[photo from sandiegouniontribune.com ]

Topher

I walk yet another lap around the massive blocks, carved of stone—which, ironically, I barely noticed the handful of times I came here for surfing lessons with Will. I've since learned this is a monument: actual foundation stones left behind to mark the former site of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. The locals call it the Circle of Stone. They think of this place as sacred.

It's that for me now as well. Although for an entirely different reason.

Or rather, it was when I came here the morning after my life was spared. I wasn't looking for Galene then. Necessarily. I just needed to stand at the shoreline, to regard the intimidating jetty and be grateful.

Now my reverence is tainted. I need answers. And perhaps even more, I need to see her again—with clear eyes and a clear head—so that I might put an end to these intrusive thoughts of Mum's bloody prophesy.

"Not that I believe it now any more than I did then," I tell a curious seabird.

The creature tilts its head, appearing dubious.

That's fair. I cannot, if I'm honest, say I wasn't a bit rattled at the time. I'd been certain Mum would be devastated by my decision to leave Europe. It's the reason I postponed sharing the news of my application to Duke's MD Program with either parent until I received word of my acceptance. The next day, I took a bullet train to Minori. The trip was meant to be a surprise, but Mum had Seen me coming. I arrived at her villa to find a note summoning me to Uncle Aldo's restaurant. The entire Fanella family was there to celebrate my impending journey—although none knew where I was headed until I filled in the specifics of her rather vague prediction.

The question of why I'd chosen to study medicine in The States—when there are so many, arguably more prestigious, programs in Europe—was not one I'd prepared myself to answer. But my Italian family readily accepted my honest reply of, "I don't really know. A calling?"

Later, when Mum pulled me aside to inform me that my highly-esteemed, brain surgeon father would not be impressed with this reasoning, she had...an episode. I'd not witnessed anything like it in my twenty-two years. She stopped speaking, mid thought, and her eyes went blank.

One might argue that it was a clever portrayal. But it was her reaction, post episode, that unnerved me. She huffed out an astonished laugh. "A calling," she said, her eyes brimming with happy tears—and reading mine with a windows-to-the-soul intensity I had to look away from. Then, with a casual swipe of a hand, she announced: "When you reach your destination, you will meet your soul mate." I laughed inwardly, imagining some afflicted woman in the airport waiting to ambush me the moment I deplaned. But perhaps I'd been too literal in my interpretation of the word, destination. 

And perhaps this line of thinking is born of exhaustion.

I unearth a chunk of broken shell with my toe, pick it up and change course. I should be walking away from the ocean, toward the parking lot—I'm knackered and my stomach is growling.

It wouldn't take long to drive into town for food. Then I could return.

Really? For my sixth visit in two days?

"I'm going home," I announce. To the ocean.

I remain a moment longer, breathing deep and intentional. Time to let go of the preposterous notion of finding Galene. For all I know, she's already returned to Olympus or wherever it is she belongs.

No. She'd been almost authoritative when she scolded me about the jetty. This is her beach.

I hurl the shell into a breaking wave and turn north, the direction she headed when she made her escape. I will give the search another hour—it will be proper dark by then—and then I'll let the matter go entirely.

Let her go and never have an explanation for my arm. Or for my curious lack of abrasions, considering Galene must have dragged me onto the shore. She couldn't possibly have lifted me out of the water and lowered me gently to the sand. And I'm missing a scar, three inches down the outside of my right leg, a five-year-old souvenir from a bike excursion in Amsterdam.

This, I realize with a fair amount of relief, is the crux of my obsession to find her. Not Mum's ridiculous prophesy. What I require, so that I might move on from this fixation, is a logical explanation. And so I will continue my search, until...

I stop, my heart rioting. There's a figure in the distance, a woman with waves and spirals of platinum-blond hair floating on the wind behind her.

My feet press forward of their own volition and I struggle to contain myself to a reasonable pace. If it is her—and surely, it must be—she is relaxed, obviously in her element, gliding ankle deep through the surf.

As the distance closes, I try not to stare but it's impossible. She stoops to take something out of the sand and then her eyes make the briefest shift in my direction. There is no acknowledgment—they don't make contact with mine—but it's enough for confirmation. I hadn't imagined how pale her irises are: the lightest possible shade of aquamarine. Strange but stunning.

"Galene?" 

She slows to a stop. Then takes an immediate step back, seemingly perplexed. Possibly alarmed.

"I'm Topher. From London? We met here on Sunday."

Her mouth forms a silent oh. "You look different," she says, her eyes drawing an arc over my head. "Your hair is..."

"Clean?" 

The corners of her lips twitch upward. And I am pleasantly reminded of the smile I saw in its entirety.

