Page 6 of Echoes of the Sea (Storm Tide #2)

Now that was interesting. Kip could weave tales around this all day and keep visitors to the site enthralled. Indeed, his character on The Beau was known for being able to tell a good story. Leaning into that wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“And then there’s the lightning.” A moment passed without Malcolm offering any further explanation. Another moment passed. And another. Malcolm simply stood in contented silence as his gaze took in the view.

“You, my friend, are not a storyteller,” Kip finally said.

“What do you mean?” Malcolm looked genuinely confused.

Jen laughed. “You can’t simply say, ‘And then there’s the lightning’ and end the tale there.”

“This is what happens when I don’t have a script.” Malcolm shot Kip a laughing look. “‘Improvisation won’t be tolerated.’”

It was a good impression of the director who’d shot most of the second season of The Beau. They’d both decided within two episodes that the man was convinced that all actors were both arrogant and stupid.

“So skip the improvisation and go straight to the interpretive dance,” Kip suggested. “Might not be very informative, but it will be entertaining.”

Malcolm started doing a stupid kick-and-shuffle dance.

“You two are trouble when you’re together,” Jen said.

“Fine.” Kip pretended to be annoyed by the objection implied in Jen’s observation. “Just tell us about the lightning, Malcolm.”

His friend wrapped his arm around Jen once more, and they kept walking.

“This is one of the few places in all the world that is known to have green lightning over the water. Our ancestors insisted it was spirits or sprites or things like that. The consensus in modern day has far more to do with the way the bay catches weather patterns and water temperatures and swirls things around. But two hundred years ago, they would have considered it very otherworldly.”

“I can use this for my character this summer.”

“The dancing?” Malcolm started the routine again, but Jen tugged him out of it.

With a laugh, Malcolm slapped a hand on Kip’s shoulder. Their characters had done it a lot in The Beau , and the gesture had tiptoed its way into their actual friendship. “Text now and then. Let me know how things are going.”

Kip nodded. “More GIFs of famous people crying.”

“You’re too good an actor and too good a person not to have things turn around for you,” Malcolm insisted.

“Maybe just text me that once in a while,” Kip suggested. “Eventually, it might feel true.”

Jen gave Kip a quick hug. “We don’t want Malcolm to cause a mob before you even have a chance to get started, so we’ll let you wander to your new place on your own.”

Kip shifted to Malcolm and gave him a quick hug too. “Thanks, mate. I owe you for this. Well ... for this and a lot of other things too.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Friends don’t need to keep score.”

“Well, our indebtedness score is currently seven hundred twenty--three to probably about ten,” Kip said.

“Who has ten?” Jen asked.

“Who do you think?” Kip answered.

She nodded knowingly. “According to your self-deprecating American eyebrow: Malcolm.”

“Think of me and my poor American eyebrow this summer, languishing away in the 1800s.”

“Were there even Americans in the 1800s?” Malcolm made a show of pretending to doubt it.

“According to my research, yes.”

“And that research would be ... ?”

Kip shrugged. “Five years on The Beau . It’s basically the equivalent of earning a degree in English history.”

“Good luck to you, Professor Summerfield.” Malcolm took Jen’s hand and started walking down the beach. A couple of steps away, he turned back. “We’ll drop your things off so you don’t need to come back to the boat for them. And we’ll see you soon. Real soon.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

Kip wasn’t a pessimistic person in general, but he wasn’t feeling nearly as upbeat about this change as he was trying to appear.

He would need to fake it soon enough, so he decided to offer himself thirty minutes of feeling pathetically sorry for himself before summoning those award-nominated-but-not-yet-award-winning acting skills once more.

The rickety old pier that they’d nearly reached was not terribly far off and felt an appropriate place to sit and sulk. He made his way there and walked out farther and farther down the boards until he reached the edge and plopped down, his legs dangling off the end.

It really was a beautiful place. A storm was brewing out on the sea, and the wind from it was whipping the trees around on Guilford Island. The house itself stood firm and stalwart against the gale. He wouldn’t mind the view over the summer.

