“It’s one of my places,” Sawyer repeated, and slid a small duffle out from under the table.

“What’s in there?” Riley demanded.

“Nothing much.” He held out a hand for Annika’s. “Ready?”

“It’s nine. Curfew’s eleven. Sharp,” Sasha added.

“Yes, Mom. Let’s go.”

When they vanished, Doyle picked up his beer. “So do you think he’s going all the way to the South Pacific to bang her?”

“Not just, but it’s a factor.”

Sasha poked Riley’s shoulder. “He needs to do this, needs to rebuild his confidence. He nearly died, and he’s been weak and shaken. Anni needs the sea; he needs to give it to her.”

“The sex is just the bonus round,” Riley decided.

“They’ve two hours for the sea, for confidence building, for sex.” And to make the point, Bran flicked his wrist. An old-fashioned hourglass sat in the center of the table. “It’s on two hours. Last grain of sand falls through, I go.”

“I like it. I already set the alarm on my watch,” Riley added as she studied the glass. “But this is much cooler.”

“He’s taking his moments,” Sasha told him, then went still. “I . . .” She reached for Bran’s hand, drew from him. “I feel them. I feel them. They’re safe.”

Sawyer brought them right to the verge of land where the surf rolled, smooth and gentle under star-struck skies. It felt as if he’d taken a good, solid jog—and that worked for him.

“Oh, Sawyer.” In absolute delight, she spun, then stood, one foot in sea, one on shore.

“Great spot, huh?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ve been here before.”

“Really?”

“Yes, with my family. Many times.”

“How do you know?”

“I know the water—the sea—like you know a road. It’s the best I can explain. This place, these waters, we come on . . .” Annoyed with herself she shook back her hair. “I can’t remember the word. A journey to a special place. A holy place.”

“Pilgrimage?”

“Yes! Pilgrimage, pilgrimage,” she repeated to fix the word in her mind. “We believe Annika—I was named for her. She was holy and powerful, and swam all the seas to spread kindness and love.”

He brought her hand to his lips. “Then you’re well named.”

“It’s an honor to be named after one so beloved. It’s said she was nearly captured, and badly injured by seamen who hunted these waters. But one found her, helped her, tended her until she was well again. He saved her, and she saved him. He was lost, you understand? And she helped him find his way home. She gave him a gift so he would never lose his way again, on land or sea.”

Sawyer set his duffle down on the beach. “That’s pretty similar to the story passed down in my family, about the compass. But that was in the North Sea, so . . .”

He looked down at the compass, still in his hand. “Unless it wasn’t. The sailor and the mermaid, saving each other. The gift of direction. That’s a lot of parallels. Maybe it is the same, but the locations in your version or mine changed in the telling over the years. You’re Annika.”

“Yes, I’m Annika.”

“I’m Sawyer Alexei King—Alexei was the name of the sailor who was given the compass. So I’m named for him. Parallels, or maybe just fate.”

“This sacred place is where your grandfather brought you?”

“Yeah, we camped right here, on the beach.”

“So, we’ve both been here before. This place is important to us both. That’s also parallel?”

“In my book, yeah. Go on in. It’s a great night for a swim.”

“Swim with me.” And in her carefree way, she pulled off her dress, tossed it aside.

She raced into the water, dived into the roll of surf. Her tail flipped up, fluid as the water itself, then slid under the indigo sea.

Seconds later, she rose up, just to her shoulders, her smile brilliant. “Swim with me!”

“Be right there.”

He needed to set things up first, and did so quickly as she slipped under the water again. Then he stripped down, and as she had, dived into the surf. He swam out beyond the breakers, pleased his shoulder didn’t twinge, his side didn’t ache with the movement.

Then he let himself float in the cool with the white moon sailing above and stars like scattered diamonds. And he realized as everything in him eased, he’d needed this as much as she had.

Like Sasha had needed to paint, he’d needed something bright and beautiful.

And the bright and the beautiful arrowed up, head back, hair streaming. She seemed to bump the moon before she folded herself and dived in again. Her tail wound around his waist. When he started to laugh, he found himself propelled up, toward the sky. And he heard her laugh as he managed to tuck in, hit the water again in a ferocious cannonball.

“You make such a big splash.”

“I’ll say. Do it again.”

“It was fun?”

“Completely.”

This time, prepared, he pulled off a jackknife. His entry would never match hers, but he figured he rated a seven-point-five.