Climax

Sunset Beach

“Dad can catch flies in his hand,” Adam piped up.
“ Really?” Jenny said amused. “What a talent,” she said facetiously.
“ You try it sometime,” Colin said. “It's not that easy.”
“ You'll have to show me.”
“ I will when we get back to the beach house, there are plenty down by the trash cans.”
“ I'll look forward to it. Apparently it's all down hill after the fourth date,” She said with a smile.
“ There are other activities I had planned, but you kaboshed them, remember?” he said teasingly.
“ I remember. Boy, that wine cooler's going to my head. Suddenly I'm sleepy, I could use a nap.”
“ You can use my bed," he said suggestively, then added. "I'll stay here and entertain the kids.”
“ Okay. Is it all right if I use your shower too? I don't want to get sand in your bed.”
“ Of course,” he said. “I don't want you to get sand in my bed either.”

She picked up their lunch things and her beach bag and went back up to the beach house. Finding the master bedroom on the top floor she looked out the sliding glass door to the beach. Colin was throwing a frisbee back and forth to the kids. He looked so tanned and so well built as he flexed his muscles catching and throwing the disc. She felt the heat coursing through her and when she turned and looked at his bed she felt a melting desire between her thighs. No more wine in the hot afternoon she told herself as she made her way to the bathroom.

The shower felt so good on her slightly sunburned body. She had been so concerned about everybody else's sunscreen that she'd forgotten all about hers. She used Colin's Pert Plus shampoo and conditioner to wash her hair, knowing that without a separate conditioner she was condemning herself to comb through many tangles. She toweled off with the towel hanging on the towel rack, still damp from his last use of it, instead of grabbing a fresh one. The slightly abrasive feel of it against her smooth skin was somehow erotic, just knowing he'd used it to rub against his bare skin. She was even finding something sexy about a few stray body hairs she'd seen on the floor. She was definitely losing it, she thought as she went into the bedroom.

She had only one change of clothes with her, and she didn't want to wrinkle them by sleeping in them, so she slid between the sheets with nothing on. She nuzzled into his pillow on the queen-sized bed. Had there ever been another man who had smelled so good? She drifted off to a marvelous slumber, the kind you get when you steal a nap in the middle of the day, your body all tingly and clean, your mind at complete peace with everything.

When she awoke it was because she heard a soft masculine sigh. She slowly opened her eyes and turned over to find the source of it. Colin was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes staring at her with profound desire. He'd come up to check on her and found her asleep in his bed with her long blonde hair spread out behind her, fanning her shoulders and the pillow she lay upon. The beauty of the sight of her lying there had taken his breath away. As she turned to face him he noticed that she had the top sheet tucked under her arm and that her shoulders were bare.

“ Are you in my bed naked?” he asked almost choking on the question.She nodded slightly.
“ Arrgghh!” he groaned as he gripped the doorframe behind him with his fingers, turning his knuckles white with the effort. After a few moments and several deep breaths he pushed off from the doorway and walked into the room. He sat on the bed, his hip close to hers. “Would you scream if I were to slip in there beside you?”
“ I wouldn't scream, but I wouldn't be very happy,” she replied.
“ Give me a few minutes and you would be.” He leaned down to stroke her hair. “Your hair is so beautiful, so soft and so silky.”
“ I used your shampoo and your hairbrush, I hope that was all right.”
“ Oh no, now I'm gonna get cooties. Of course it's all right. The kids took a walk to the Beach Mart. When they get back, dinner should be just about ready.”

He leaned down and placed a kiss on her shoulder. Then he followed it with several more going up the side of her throat and ending with her lips. He kissed her with infinite tenderness, careful not to brush her lips too harshly with his five o'clock shadow. He pulled away and looked at her upturned face. Then his hand joined hers at the top of the sheet and he slowly pulled it out of her hand. At first she resisted slightly, then she didn't resist at all. When it fell to her waist, his eyes followed it.