Over the summer. He had a summer job, like he was just out of high school. He really was a tad pathetic.

But as far as summer jobs went, he supposed it wasn’t terrible.

Spending time at the Little Sister of Mont-Saint-Michel wasn’t the worst thing.

And essentially reprising his most famous role for a summer and making it seem as though everything were great in the world while hoping to catch the eye of a well-known producer was just odd enough to be challenging.

He could do that.

And since his dad’s number was blocked on his phone, he wouldn’t have to spend the summer hearing the variations on “I told you so” that had started flowing in six months earlier.

Dad never said it quite that bluntly, but the sentiment was there.

Kip’s older brother and his older sister had their lives figured out: an attorney and a real estate developer.

They were stable; they were successful. They had families of their own and lives Dad was proud of.

And Kip was the failure Dad had been predicting ever since Kip had discovered he enjoyed drama club as a high school freshman.

He’d actually unblocked his dad’s number briefly after having been announced for the award he didn’t end up winning, thinking maybe Dad would hear about it and acknowledge that Kip had some talent and some ability. But that hadn’t happened.

He didn’t plan to tell his dad how he was spending the summer. But the first time his presence at the living history site was posted about, Kip would have to hold his breath, knowing that eventually, Dad would hear and would have plenty to say.

If only he’d negotiated into the sixth season of The Beau . He’d suspected his character was about to have a significant arc that would make him a bigger name and open more doors.

Life wasn’t supposed to be like a burrito, falling apart just as it got full.

Kip pulled out his phone and glanced at the text icon. No new messages. Dad wouldn’t have texted even if his number weren’t blocked, and Kip didn’t really want him to. But somehow, it was still disappointing.

A sudden spray of water pulled Kip out of his distraction. Only then did he realize that while he’d been pondering dear ol’ dad, the sea had grown miserable too.

The storm had reached the bay. Water angrily slapped the pier he sat on.

He was going to arrive at his first day on the job soaked and scraggly.

It wasn’t exactly the 1995- Pride-and-Prejudice- Mr.-Darcy-emerging-from-the-water moment, but it felt fitting to be undertaking the slapstick version of that.

He jumped to his feet, but that proved a mistake.

He slipped on the very slick pier and hit the boards hard.

The impact knocked his phone from his hand.

Before he could pull himself back to his feet, a wave crashed against him, sending him shifting to one side.

Only by grabbing hard to a pylon was he able to keep himself on the pier.

Malcolm had said that storms in this bay were fierce, but this was ridiculous.

He tried to stand again but was pummeled again. And again. And again.

The next wave that hit knocked him into the water.

He swam back up to the surface, gulping air while he could, knowing angry, choppy waters didn’t always afford a person many opportunities to take in a lungful of air.

Twice more, he undertook the same cycle only to realize he was being pulled farther and farther from the shoreline.

He was a good swimmer—he’d appeased his father’s dislike of acting by also being on the swim team—and pushed hard for the shore, but it wasn’t much use.

The pull of the sea was too unrelenting.

He was able to catch glimpses of land between crests of waves in the angry sea.

He felt almost certain he was closer to Guilford Island now than he was to the shore of the bay.

Perhaps he ought to swim there instead. The water seemed to be pulling him that way anyway.

He changed course and did his utmost to reach the island.

Though he didn’t think he was fighting as hard against the push and pull of the angry Channel, he was still losing strength and energy. Thunder rumbled overhead, the flashes of lightning punctuating the seriousness of his situation.

He wasn’t staying above the water quite as easily as he had been, but he felt he was making some progress.

A flash of lightning lit the sky in an eerie green, and he swore the water crackled with it.

Another wave pushed him under, and he fought his way to the surface once more. The same pattern repeated more times than he could keep track of. And the angry water made it nearly impossible to see the shore or the island.

Then he heard a voice.

He was able to twist just enough, even in the surge, to see a dinghy, a lot like he’d pictured would have been tied to that pier, approaching him from nearby. Someone inside reached out a hand.

Almost before he could contemplate what had happened, Kip was in the boat, out of the angry sea, and being rowed toward Guilford Island.