Chesapeake Tide by Jeanette Baker

crossed her arms tightly against her chest. “Now, if you’re going to be difficult and refuse to bring Tess back on time, she won’t be able to go with you.”
    Rage consumed his brain. He could barely see. “Tess, honey.” He fought to control his anger. “Do you want to come with me or not?”
    â€œI do, Daddy, I really do.” She looked at him hopefully. “But maybe this isn’t the best weekend. Maybe you could pick me up the weekend after next.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with next weekend?”
    â€œSkylar Taft is having a sleepover. Her party is even more important than Celia’s.”
    He set down her overnight bag, reached out and hugged her. “All right, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We’ll get together the weekend after next.” Without a word to Tracy, he turned and walked back to his car.
    Libby forced her eyes open and stared at the ceiling. One more minute, she promised herself. I’ll stay in bed just one more minute and then get up. Exercise wasn’t practical in the heat of midday and Marshyhope Creek had yet to become progressive enough for a gym. Either she had to rise at dawn or forgo exercise completely. Six extra pounds wouldn’t disappear by themselves. The French desserts Serena had been feeding her for a week didn’t help, either.
    Groaning, Libby threw aside her sheet, the only bedcover she could tolerate in summer, and stumbled to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, brushed her teeth, dragged her hair back into a ponytail and pulled on her shorts and tank top. Carrying her socks and tennis shoes in her arms, she tiptoed downstairs. It was a few minutes past six. No one would be awake yet.
    She chose the meandering river path for her run. Already, the water shone a silvery blue under the spreading rays of morning sun. The woods, nesting grounds for cranes and ospreys, rang with birdcalls. Trawlers heading south to the island fishing grounds churned their way from the calm waters of the bay to the rougher ones of the Atlantic. Dewdrops bubbled on grass and shrubs and the cicada’s tick-ticking had given way to the singsong chirping of crickets.
    After the first half mile, Libby came alive. Pain and breathlessness disappeared and the ground fell away from the soles of her tennis shoes. She felt the beating of her heart, the blood in her temples, the bunching of her muscles, the sweat beading her brow, flowing down her back and between her breasts. The flush of well-being began in her brain and spread down from her chest to her stomach, her arms and legs. She passed the harbor, the peach grove and Blue Crab Beach, where she and Russ would swim naked, catch crabs, roast fish in the sand, drink beer and make love behind the rocks on that last summer he was home.
    She was honing in on the docks now. Two trawlers, decks empty of watermen, their engines silent, were tied to their moorings. A movement caught her eye. A man, dark-haired and tall, with lean, ropy muscles, climbed from the cabin to stand on the deck, his profile to her. He wore faded jeans that conformed to every movement of hard, straight leg muscle, and a denim shirt rolled to the elbow. A cigarette was clamped in his teeth.
    Libby slowed to a walk. No one would mistake him. The man was born to the breed. She’d seen him first. It gave her a slight advantage. Mustering her courage, she approached the trawler. He was writing something on a tablet, completely preoccupied with his task.
    â€œHi, Russ,” she said softly.
    He turned quickly. Black hair fell across his forehead and slate-blue eyes smoldered down at her. A variety of emotions played across his face, shock, pleasure, wariness. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, blowing a blue-tinted curl of smoke in her direction. “If it ain’t Miz Libba Jane Delacourte in the flesh.” He drew out the word Miz until the very word itself sounded like an insult. “How