"And your skin," she says, moving closer. She reaches out to boldly poke my forearm—the one with the inexplicably broken bones—and bites into her bottom lip.

The whole scene, poking of arm and biting of lip, is oddly alluring. I force myself to shift focus. To her curious eyes and the sentence left unfinished. What is it about my skin?

I'm tempted to supply an answer—I'm red as a beet from recent hours spent searching the coastline—both as a distraction for myself and to remind Galene of the circumstances of our meeting. I want to be confrontational, to gauge her reaction.

But even more, apparently, I want to wait for whatever thought is hovering behind that outstretched finger.

"You sunburn," she says, finally.

Which surprises a laugh out of me. Because the tone of her assessment is genuine revelation. She's surprised that I sunburn?

No. Surely I've misunderstood. "In future, I'll remember to apply sunscreen before combing the beach obsessively, in hopes of finding the woman who saved my life." 

She draws her arm against her chest and smiles. Hesitantly at first, but then fully. And it's breathtaking.

A swell of satisfaction invades my chest—as if this, instead of information, is the reward for my search effort. But no, it is not. It's merely a bonus. "May I walk with you?" I ask.

"Sure."

She walks north, the direction from which she came. Away from the place of our first meeting—the place I'd have died had she not happened by to extricate me from the ocean.

Dear Lord. Will there ever be a time this thought does not alter my heart rate?

I take a breath. Salt air. Vitality. Gratitude.

It takes a few yards of walking beside Galene, our strides perfectly matched, before it occurs to me that I'm bothered by our companionable silence. I force myself to maintain it a bit longer, giving her an opportunity to speak. I'm hoping for a voluntary explanation, but I'd settle for a general inquiry as to the progress of my recovery. 

Galene offers neither.

"I know who you are," I say.

She cuts me a suspicious glance and turns her face toward the ocean, crossing both arms over her chest.

"Sorry," I say. "That was meant to be a tension breaker—not to make me sound a stalker. Your name struck as familiar, in a literary way, so I did an Internet search. You're one of the Nereids. The sea goddess daughters of Nereus. Galene: goddess of calm seas."

She gives my proclamation a very human eye-roll.

"You don't like your name?" I ask.

"It's fine. But I prefer Leni."

"Noted," I say with a nod. Although I'm not convinced the nick-name suits. It's much too ordinary.

But that's me, being ridiculous again. It's time to get the information I came for so I might go home and sleep. "I had an x-ray, Leni." I hold up the arm she poked to check for sunburn. "It showed a break in the bones in my forearm."

She stops, her face momentarily alarmed—as if she's been caught out? 

"It was a bit of a shock," I say, trying for nonchalance, but I'm experiencing heart palpitations, yet again. "The radiologist in hospital knows me well—he's a friend. Did I mention I'm a doctor?"

Galene bites into her bottom lip—this time, apparently, to keep from laughing?

"Please. Feel free to enjoy the irony," I say, allowing myself to smile. 

She shakes her head and drops her eyes. A wave rolls in, just short of touching her feet, and she starts walking again, veering shin-deep into the water.

"The bones are fully healed," I say, following alongside her. "My radiologist friend assumed it an old injury. But..."

Her face is carefully neutral now. She's listening intently, but doesn't seem as though she has any intention of offering details.

But then, I haven't exactly asked for them, have I?

"Did you..." What? Am I to suggest she set my fractures with driftwood and seaweed and then manipulated time, healing marrow and bone in the space of hours? 

I cannot, in good conscious, say that aloud.

"Did you have to resuscitate me?" I ask instead.

"No. You expelled the water on your own."

Her tone is confident. And professional. "Are you in the medical field?"

"I was a beach guard for five years." 

"That explains it." I am belatedly aware of my sarcastic tone. But decide to allow it. "You don't, by chance, have super human strength, do you?" 

I get a sideways glance. Narrowed eyes, the skin between them puckered. It's a well-deserved questioning of my sanity. So much for clear-headedness and logical explanations.

"Sorry," I say. "I worked graveyard last night."

"Graveyard?" she asks, head angled to one side.

"The overnight shift. I'm in need of sleep."

She smiles but it's polite. And possibly a bit tense?

Something tells me I'm running out of time. "I've not thanked you properly for saving my life," I say. "The magnitude of your efforts did not register until I woke up on Monday morning." 

"You did thank me," she says, sounding a bit irritated. Then she glances inland. Twice. "I—um, sorry but..." 

There's an access path cutting through the dunes. It leads to a street, lined with beach cottages. One of them is likely hers.

"I should go," she says. "I'm expecting company." 

I am ninety-nine percent panic and one percent rage, but I manage a, "Right, of course," before I take a very deep, nearly ineffectual breath. "Well. It's been a pleasure talking to you, Leni. I hope we can meet again soon?"