Barefoot Beaches

Madison stood on the tarmac in the early September sun, waiting as her luggage was loaded from the limo into the plane. It was time to climb the metal grid stairs to the opened door of the plane, but she wasn't at all sure she could do this. Small planes scared the hell out of her. And even though this was a large corporate commuter, it was still small compared to the other planes she'd flown.
She took a deep breath and sighed as she realized that now, there was no one here to push her–no governess, no headmaster, no Dean of Women, and most of all, no father. It was still hard to believe that she had buried him just last week.

Yes, she could run out. She could get back in the limo and direct the driver to take her anywhere . . . anywhere in the world. But if she ran out, then what? She would only be running out on herself. Of all the challenges she'd had in her life, why was this one turning out to be the hardest?

Was it because she was leaving the security of New York and everything that was familiar to her or was it because she was about to enter the corporate world on a level she didn't understand? No, it was because of the conflict. She was going into a legal war zone, a place where her father had flourished, where he had out-maneuvered and outflanked the best of them, after all, it had been his field of expertise. But it was going to be her demise, she just knew it. She did not have what it took to fill his shoes. She hated conflict and always had. She was always the one to acquiesce, the one who gave in at the slightest hint of trouble, even when she knew beyond a doubt that she was right. She even hated to see others argue or fight. In the dorm, she was the one who resolved the conflicts before they escalated out of control.

As she stood there watching the last of her cases being loaded, she caught her windswept hair in her hands, pulling at the strands that stuck to her glossy lips. I should have braided it, she thought. It would have been much more practical for traveling.

Madison looked over at the stairs again. Damn him for dying and leaving this mess! Her glance drifted to the top of the stairs where she saw the man whose time she owned for the next four months, the man her father had hired to fly his private plane, the man who had been paid an exorbitant amount of money to be available to fly her father anywhere he suddenly had a whim to go. Well, where her father was going now, he certainly didn't need wings. If anything, he probably needed a front end loader.

The man on the top step waved to her and she timidly waved back. So this was Kent. Kent Markham, the man with a one year guaranteed contract, a contract that she now owned and was obligated to pay. So now, she owned a pilot. Wonderful. Last week, she owned a Papasan chair, two computers, a trunk full of text books and a vintage Karman Ghia. This week, she owned two large companies, six hotels, a department store, a manor house on Long Island, a partially completed resort in North Carolina, a Mercedes limo and a pilot. Not bad for a second-year graduate student.

She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked back up at the man. The hunky man her roommates would have said. He was gorgeous; tall, tanned with wavy silver and chestnut colored hair, a broad chest with wide shoulders, and a firmly chiseled jaw under sensuous, full lips. Okay, if you were going to own a man, this would be the kind to have. She couldn't see his eyes though. They were hidden behind dark, aviator-styled sunglasses. But she could see his teeth when he smiled–perfect, white and gleaming. Devastating, that's what he was, devastating. And he was probably just the type who knew it, too.

“We're cleared to go whenever you're ready Miss Grantham,” he called down to her.

Well, it was time to either get on the plane or bolt. After a moment's hesitation, she suddenly decided she wanted to know the color of Kent Markham's eyes. So she slowly walked across the asphalt and up the shallow, metal-grid steps, mindful not to scuff the heels of her linen-wrapped pumps as she held tightly to the wobbly handrail.

There she was, Kent thought to himself, the erstwhile brainiac who now owned a small dynasty. What he knew about Madison Grantham could be stuffed into a thimble, but what he'd heard about her would fill a tanker. At 5' 10", she was her daddy's illegitimate daughter, dropped off on his doorstep as an infant. He'd taken her in, given her his name, and kept her very well hidden until she went off to college. A Vassar girl with a capital V, for vapor. But my, she did look mighty fine, in an elegant, sexy, sophisticated way, but she still managed to seem demure enough to make a man wonder. And he was wondering. Where the hell did she get those fantastic green eyes and that silky, shiny blonde hair? And those breasts straining against the jacket of her designer suit, a man couldn't look at her without noticing those puppies.

