Page 98 of The Oscar Escape
“Driftwood?” Aria eked out.
“Yeah,” Del replied jovially, like he wasn’t standing smack-dab in the center of a total lobster freak show. “It’s all over the place. Find yourself a piece.”
“Oscar,” she whispered, “did they drug us? Was there something in the chowder?”
“I don’t know. Let’s get the driftwood. But if you see a dagger or a sword or if a volcano emerges from the bottom of the ocean, we make a run for it.”
“Deal.”
Cautiously, they weaved their way through the sea of candlelight and walked along the water’s edge. With each step, his nervousness drained from his body like grains of sand slipping through his fingers, and he was pretty damned sure they weren’t about to be murdered. Oddly, he felt quite peaceful for someone surrounded by a lobster mob.
“There’s something comforting about the sound of the surf meeting the sand at night,” Aria said, calmness threading its way into her words, like she was having the same reaction he was. “Look at that.” She pointed a few feet away toward the gentle swell of water. She kneeled and plucked a smooth piece of water-logged wood about the size of a man’s shoe from the ground. “This one’s for us.”
“How do you know?”
She handed it to him.
Never in a million years would he have believed that a piece of wood could be meant for anything other than being a piece of wood. But Aria’s assessment was spot-on. This was their driftwood. Strange—but a good sign. Mission accomplished.
He held it up for the lobster-masked islanders. “Here you go, folks. The ritual is complete. Here’s my wood. The newlyweds have procured, gripped, and fondled wood. Aria touched my wood first, and now I’m touching my wood and showing it to you.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. His body might be relaxed, but his mouth clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
“I know I wasn’t drugged, but I’m not so sure about you,” Aria whispered with the sweetest lilt to her voice. “Or is talking about wood a part of the whole normal penis experience with you?”
Thank God, it was dark, and nobody could see he’d turned the same shade as a lobster.
“I’ll take the driftwood.” It was Georgia. She stood beside the altar and removed her mask.
“I don’t know what just came out of my mouth,” he tried to explain, but it was no use. At least Aria got a rise out of his verbal vomit. He handed Georgia the driftwood and then noticed the bench—the carved one Aria had desecrated the night they’d arrived. It sat beneath the altar.
Georgia set their piece of driftwood on the bench and faced the islanders. “We wear the lobster masks to honor those who came before us and worked the waters,” she announced and handed her mask to what looked like a masked Judge Harpswell standing beside her. “Aria and Oscar, may I have your rings,” the woman continued.
“Okay,” Aria said and handed it over.
Georgia turned to him. “Where is your ring, Oscar?”
He peered at his left hand—hisring-lessleft hand—and recalled the little white lie he’d told the Aldens. “I lost my wedding ring after we arrived in the harbor.”
“Not to worry. I’ve got one,” Del called, joining them. He dug into his pocket and produced a silver band. “Is this yours?”
How could it be his? He didn’t even have a wedding ring.
“It’s pretty dark. I can’t really tell,” he stammered.
“I ask because I found it on the shore this morning. Try it on.”
Oscar accepted the ring and slipped it on his finger. He stared at his hand.
“A perfect fit.” Del clapped him on the back. “If that’s not your ring, it is now. Does that look like Oscar’s ring to you, Aria?”
She stroked the bit of metal. “It does.”
“It does?” He caught her gaze. “You think so? You think this is my ring?”
“I do.” She returned her attention to his hand. “It’s a timeless design. Strong enough to endure the sea. And it appeared when it was most needed.”
He drank her in. Bathed in the lantern’s flickering glow, she’d never looked more beautiful or more like his Aria. Aria Elliott—his wife.
