Page 40 of Shielding Instinct

And his happy-go-luckiness (the reason for his name?) was contagious.

Petra needed to cut off any Herb conversation and pretend he wasn’t even in the vehicle with her.

Something about Herb made Petra think of a man with a crowbar, who was looking for a crack to wedge into to pry a bigger opening.

Petra didn’t want to give him a sliver of space.

She regretted every word she said to the man.

Happily, though, as soon as Lucky parked their vehicle, Herb was darting toward the trail to get ahead of his family as they arrived and parked behind Lucky’s piece of shit vehicle.

With a bag slung over her shoulder and the kids in a hand-holding row, Petra followed the Johnson family, and the group moved out of the trees.

The trail was non-existent.

The way to get from dirt road to tidepool was to mountain goat it over the side of a cliff wall.

Normally, this would be easy enough. The wall was craggy, with plenty of handholds and footrests. But Petra was wearing flip-flops with her sundress.

She still had that wonky eye going on, making the light do funny things to her vision. And she, per doctor’s orders, couldn’t take off her extra-dark sunglasses. They were so dark that Petra couldn’t make out anything along the side of the cliff.

Lucky was patience personified as he talked her along. “Your foot needs to go a few inches more. Okay, now let go with your right hand, and I’ll put it in a new place for you.”

Seventeen? Eighteen? How had this kid learned to be so generous?

As they got to the ridge of the tidepool. Petra stopped and looked out. “Well, that isn’t good.”

“What is wrong, Miss Armstrong?” Lucky asked, and Beans swung his head around, then came to stand near her to listen.

“See that?” She pointed. “I thought this was high tide?”

“Yes.” Beans looked at Lucky. “High tide is now. Low tide will come this afternoon around two.”

“But you see what I’m seeing? There’s that channel of water over there. See how choppy it is? See the different colors like a streak of one kind of blue flowing through a different color blue?There. And there. And there. Look at that foam and the seaweed. See how it’s getting pulled out? Those are—”

“Rip currents. And very bad ones. They shouldn’t be here like that this time of day,” Lucky said, holding the flats of his hands over his eyes like a visor.

“It’s the wind,” Beans told Lucky.

“The Christmas Winds?” Petra asked. “They make rip currents?”

“They can,” Beans said. “But this time of day?”

“I haven’t seen this before,” Lucky said as he turned to the people at the tidepool. “Hello!” he called, raising a hand in the air. “My friend Beans and I are looking at the sea. It is very rough and dangerous. We can see what looks like rip currents. If you are not from a place with seawater, you should know that these currents can pull even a very good swimmer like Beans here out to sea. You become so exhausted from the struggle that, unless there is a boat right there to help, it is possible to drown. This is your vacation, and you will do as you wish. We want everyone to have a wonderful time. But you should know that Beans and I cannot swim after you to save you. Please stay here, safe in the tidepool, and choose a different day to go into the sea.”

“You did a good job with that, Lucky.” Petra’s gaze was on Herb. He had to have heard, but he didn’t cast his gaze around to check on his children or wander over to have a little talk to make sure they didn’t climb over the rocks to the shore.

Jenny seemed to have taken up the task as the kids circled around her, and she was pointing and talking, then collecting shirts and shorts as the kids peeled down to their swimsuits, then walked away with a rolled beach blanket.

They left their necklaces on. And that bothered Petra in ways that she couldn’t identify.

So, yeah, she was going to be nosey.

Petra decided to let Jenny settle, then she’d lead with the conversation she and Herb had started, the one where she was an author and, “Your husband says you like to read. He also told me you do international adventure races…”

Petra did write. She just wasn’t an author.

It wasn’t everyone’s definition, but to Petra’s mind, an author was paid for their work.

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