Kent had known her father fairly well. They'd made many runs together and her father didn't seem like the kind of guy who had a prayer of latching onto anything this classy. Her mother must have been a showgirl or a stripper or maybe even a stacked waitress, she sure didn't get her looks, or her fantastic figure from him. Jake Grantham had been grizzled, brutish and surly, but sometimes after a few belts great fun.

He put out his hand to assist Madison into the plane and was surprised at its soft coolness.

“How do you do, Mr. Markham?” she politely drawled, and then he remembered that she had been raised in mostly southern boarding schools.

I do fine and I'd like to do you, was on the tip of his tongue, but he wisely, refrained. “I'm good. Ready to get on board and set our sights for sunny North Carolina?”

“No, not really. But I guess I have little choice in the matter,” she said resignedly. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure, what?”

“Would you remove your sunglasses for a minute, please?”

His eyebrows went up under the top of the frames, but he resolutely lifted the sunglasses up onto his head using a very tanned, very large hand that was speckled with light curling hairs.

She looked into his eyes and smiled, “I was betting on blue. I didn't know silver was an option.”

“A throwback to my Welsh grandfather. They called him Quick Silver. Not in a derogatory way,” he added, “being quick to get the job done, didn't have the meaning that it has now.”

“What does it mean now?” she asked innocently, and he wasn't sure if she was putting on an dumb act or if she really was that naive about a man's proclivity for premature timing with a woman.

“Nothing,”he mumbled, “nothing important. Here, let me show you around your plane.”

He bored her with some of the more technical aspects of the plane, its top speed and altitude, fuel capacities and such, as he showed her first the cockpit, then the cabin.

“If it's all the same to you, Mr. Markham,” she interrupted, “the plane's all yours. I'll just be a quiet, unassuming passenger. The less I know about the miracle of how we're suspended in the air, the better.”

“You have flown before, right?” he asked, suddenly wondering how he was going to manage flying the plane and taking care of a nervous first-time passenger.

“Oh, I've flown all right, but not in anything like this. Although this is very nice . . .” she didn't want to insult the plane he had just been praising to Kingdom come. “It's just that I like jumbo liners better. I feel more secure knowing the pilot has the responsibility of two hundred lives instead of just one.”

“Two,” he corrected.

“Yes, right. Two.”

“Well, let me assure you that I have flown those planes and been responsible for over two hundred lives, other than my own,” he emphasized, “and I do it now with the same seriousness and commitment as I did then. And given my druthers of having something major go wrong, I'd much rather be in this one than in one of those.”

“Really?” she said with a widening smile and he could tell he had allayed some of her fears.

“Really,” he smiled and unable to resist, he winked. “Gotta go turn the hand crank and get this baby warmed up. I'll see you in North Carolina in about two hours, give or take. If you need anything, just come up front. Unlike commercial jet liners, I allow visitors in the cockpit, especially if they own it.”

He left to go up front and she settled into an oversized leather chair that was part of a small grouping by one of the five round windows. Within a minute, she heard the sound of the engine being started, then she felt the vibration in the metal body as the Beechcraft backed out of its space and began moving toward the taxi way.

She heard Kent's deep voice booming through the cabin, instructing her to belt up. Then, before she knew what was happening, they were tearing down the runway. And, before she had a chance to get terrified, they were up in the air. Well, that was one nice thing about smaller planes she thought, it didn't take as long to get up enough speed to lift into the air. And when it did lift, your stomach didn't lurch quite so much.

Now that they were in the air, she relaxed and kicked off her shoes. She tucked her feet up underneath her, leaned her head back against the headrest, and just let her thoughts float. Within a few minutes, she was back with her father, sitting beside his bed in the hospital, listening to his last minute instructions.

"It's bad, Gabby. It's not going away. There doesn't seem to be anything they can do for me anymore. They think I'm going to die."

