Fish Out of Water Page 3

  Fred grimaced, which the reporter took as a strained smile of acquiescence.

  “And say, how about a demonstration? Can you—I mean, we see the mer—the Undersea Folk with their tails, or with legs, but nobody’s ever seen them shift form. Maybe you could—”

  “Do I look like a performing seal?”

  “So, no.” He slapped his notebook shut. “Well, thanks for your time, Dr. Bimm.”

  She grunted.

  “Say, could I get your autograph for my little girl? She’s crazy about mermaids.”

  Oh, Lord, this is punishment for all my sins.

  Six

  She was resting on the bottom of the pool when she saw Jonas appear, squatting beside the deep end. He looked wavy yet distinct, and he was wearing a pair of shorts so orange they hurt her eyes. He was gesturing impatiently to her.

  She ignored him.

  His gestures became more urgent.

  She yawned and stretched her arms out over her head, a lazy flick of her tail propelling her halfway to the shallow end.

  Now he was pointing both middle fingers at her, jabbing the air. She snorted, a stream of bubbles popping to the surface.

  He leapt in, swam busily for a moment, then tried to grab her arm and haul her to the surface.

  Oh, pal. Mistake.

  Jonas must be really agitated, or he’d have remembered she was three times stronger and faster. She wriggled easily from his grip, spun him around, grabbed his ankle, and propelled him through the water with a healthy shove. He nearly brained himself on the steps leading into the shallow end, then bobbed halfway to the surface.

  In fact, maybe he did brain himself, because he was floating facedown in the water.

  Don’t fall for that one again.

  He still wasn’t moving.

  He gets you every time with this one.

  Maybe she’d pushed it a little far with the rough-housing.

  Moron!

  She agreed with her self-assessment, but nonetheless reached him in half a second, seized him by the shirt, and flipped him over. They both bobbed to the surface.

  He opened his eyes and spat a stream of water at her forehead. “We were supposed to be at the caterer’s ten minutes ago.”

  She let go of him in disgust and wiped her face. “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “Sure. Now get your fishy butt out of this pool, get dressed, and haul ass to the car.”

  “You don’t need me,” she whined. “You’re way better at this stuff than I am.”

  “We’re the Team Supreme, dumbass. Now get going.”

  “Shouldn’t you be shielding your eyes at the sight of my breathtaking nudeness?”

  “Oh, like I haven’t seen your knockers every week since the second grade.”

  She giggled in spite of herself. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t have knockers in the—”

  “Out. Dress. Car. Caterer.”

  “You know, I’m under a lot of pressure,” she grumbled, shifting from tail to legs and stomping up the shallow end steps to the patio. “I don’t need to take shit from Groomzilla.”

  “You’ll be taking a smack in the mouth from Groomzilla if you don’t haul ass. Tail. Whatever.”

  She laughed at him; she couldn’t help it. Jonas was never more hilarious than when he was pretending to be a badass.

  Seven

  “Well, how about this one?”

  “If I have to jam one more piece of cake down my gullet, I’m going to vomit all over your baker.”

  The baker, a cadaverously scrawny fellow Fred distrusted on sight (Did he never sample his own product? Why wasn’t there an ounce of fat on him?), grimaced but hauled out more slices on napkins.

  They were seated practically in the front window at a small table set for two. A small, romantic table: silver candlesticks, snow-colored linen napkins, real china. Jonas, of course, was loving it. Fred, not so much.

  “This is one of my favorites,” the baker said with quiet insistence.

  “I can’t.”

  Jonas remained undaunted and said, between chomps, “But it’s chocolate!”

  Fred moaned. Chocolate with ganache filling. Vanilla sponge cake with raspberry filling. Carrot cake—blurgh! German cake with coconut cream filling. Strawberry cake with strawberry jam filling. Lemon chiffon with Meyer lemon curd filling. Angel food cake with no filling. Angel food cake with coconut filling. Red velvet cake with vanilla buttercream filling. Coconut cake with chocolate fondant. Marble cake with chocolate buttercream frosting. Orange cake with (yurgh!) marmalade filling. Orange poppy seed (double yurgh!) with no filling. Banana cake with coconut filling. Spice cake with (vomit) lemon poppy seed filling. Mocha cake with coffee buttercream filling.

