. “I guess I’ll look for anything dry to burn for the fire. Do you have tips?”
He seems amused at my sudden burst of energy. “I’d go for twigs and small limbs that were out in the sun after the storm. If we get a good blaze going, we can dry out the rest.”
I dust sand off my legs and leave the dock to collect brushy debris. Some of it is wet, but when I shake it, the limbs seem dry enough.
Rhett walks by with the bowl and the oysters he didn’t finish to take to the shed.
“How are we going to start the fire?” I ask him.
“I can get a spark going with one of the metal tools in the shed. We need kindling.”
I’m relieved he has a plan. “I’ll get more.”
There isn’t much to scavenge on the beach, so I head to the tree line, where small branches and uprooted bushes lie around everywhere.
Rhett and I were a good team back in the day, when he wasn’t being a raging maniac. I get that old familiar feeling of working with him as I drop my pile of brush outside the shed and head inside. The dark is falling rapidly.
I hope we can get the fire started before it’s impossible to see. This is my fault. I insisted on margaritas when we should have been using our daylight wisely. Rhett isn’t the only one who makes bad decisions.
Inside the shed, Rhett opens and closes drawers. “The damp brush won’t be easy to light with a spark. I wish we had paper.”
“My notebook!” I rotate my bag around where it’s slung across my back.
“Right. You’re full of ideas tonight.”
“It’s the margaritas,” I say.
And it might be true. The edge is off my fear, my annoyance, my impatience. It might be helping Rhett, too. He’s smiling an awful lot for a man stranded on a deserted island.
“Should I crumple the paper?” I tear out blank pages.
“Yes,” Rhett says. “We want to create a tight but easily sparked ball that we can use to light bigger pieces, gradually working up to branches.”
“I’ll go find bigger ones.”
“If it’s fat, bring it even if it’s wet. We can strip off the damp exterior.”
I nod and head to the tree line one more time, my flip-flops kicking up sand.
Whoa, it’s getting dark. I decide to use some of my phone power, examining the tree branches for good candidates.
I find several loose ones that are small enough for me to manage and head back.
When I return, Rhett is blowing into a wad of the paper. It’s smoking!
“How did you do it?”
“A hammer and a rock.” He tilts his head toward a collection of rocks at his feet. “Took a minute to find the right rock to make a spark.”
I drop the limbs next to the pile of brush. “Rhett Armstrong, were you a Boy Scout?”
He blows into the paper wad until it glows red. “Maybe.”