"Oh, Mandy! This is so hard for me. How hard must it be for you? I don't know how you're coping, I seriously don't." Gabby was wringing her hands between her thighs, scratching white lines with her fingernails into her dark indigo jeans.

"I think I've kind of known it was going to end up this way for a long time. I've kind of accepted it. But it's really hard on my mom. She's devastated, she doesn't know what to do. She was okay when we had some hope. When we were doing the treatments, things were much, much better. But since we got the test results yesterday, she's been in a shell, afraid to
come out."

"How long are they saying you have before you relapse this time?"

"This year sometime, unless there's a miracle. Mom's on the computer now, trying to dial one up," she added with a small chuckle.

"She won't give up Mandy, you know that."

"I know. This is so much harder on her than it is on anyone else."

"You're her baby. Her only baby. You're all she has."

"I know. She says that all the time and it's starting to grate on me."

"Well, let's not dwell on it. Let's find ways to have some fun, to take your mind down to the vegging-out level. How about a movie and a sleep over? Mom's fixing tacos for dinner. You couldn't eat them before, but now you can."

"Yeah, I can for a while. Sounds good. Let me go ask Mom."

Together the two girls got up off the front stoop and went into the large Victorian house with the wraparound front porch. They found Mandy's mom just where Mandy had said she'd be, in front of the computer.

Ever since Mandy had been diagnosed, Michele Moore had been frantically looking for the cure. Every newspaper article, every web site, every hotline was researched completely in hopes that it would lead to the answer.

"Mom, is it okay if I eat dinner at the Grissen's, then go to the movies and spend the night with Gabby?"

Michele looked up and smiled. "Sure, honey. Just make sure you keep warm and don't share your popcorn. Remember you can't afford a cold or the flu right now. That'll give me a chance to do some more research on-line."

Mandy bent over and gave her mom a kiss on the cheek. "Don't work too hard on this Mom, it's probably not going to pan out. I've accepted it. Why can't you?"

Michele wrapped her arms around Mandy and tears filled her eyes. "I just can't. You're my little girl, you're all I've got. I have to look out for you the best I can."

"I'm not so little, Mom. I'm sixteen."

"Yes, I know exactly how old you are. I was there when you were born remember?" she chided. "It was a frosty cold morning. I didn't even want to get out of bed, but you kept kicking me. I thought you were trying to kick your way out. I made it to the hospital with only forty minutes to spare."

"And Daddy came right from the airport, just in time to see me wail," Mandy added with a sheepish smile. It was a story she'd been told often over the years.

The mention of her father sobered them all up. It was still hard for Michele to believe he was gone; that he'd died six years ago piloting a commercial jetliner that had been improperly designed. For a handful of better quality and more strategically-placed rivets, her husband, and Mandy's father would still be here today. He would be here helping her deal with this latest round of bad news.

"C'mon Mandy, let's go," Gabby said as she tried to pull her along. She knew what it was like when Mandy and her mom were reminded of her dad. " 'Bye Mrs. Moore. Mom will call you tonight."

"Bye Gabby. You girls be good. And no R-rated movies, you hear?"

"Yes, Mom, we know."

And how they knew! Mandy thought. Her Mom harped about sex and violence in the movies all the time. She was a really nice lady, but one of the strictest moms on the planet as far as Gabby and Mandy were concerned.

While the girls watched Maid in Manhattan at the local mall and munched on popcorn and gummy bears, Michele Moore surfed the Web. She took a break to reheat some leftover Roast Pork Lo Mein and to make a pot of her favorite Chai tea. Then she was back again on her iMac. She was trying desperately to find the clue that would cure her daughter's illness. She knew without a doubt that the answer was there, she just wasn't sure that she'd find it in time. And now they were running out of time.

God, how awful she felt in the doctor's office yesterday when he told them the news. The feeling of dread she felt at that moment was worse than the dread she lived with after they called about Kevin's plane crashing. She had just begun to drag herself up out of the mire of that, when Mandy had fallen sick.

