* Likes the ocean
* Loves his mom
* Adventurous
* Loves snuggling, kissing, and slow mornings
* Isn't commitment shy
I chuckle bitterly. Talk about being a dreamer. Gah. Could I have been any more naïve about relationships? I was describing a mythical creature, a freaking unicorn, on that list. Not a mortal man, that's for sure.
No guy will ever meet the criteria I've listed. Because he doesn't exist. Which is fine with me, because I'm not looking for a relationship right now. Not after Brent, and definitely not now that my life is consumed with opening this business.
I slam the notebook shut and look around. There's not a lot I can accomplish in the next few hours. The contractors won't be back until Friday, and I'm starting interviews for staff tomorrow, if I'm lucky.
It's a gorgeous summer day, or at least it was when I arrived at eight this morning, armed with a giant cup of coffee. I've shed the ever-persistent colds, headaches, and twinges of back pain I'd had in my old life. It's funny how stress affects you physically.
Maybe I should take my kayak and mermaid fin to the spring. I haven't been swimming in a week, which feels like an eternity to me. And I haven't taken an entire afternoon off in two months; every available moment has been spent researching, meeting with the leasing agent, or applying for permits at the county building. In the time I've been here, I haven't gone out or made friends. A social life will come soon enough, once I open the bar.
Today, though, I deserve a swim.
Slipping my arms through my backpack, I lock up and hop on my bike. My bungalow is only a few blocks from the bar, so I've been biking everywhere. Part of the reason I love Cypress Grove is that it's so easy to get around. I can pedal to the grocery store, and when I want to take my kayak out, it's only a few miles' drive out to the spring where there's a boat launch.
So within a half hour, my kayak and mermaid tail are loaded in the back of my truck — even with Wanda's money, I'd kept my old, beat-up Toyota pickup because I love it so much and figured I'd need it for the bar renovations — and zip out to the launch.
Because I've been a swimmer since I could walk, I've got decent upper body strength. I easily lift my one-person, plastic kayak and set it in the water, tying it to a dock while I load my fin and a small cooler into the boat.
After undoing the line from the dock, I paddle away, a huge grin on my face. I'm headed for a little spit of sand in a quiet bend of the spring; I'd read about it in the local newspaper.
I paddle so hard and fast in the calm, blue water that I work up a good sweat. The little island comes into view, and I glide into the shallows, then hop out and drag my kayak up onto thegrassy bank. Hunh. I'd figured there would be others here, but today, it's deserted.
With the cypress trees overhead, soft grass and pale sand at the water's edge, and weathered, half-submerged logs in the shallows, this island looks like something out of a postcard. And today, it's all for me.
How did I get this lucky? Somehow, I've gone from living with fear and sadness to this.
Paradise. Freedom. My best life.
I strip off my life vest, T-shirt, and shorts so I'm in only my blue bikini. Then I take the plastic fin — it's like a single snorkel fin, with spaces for my feet — and slip it into the stretchy, shimmery, blue material of the tail.
Then I roll down the fabric as if I'm putting on tights, sit on the sand at the edge of the water, and stuff my feet into the monofin. Rolling up the fabric like I'm putting on a body-hugging, lycra pencil skirt is a little harder, because it has to be flush against my legs and wrinkle-free so I can swim without friction. Probably I look ridiculous as I squirm around on the sand, pulling the fabric over my ample butt. I couldn't care less, though, because I'm eager to get into the water.
Finally, the fabric is over my belly, sucking in the flesh. My legs are bound together by the tail. After swimming and performing in similar costumes for years, I feel relaxed when my body is compressed like this. It's similar to wearing a weighted blanket for anxiety — the more sensory feeling I have on my skin, the better I feel.
All that from a sparkly, blue mermaid tail. Strange, I know.
With a twist of my torso, I roll myself into the water, using my hands to walk, digging into the sand until I'm a foot or so deep. Once I'm buoyant, I dip under, and take off.
Underwater, the real world falls away. I open my eyes. All I see is the electric blue of the water and a school of small, silverfish. The feel of the water against my face makes me grin wide. I surface for a breath, then dive back down, my spine undulating in a serpentine movement. Surface, dive, swim. Surface, dive, swim. Even though at the park I'd learned to use an oxygen line underwater, I can hold my breath for quite a while.
Could this day get any better? Sun and sand and water all around me? I was born for this moment.
There are some people up on the wooden platform above the spring, but they're far enough that I don't pay much mind. Taking a dive underwater, I spot a school of bream, sunlight wavering on the limestone bottom, and — oh — a manatee resting in the cool depth. I slow, so I can admire her.
Surging to the surface, I inhale a few huge breaths and bob in the warm, calm water.
The water is my home.
I power swim for a while, my tail allowing me to pick up speed and do flips and turns easily. My long hair flows and floats around my face. As much as I don't miss my old life with Brent, I do miss being a professional mermaid. Swimming here eases some of that homesickness.