  “I can’t,” she said again, positive she’d put on five pounds in the last half hour.

  “Well, I can’t decide between the lemon chiffon, the mocha, or the vanilla sponge cake.” Jonas chomped busily, then said, spraying the spotless tablecloth with crumbs, “Nope. Too rich.”

  “Have all three, then,” she said crossly.

  “We’re not all made of money, Madame Grouchy-pants,” he sniffed, unaware that he looked ridiculous with frosting on his chin.

  “Jesus, I’ll pay for them, okay? Just pick. I’ll write you a check for ten grand right now if I can just leave.”

  “You’re supposed to help me pick. That’s why you’re here.”

  “And I thought I was here to clog my arteries and flop facedown into buttercream frosting during my heart attack.”

  “We also have apple,” the scrawny baker added.

  “Twenty grand,” Fred begged. “Anything. My checkbook’s right here.”

  “Oh, all right, you can buy the cakes. But we still have to go see the caterer.”

  “I can’t,” she cried. “You’re not listening: I will vomit. Puke. Yark. Blurgh. Spew. Shout at the floor. Whatever. I’ll do it. I’m so close to tilt right now, I could be a Vegas slot machine. I—”

  “Say,” Skinny Baker said, “haven’t I seen you on TV?”

  She fled.

  Eight

  Then—then! Not only is my best friend (and worst enemy) marrying my boss, the wedding’s happening here. On Sanibel. And I have to help him pick out cakes and food and tuxes and flowers. All because he’s so hot to get hitched the damned wedding’s happening in two months. Two! Months! Like I don’t have enough things to worry about!

  You have many trials, Little Rika.

  Artur’s tone sounded right—sympathetic and warm—but he was having a terrible time hiding his smile. Much more so than, say, the average human: Artur had the typical dentition of full-blooded Undersea Folk, and had teeth to rival a great white.

  They were a few miles out into the Gulf, swimming about thirty feet below the surface. Although Fred normally wasn’t a fan of ocean swimming, she couldn’t fault the more-or-less beautiful waters of the Gulf of Mexico. You just had to avoid the areas her mother’s people had cheerfully polluted the hell out of. And ignore the sneers of the occasional passing nurse shark.

  She had fled the bakery and, since Jonas had driven, ran to the first beach she could find—and on Sanibel, they were plentiful. She was out of her clothes in seconds (how many outfits had she left scattered on various beaches around the world?) and into the water, flailing helplessly until she switched to her tail. Then she’d arrowed beneath the waves and put major distance between her and the shore, as quickly as she could.

  The irony: if she was home, if she was in Boston, she would have retreated to her tiny apartment and barred the door for a week. But her rental down here was too big, too open, and didn’t feel like hers. She was too easily tracked down in the swimming pool. And here, in the ocean, she chanced running into Undersea Folk who hated her because of what her father had done before she was conceived, never mind born.

  I am the unluckiest hybrid on the planet.

  Oh, stop it, she scolded herself, zipping past a school of snook that were busy trying to s
tay the hell out of her way. Their panicked thoughts raced across her brain like confetti: big one eat no eat do not eat no big one no eat!

  Knock it off, she sent back. I’m stuffed; you don’t have to worry about a thing.

  First off, she was the only hybrid on the planet (probably). Second, zillions had it worse. No money. No idea where their next meal was coming from. No way to breathe underwater without scuba gear. Next, she was at the top of the food chain—on both her mother’s and her father’s side. Unlike, say, anything else that swam in the ocean.

  And finally, nobody twisted her arm to do any of this crap. She wasn’t a victim—far from it. She could have said no. It’s not like she didn’t know how.

  Then why do I feel like everything’s spinning out of my control?