Juvenile Myelomonocyctic Leukemia . . . curable to a point, but then steadily debilitating once a relapse occurred. And she relapsed in June, right after the school year. What an awful summer they had.

Thank God they didn't have to worry about money. The airline had been generous, thanks to her attorney, and what was even better, was the survivor's benefits allowing her to keep their hospitalization. The money spent on Mandy's treatment was well into the hundreds of thousands. By the time this was all over, they would top a million for sure. No doubt about
it. And that was if she died. If she lived, who knew?

Michele's fingers clicked on the mouse and she followed window after window as new links opened with more information. It was ten o'clock and her eyes were getting tired when she stumbled onto a web site detailing umbilical cord blood research regarding juvenile myelomonocyctic leukemia. Her eyes flew across the page as she tried to absorb everything. She read it again, and again. Then she printed darned near the whole damned site. Could it be? Could you really do this?

She turned off the computer, grabbed her mug of now-cold tea, took the printed papers off the printer ledge and went to her bedroom. Then she sat up in bed reading everything all over again until two in the morning.

From what she was reading, if what she was reading was true, Mandy's best chance for survival would be if they could develop an injection made from umbilical cord cells taken from a sibling. Rich cells that came from the umbilical cord that was routinely discarded after a baby's birth. Mandy had no sibling. Even if she did, they wouldn't have thought to save the cord. However, another idea tumbled around in Michele's head until she finally had to say it out loud just to find out if it sounded as crazy to her ears as it did floating around in her head. I could have another baby. I could have a baby for Mandy.

Yes, it sounded crazy. Absolutely! She dropped the papers to the floor and took another sip of her tea. Would she ever get to drink it hot again? She turned off the bedside lamp, then she turned on her side and faced Kevin's side of the bed. She always did that when she was troubled. At times, she actually talked to his pillow. But this time, she knew what she was thinking was nuts! And he'd probably tell her so if he could. As she stared past the bed and out the window, she saw the porch lights on Gabby's house go out. She knew they were on a timer and apparently it was now 2:13 A.M.

She let her mind wander, hoping it would purge some things so she could actually get some sleep tonight. Last night, she hadn't been able to sleep at all. Magically, she fell asleep which allowed her subconscious to take over her troubles for a while.

***

“That was a great movie,” Gabby whispered to Mandy who was in the bed next to hers. “Makes you believe that even a maid can find her Prince Charming . . . just like Cinderella.”

“Yeah. But you should always be who you are. It's too hard to carry off anything else.”

“It was nice of her friends to try to help her though, and her son.”

“That's what friends do.”

“I wish that I could find a way to help you.”

“Maybe you can.”

“How?” Gabby asked, forcing herself up on her elbow, her eyes bright with hope.

“I've got an idea bouncing around in my head. Let me think it over for a while, see if it gels. Let's get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow.”

“Okay. 'Night.”

“You can say 'good' night, you know.”

“Nothin's going to be 'good' until you're better. Face it. I'm not sayin' 'good' night, 'good' morning, or 'good' afternoon anymore.”

“God, you're stubborn!”

***

When Michele woke early the next morning, she refrained from moving. She was afraid if she moved, she would forget everything that had come into her head in the middle of the night. Everything she had said to Kevin and everything he had said to her.

Her hand reached out to stroke his pillow and she whispered, "I have to do all I can to save her Kevin, I know that's what you would want. And I know that right now you'd be doing everything in your power to make me pregnant so we could save our little girl. Now just tell me how I can save her."

Her head lifted a little off the pillow and she saw the picture on his night stand. The picture of Michele and Kevin and Stephanie and Michael. It had been his favorite. They'd been skiing at Michael's lodge. It had been such a happy time for all of them. Kevin hadn't died in a plane crash and Stephanie hadn't died in a car crash, leaving Michele and Michael to pick up the pieces and carry on. Michael was Kevin's twin brother.

