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She donned her own life vest next and snapped the plastic buckles with fingers that shook. “Let’s go back inside.”
“No!” Simon darted under her arm to run to the back of the boat. Seizing the rail there, he stood on tiptoe to regard the water curling away from them.
Grace followed him on wobbly legs. She could feel the deck pitching gently beneath her feet. It wreaked havoc on her queasy stomach. “Simon, please!” She collapsed onto a padded bench as her legs gave out without warning. “Get away from the edge!”
“Go faster!” Simon shouted up to his father. Then, to Grace’s horror, he slipped away from her, running up the far side of the houseboat toward the bow, so he could watch where the craft was going. From the end of Amos’s pier, Grace had seen a bridge for cars crossing the mouth of the inlet. If they went under that bridge, they’d be heading into the Chesapeake Bay, right where it merged with the Atlantic Ocean.
“Simon!” She tried to get up and follow him, but her legs would not take her weight. They were tingling now, as were her hands and her feet. Little black spots obstructed her vision. To her chagrin, she could feel bile rising in her throat.
Oh, help.The waves were getting bigger. Simon came back into view, grinning as he rode the swells, his hair fluttering.
“Hold on to the rail,” she managed to cry. He had no idea he could slip on the deck that was now wet with spray and crack his head open. He was small enough to slide right under the railing into the swells.
The need to protect him battled her phobia. How big would the waves get? How long could Simon hang on before he was tossed off? She clung to her seat with white-knuckled hands. The black spots in her vision spread and her mouth watered, an advance warning that she was going to lose her breakfast.
She had just enough time to lean out over the railing, risking death by drowning to avoid the humility of having to clean up the deck—or worse, watch Amos do it.
With her stomach finally empty, she sank back onto the bench, feeling like a puddle in a life vest. She hoped the nausea would pass, but it didn’t.
* * *
Amos heard Simon patter up the metal steps to the pilot’s house. “Careful. Hold the railing.”
“Mith Garrett’th pukin’ her gutths out.”
Amos wrested his attention from the channel markings to his son’s expectant expression. He immediately shifted into neutral, sending the houseboat into a gliding standstill. There were no other boats in the inlet to worry about. He left the wheel to assess Grace’s condition for himself, grabbing Simon’s hand on the way.
On the back of the main deck, they found her pale-faced, eyes closed, clutching the railing behind her like she might slip bonelessly to the deck if she let go.
“Grace.” He patted her clammy cheek. “Simon, go inside and fetch a wet cloth. Walk!” he added as Simon took off running.
Her brown eyes fluttered open, a colorful contrast to her green complexion.
“Bend over and put your head between your knees,” he instructed, having seen many a sea-sick sailor before.
Grace’s brown hair, rich with red highlights, hid her profile as it hung to the deck. Amos gathered it in his hands, enjoying the cool, silky feel of it as he hunkered down to assess her status. “Breathe through your nose, slow and steady.” He listened, hearing only short, ragged breaths.
“Why?” She choked out the question after a minute. “Why did you do this to me? I told you I don’t do water.”
He had meant to scare her, to give her a better idea of what she faced if she returned to Venezuela. Chagrin kept him tongue-tied as he took the sodden wad of paper towels Simon brought back and wrung it out.
“Sit up.” He waited for her to lift her head before patting her face with it. Her complexion was returning to a more natural shade.
She jerked her face from his touch. “Why?” she demanded again.
In retrospect, it seemed rather foolish and impulsive. “I wanted you to feel helpless, like you’re going to feel if you return to Venezuela. You won’t be able to control events any more than you can control this body of water.”
She closed her eyes, clearly not wanting to hear it. “You’re wasting your time.”
“You can’t go back.” He pictured what might happen to her. “You have no rights whatsoever in that country. War brings out the worst in men. You have no idea what a lone woman might endure before she is blessed with the luxury of death.”
But Grace merely opened her eyes to give him the same obstinate look he’d seen on the faces of junior SEALs. “It doesn’t matter,” she answered in a hoarse voice. “I still have totry. Because if I don’t,” she cast a self-conscious glance at Simon, who hovered nearby, “I may never see Mateo again, and I would rather die than lose another child.” Her voice broke on the words.
Anotherchild? Surprise and then dismay slammed into him. Compassion and concern pulled him into an undertow. He held out a hand to her. “Come.”
She eyed it mistrustfully, then glanced around. There was nothing but water and marsh grass. “Where are we going?”
“You’re going to master your fear. The only way we’re returning to the pier is if you take us there.”