  Well. There was the small fact that two years ago, only a handful of people knew she grew a tail when she swam. Two years ago, her love life was not at all complicated. (Nonexistent would be the more accurate term.) Jonas wasn’t dating Dr. Barb. The world of surface dwellers had no idea mermaids (as they insisted on referring to her father’s people) existed. Oh, and thousands of Undersea Folk hadn’t decided to hate her because of her shitheel dad.

  I prob’ly just need a nap.

  She darted past a few goliath grouper, slowing to watch them—she’d never seen that particular species outside an aquarium. She knew it was illegal to keep them if you caught them—the rule down here for goliath grouper was strictly catch and release. Pity. She’d heard grouper were delicious.

  She was so absorbed in indulging her inner science geek she didn’t see the two Undersea Folk until they were swimming right above her.

  Hi, she sent cautiously.

  Hello, one of them sent back. It was a male, with a tail much longer, broader, and prettier than hers, all peacock blues and greens. His hair was also green, the color of mashed peridots; his eyes exactly matched. His shoulders were broad, tapering to a narrow waist, and she realized yet again that male Undersea Folk had no chest hair.

  Did they shave, the better to be more aerodynamic? Naw. Just something else that set them apart from surface dwellers.

  Hello, Fredrika Bimm, the other one said, a female with a narrow, bright yellow tail. Her hair floated around her in a cloud—a literal cloud, as it was perfectly white. Are you well?

  Hallelujah. Undersea Folk who were going to wait to get to know her before hating her.

  As can be expected, I s’pose, she replied. The three of them circled one another. I didn’t catch your names.

  I am Keekenn, the male said, and this is my mate, Rashel.

  Rochelle, Rochelle, Fred thought inanely. A young girl’s strange erotic journey from Milan to Minsk.

  I’ve got to stop watching all those Seinfeld reruns.

  What? Rashel asked.

  Nothing, Fred sent back hastily. Thinking about something else. Do you guys live around here?

  Not at all. Our home is off the coast of Greenland. We came down here to show numbers to His Majesty the king.

  Ah! The better to fool you with, my dear.

  Pardon? Keekenn asked.

  You know. So the surface dwellers think you guys mostly live here. As opposed to being all over the world, and/or the Black Sea.

  I have never seen a surface dweller up close before, Rashel admitted, arching her arms over her head and zipping past Fred. There was a spray of blood and scales, and then the woman was chomping on the head of a grouper and offering the body to her mate. Fred, who was allergic to fish, managed not to vomit and pawed the scales away from her face. I am most curious. Perhaps it will be an agreeable experience.

  They’re not all bad, Fred agreed.

  Forgive my mate, she is in pup. Would you like some?

  Fred’s hand shot up and she pinched her lips together to forestall the barf reflex. No, no, I’ve already eaten. You guys knock yourselves out. In pup? What the hell did that mean? Pregnant?

  Hmm. Her inner science geek surged forward with a hundred questions and Fred ruthlessly stomped it. She debated mentioning that it was illegal to devour grouper, then decided that surface dweller fishing rules probably didn’t apply to your average pregnant mermaid.

  I don’t s’pose you guys know where Artur is?

  The two exchanged glances, and when Rashel answered it was quite cautiously: He is several miles from here, in meet with the king. Can you not call him?

  This wasn’t the time to explain that, as a half-and-half, her underwater telepathy was quite limited. Her range was poor, to be perfectly blunt. And out of the water, unlike pure-blooded Undersea Folk, she had no telepathy at all. That had been difficult for Artur to get used to. Apparently, it made her borderline retarded in the eyes of many of her father’s people. Hurdle number twenty-nine to vault before things ran smoothly.

  I didn’t want to bother them, she lied.

  We did run into another friend of yours, Rashel added.

  Oh, yeah?

  Indeed. We must be going, but you will see her very soon. It was agreeable to meet you.

  Likewise. Her? What friend would they know of who was a her?

  Rashel and her husband swam away—not one for long good-byes were the Undersea Folk—leaving Fred momentarily alone. The presence of three predators had cleared the area of every single fish, and even a couple of sharks. She had no idea what to—

  Ho, Fredrika Bimm!

  She spun. And gaped. Tennian?