Michele sat bolt upright and stared at the photo. His identical twin brother. Ohmygod! Would he? Could they? Jeez, what an odd thought!

She shook her head and ran her fingers through long auburn tresses that were tangled from tossing and turning.

Nah. It would never fly. He'd never agree. Still . . . .

She walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood in front of the mirror looking at her reflection.

Like anyone would want to lay on top of her and impregnate her. Look at yourself, she admonished. Stringy hair, sunken cheeks, bags under your eyes, and a swollen, red nose from crying. Michael, don't you want to do it with me? she mocked as she drew off her nightgown and tossed it to the floor. The body wasn't bad, it could still entice, but Lord, the face and hair needed some work! She stepped into the shower and turned the dial to make it as hot as she could stand it. Her eyes focused on her hand and the finger where she still wore Kevin's ring. And when was the last time she'd had a manicure?

As she hung her head under the pulsing stream, she laughed. Michael would never want her. She wasn't his type. But still . . . there were other ways to get pregnant these days that had nothing to do with sex.

For Amanda, she would do it. She knew that she would do anything. Now, how to get Michael on board with this little plan? He'd loved his brother greatly; he had been devastated when Kevin had died. Maybe he'd do it for Kevin, if not for her . . . if not for Amanda.

Shipwrecked at Sunset

Her next stop was the pier at Sunset Beach where she was to meet with Mayor Cherri Cheek, Town Manager Linda Fluegel, and the pier’s owner, Marc Kaplan. The hurricane had effectively ruined the emergency ramp to the beach, torn out the decking around the gazebo and washed away yards of asphalt from the parking lot. In some places the parking lot had pot holes so deep and so wide that you could lose a car in them.

Cement structures beyond the dune lines were not necessarily a concern under C.A.M.A., the Coastal Area Management Act. In this case however, dunes had been compromised and it was necessary to bring in a backhoe to build them up again. This required permits, permits that were her job to recommend or deny. This one would be a no-brainer, but there were certain protocols that had to be followed and far be it from her to stand in the way of the red tape mongers. She would fill out forms, fax forms, and sign forms. She’d do her part to push everything forward from here. Still, it would probably be a few weeks before the damage could be reversed unless different channels, more direct channels, were utilized.

After seeing the breech and measuring the nearby swash, she phoned her boss and requested an immediate response. If the breech was not taken care of before the next storm surge, the town would have considerably more damage to contend with including unnecessary flooding, which in turn would cause unnecessary pollution. And since the local oyster and mussel beds hadn’t been free of runoff bacteria from the last hurricanes, more flooding certainly wouldn’t help things. At the rate the bacteria was building, without the added destruction caused by hurricanes, the local fishermen wouldn’t be able to harvest these beds for at least another decade.

Satisfied that she had done everything she could, she walked over to where a large group of people stood looking down into what appeared to be a huge pit. Linda, having finished some paperwork of her own, followed her. “That’s the Vesta. It was buried under the parking lot. In the sixties, it was visible at low tide through the slats at the end of the pier. That’s how built up our beach has become over the years, it’s way back here now, hundreds of feet from the existing pier.”

“What was it?”

“A blockade runner with an unusual history.”

A blockade runner, huh? Interesting, Shelby thought. That man at the museum said the gun I found was probably from a blockade runner. Although the gun she had found in the sand had been dug up three beaches north of Sunset Beach, it was still quite a coincidence to her way of thinking. “What’s going to happen to it?”

“It’ll be recovered when they dig all this up. The Senior Conservator has decided that they want it,” Linda said as she indicated the parking lot that reminded Shelby of craters on the moon. Where the asphalt wasn’t completely missing, it was cracked or layered on top of itself. It was as if underground volcanoes had erupted here and there but left no lava or steam.

“The force of mother nature is amazing! I sure have seen some unbelievable sights this week.” Shelby murmured.

