Part 87 (1/2)

watched her through binoculars, she pretended she was alone, or, better,

with one of the groups of teenagers who haunted the beaches.

She crested over a wave, enjoying the swells and the way her stomach

seemed to dip with the motion. The roar of the sea was in her ears,

mixed with the riot of music from dozens of portable radios. She

watched a tall boy in navy trunks catch a curl and ride it smoothly to

sh.o.r.e-and envied him both his skill and his freedom.

If she couldn't have the second, Emma decided, she would work on

developing the first.

She waited with the edgy patience of a surfer watching for the right

wave. Sucking in her breath, she brought herself up to a crouch on the

board, then stood, and with the faith of the young let the roll take

her. She was up for nearly ten seconds before she overbalanced. When

she surfaced, she saw the boy in the navy trunks glance her way, tossing

his wet, dark hair out of his face with a careless hand. Pride had her

struggling back onto the board.

She tried again, and again, each time lasting only seconds before the

wave s.n.a.t.c.hed the board from under her feet and sent her flying. Each

time she dragged herself back on the board, and with muscles aching,

paddled and waited.

She imagined the bodyguards sipping their warming drinks and discussing

how clumsy she was. Each failure became a public humiliation and made

her only more determined to succeed, just once. Just once to ride the

wave all the way to sh.o.r.e.

Her leg muscles trembled as she pushed herself up. She could see the

wave curling toward her, the gla.s.sy blue-green tunnel, the dancing white