  Of course, her blue-haired rival replied, sounding pleased. Perhaps you were expecting my irritating brother?

  No. That, Fred didn’t need.

  Rival? Where had that come from?

  But Fred, a lousy liar, was even worse at lying to herself, and she knew perfectly well where that had come from.

  Nine

  Tennian, cousin to Prince Artur and girlfriend of Dr. Thomas Pearson, swam close and squeezed Fred’s arm in what she probably thought was a warm greeting, but which actually made Fred’s arm go instantly numb.

  How nice to see you again, Fredrika! I had hoped to run over you.

  Into me. And that’s super. I s’pose Thomas is around here somewhere. It took a great deal of effort to sound casual and not terribly interested in the answer.

  Tennian shrugged. Very likely. You will see him soon, I am sure.

  Great.

  Is it not marvelous in these seas? So warm, and such life! Too many boats, though, she added thoughtfully, looking up as a fleet of Jet Skis went by fifteen feet above their heads.

  Tourist season, Fred explained. So you guys came down to answer the king’s call? As soon as she asked, she realized what a dumb question it was. The king didn’t have to call. Tennian was by far the most curious mermaid Fred had ever met, and the girl was absolutely fascinated with surface dwellers. If there was a gathering, a meeting, a boat full of tourists hoping to catch sight of a mermaid, a press conference, a pirate ship, a—a Tupperware party, Tennian was there.

  She was a striking woman—annoyingly, all the purebred Undersea Folk were easy on the eyes, not a pimple or cross-eyed mutant in the bunch—with dark blue hair and eyes that were even darker, the way small sapphires sometimes looked black.

  When the Undersea Folk showed themselves to the surface for the first time, Tennian had been shot.

  It hadn’t done a thing to squash her curiosity.

  And that had been, of course, when Dr. Thomas Pearson, that cheating shallow wretch, had fallen for her. And off they’d gone into the wild blue yonder . . . or wherever a mermaid and a human went to bang their brains out.

  Cheating? That wasn’t fair, she had to admit. It’s not like she’d told him she’d loved him. It’s not like they had ever even dated. He’d been the one to say he wanted to stick around. And then left for a year.

  To finish his fellowship, her conscience reminded her. Not to abandon you.

  Never mind that. It wasn’t the leaving. No, what stung was how quickly Thomas had shifted allegiance. He’d thought she was the bee’s knees
, but Fred should have kept in mind Thomas had become a marine biologist because he was a mermaid freak. He’d been perfectly happy to go off with Tennian and leave Fred yet again . . .

  Oh, quit it.

  What? Tennian asked, her dark blue hair floating around her as she peered, in vain, for something to catch and devour. Girl had a healthy appetite, among other things.

  Never mind. So how’ve you been? All healed up, I guess?

  Indeed. Thomas tended me quite well.

  Oh, I have no fucking doubt about that.

  And here you are, Fred sent politely.

  Yes, yes! Already today I have spoken to a man from the land of Texas, two women on their way to ‘bridge,’ although whether that is a noun or a verb I cannot say, and six children who swam out when they saw me just off their beach.

  Just be careful. You don’t want to get shot again.

  No, I do not! But they were all very nice. I have also seen you on the television machine many times.

  Don’t remind me.

  The king was wise to appoint you our representative.

  That’s open for debate. Speaking of royalty, you seen your cousin around?

  Oh, yes. Unlike some others, Tennian didn’t hold Fred’s poor range telepathy against her. Tennian didn’t hold anything against her. It made her awfully hard to dislike, even if she was boning Thomas. He comes now—shall I call him for you?

  That’d be great.

  Dammit. The girl was just too nice. Dammit!

  Ten

  So Artur had come darting through the water toward her and Tennian had gone off somewhere and they’d swum together and she’d bitched about her morning. She was careful not to mention Thomas was back in town; Artur made no secret that he thought of the man as the one rival for Fred’s affection.

  It seems your mating rituals are grueling to the extreme, he teased, and she laughed in spite of herself.

  No, anything Jonas is involved with is grueling to the extreme. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.