“I’ll bet you have,” Linda commented. “We were lucky this time, this is all we lost. Thought for a while that the water tower might buy it. The guys in the fire station said it was groaning the whole night of the hurricane. Like to drove them crazy! But, the ‘amazing wonder’ made it through another one. Trees and flooding were our biggest problems this time. Water, water, everywhere. Miss Glynnis managed to hit just right on the lunar cycle, the surge was incredible. But we were still very lucky.”

“How’d the evacuating go?”

“Oh, once they announced a category four was on its way, we had no problem getting people off the island and off the mainland. Glynnis was all alone and in the dark when she arrived. Guess she didn’t appreciate the hospitality, so she left us with this big mess!”

“It’s not too bad. At least you’ll get to see the ship raised.”

“Get us those permits we need and I’ll save you a front row seat.”

“They’re in the works. I’ll bet they’ll be here before you can find yourself an idle backhoe.”

“You may be right about that. I guess I’d better go see if I can scare one up.”

“When should I come back to see the Vesta?”

“I’ll call you. Not inside of a week, I’m sure. Probably more likely two. These things generally take years to work out, but Cherri told the historians that if they wanted the ship, it was now or never. She told ‘em we weren’t waitin’ for ‘em. If they didn’t get it out of here by the end of the month, it was going to be buried real good this time.”

“She’s a tough one, that Cherri. By the way, good job on the bridge.”

Linda beamed back at her, “It’s the reason my hair is gray. But what a party we’re going to have when it’s completed!”

Two weeks later, Shelby stood beside Linda and Police Chief Kerr as the remains of the Vesta were carefully uncovered and lifted by crane onto the back of a huge government flatbed. The area had been siphoned out; but still, the muck the ship had been mired in for many years sucked against it and held it firmly in place for one last second before releasing it from its watery crypt. With one loud, sucking slurp, it was free. Up, up, and over it went as the tall crane lifted and deposited its dripping and oozing carcass on the back of the super-sized truck. With loud, clanking and crashing sounds, it settled and tilted.

Men jumped from the cab of the truck and began securing it with heavy nautical chains. It was going to the navy shipyard in Wilmington where its fate would be determined. Everyone was hopeful that it would find its way to a museum or be set up as a memorial somewhere in the south.

Shelby watched, fascinated, as the men worked. There was hardly any wood left to speak of; but from the metal skeleton, you could tell that this had once been a very large ship. Her new friend at the Maritime Museum in Southport had provided her with a sketchy history of its past, but nothing had prepared her for the size of it.

Suddenly, a loud scream reverberated in the air behind her, and everybody turned to see what had happened. A woman holding a small boy by the hand was sucking in big breaths of air and letting them out as ear-piercing shrieks.

Chief Kerr and a few of his men, who had been watching the Vesta being loaded, ran over to where the woman and boy were. One officer, Lisa, a young mother herself, gently took her and the boy aside as the others looked into the hole the Vesta had just been taken from. The wide-eyed look of shock on their faces, along with their frantically pointing hands and their hastily-curtailed outbursts of obscenities brought everyone else to their side.

There, in the middle of the muck, flattened and colored with mud, shells and debris, was what appeared to be a man in uniform—no hat, no face, no flesh, but still identifiably a man. He wore a heavy jacket over massive shoulders, now threadbare in many places, a tattered shirt that once could possibly have been white or cream-colored, long trousers with stripes on the sides, and heavy boots where the thick-corded trousers ended. Everything was orangish-red from the clay in the mud except where it was gray from the sand. His light-colored hair was plastered to his scalp and tiny crabs were picking their way through it. His hands, clenched by his side, were missing fingers.

Shelby’s hand went to her throat as she gasped. Fascinated, she could not take her eyes from the sight. All around her, women were sobbing and men were cursing but she didn’t pay them any attention. As gruesome as the scene before her was, she was morbidly drawn to it. Who was he? And how did he get there under the ship?

Top of Page