Taryn – Day twenty-three

After figuring out that I could hear the doorbell from the back deck, I decided to relax beside the pool. Dressed in my favorite bikini, I enjoyed the warmth of the mid-afternoon sun on my bare skin. Initially, I struggled with the decision to lay in a lounge chair half-naked, but after an hour of seeing no one pass by on the beach below, decided to give it a try.

My mind drifted to thoughts of Marc, and how my perception of him changed in the three and a half weeks that we’d been seeing each other. My first impression of him was one that simply made mental note of the obvious: his masculinity, handsome looks, and athletic build.

I found it reassuring that those things seemed to become secondary in the passing weeks. When I looked at him now, I couldn’t help but notice that he was attractive, but it seemed I was somehow able to see right through it. I certainly didn’t become as fixed on it as I did when we first met.

I no longer just looked at him with sensual eyes, mentally undressing him each time we met. My new perception of him was that he strived to help others, protect people from harm, and was willing to forfeit his life while performing his selfless acts. He was humble and kind, but it wasn’t easy to see. It required being exposed to him on a daily basis, and I felt fortunate that I was able to see those traits in him.

As the sun baked my skin, I dreamt of being in an unrestricted relationship with Marc. Of spending Sundays at the pool, riding on his motorcycle, and driving his car down the winding roads alongside the vineyards in the northern part of the state.

Walks along the beach. Staying up late listening to how he solved a crime, saved someone who’d been taken hostage, or found a way to use his knowledge of human nature to put away his gun and negotiate with a manically depressed person who planned on dying at the hands of another death by cop suicide.

I had eight days to go, and I couldn’t imagine he’d reach the end and decide we weren’t a fit for each other. As my impressions of him had changed, I hoped his perception of me broadened as well.

My views on him – and on relationships – certainly had, and I hoped he could see it. If he could, I further hoped that he liked what he saw. If for some reason he didn’t, I was convinced I wanted to live the rest of my life with my newfound views nonetheless. In my future, if Marc decided we were not a good fit for one another, I would view our time together and valuable, and proceed with caution when it came to meeting a new mate.

That person not being Marc made me feel uneasy, though. I’d become rather fond of the memories we were making, and how I felt when we were able to spend time alone together. My days before Marc were rushed and unpredictable in many respects.

It seemed I went wherever the action was, following the girls from work, hitting the happy hour specials, and rushing from home to work with little – if any – plan on what my future life would be if the pattern continued.

Now, my alone time was spent dreaming. Not only of a potential life with Marc, but of living a life of enjoying instead of simply existing.

Driving along the coast instead of sitting in the bar. Going to the flea market instead of hitting happy hour. Learning to surf instead of hooking up with yet another man who wanted nothing more than to add another notch on his bedpost.

Of finding a way to accept everything in my past as being exactly what it was.

One of life’s lessons.

While I faded in and out of a light sleep, the sound of the door’s buzzer caused me to spring from the lounge.

Shit!

I wrapped myself in a towel and rushed to the front door, repeatedly screaming I’m coming the entire way.

I yanked the door open.

A short muscular man dressed in shorts and a brown shirt wiped the sweat from his brow. “Delivery for March Watson. I need a signature.”

“Marc?”

He looked at his hand-held scanner. “March.”

“Like February, March, April?”

He looked at the pad and then nodded. “March Watson.” He leaned back and looked at the number on the side of the house. “901 N. Pacific. March Watson.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I thought you said Marsh,” I lied. “March. March Watson. Where do I sign?”

He leaned to the side and scanned a large box, and then handed me the scanner. “Sign anywhere on the screen.”

I signed my name and smiled. “Thank you.”

He motioned toward the box. “It’s big, but it doesn’t weigh much.”

I looked at the it, and then at him. “Have a nice day.”

He ran to his truck, backed out of the drive, and shot down the street.

I reached for the 2’x2’ box. Surprisingly, it weighed no more than I expected the cardboard would. I looked at the shipping label.

March Watson, 901 N. Pacific, Oceanside, CA 92054

I wondered if it was a misspelling, or if his name was truly March. I carried the box into the kitchen, wiped it down with a rag, and placed it on top of the island. After a moment, I decided having it on the island would probably bother him, so I moved it to the floor.

I considered putting it in the garage, and then recalled how he told me to wipe it off before setting it down anywhere, which led me to believe it should be inside. I decided the kitchen probably wasn’t where he wanted me to keep it, and began to look around for a new spot.

I carried it to the front room, placed it beside the door, and then looked at it.

Curiosity soon got the best of me. I lifted the box and shook it.

There was no rattle, no odd noise, and no indication that anything was inside. I couldn’t help but wonder why it was so big, especially if there was nothing in it.

I studied the label. The return address was nothing but an address in San Diego.

I wondered if it was crucial evidence on an important case. If I was unknowingly playing a part in the critical path of the chain of evidence, and my signature would be time stamped into the court documents.

A bullet that tore through the flesh of a victim, traced by ballistics to a rifle purchased by a war-torn Marine who decided to go on a killing spree to relieve his mind of the ghosts that haunted him.

Packed in bubble wrap to protect it from damage, it would be used to tie him to the killing and lock him away in a psychological evaluation center for the rest of his life.

Or.

A pocket knife with a single bloody thumbprint on the handle. The FBI database promptly linked it to Nate John Patrick Wadsworth, a child pornography kingpin who, as with all child molesters, had two middle names and a penchant for kidnapping unwary children and making films of them dancing in their underwear.

My mind reeled at the possibilities.

I picked it up and shook it again.

Nothing.

If it were wrapped in bubble wrap, it could be anything.

A tooth. A single tooth left behind by mistake after stripping the teeth from a victim that was burned in an incinerator and sprinkled into the Pacific Ocean.

NCIC’s DNA database would link the tooth to none other than Guido Marchello, a mob hit-man who was on the lamb, hiding in San Diego from the infamous New York Gambino mob boss after giving testimony regarding the mob’s money laundering routines.

While I considered shaking the box one last time, the sight of an approaching car caused me to shift my attention to the driveway.

The garage door opened.

Marc’s car pulled inside.

I ran across the living room, through the glass doors, and tossed my towel onto the deck. After all but diving onto the lounge chair, I did my best to look relaxed.

In a few minutes, the doors slid open. “I see the package made it.”

I faked a yawn, and turned to face him. “Oh. Yeah.”

“I appreciate you hanging out and receiving it for me.”

“No problem.” I tilted my head to the side. “Is your name March?”

He smiled. “It is.”

“I like that.”

“I don’t care for it as much as my parents do. I’ve always shortened it.”

I sat up and stretched my arms over my head. “I won’t call you it, then. Just in my head.”

“Good day for this.”

“For what?”

He brushed his hand over his short hair, and then scanned the horizon. “Relaxing in the sun. I’ll get the box put up and join you in a minute.”

“I didn’t know where to put it, so I just put it by the door.”

He turned toward the door. “I’m going to lock it in the safe.”

My eyes went wide. “You’ve got a safe?”

“I sure do.” He glanced over his shoulder. “A big one.”

As much as I wanted to view at him as humble, kind, and helpful, he suddenly became sexy again.

“I’ll just wait for you right here, detective.”

He gave me a look, shook his head, and sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

When the doors opened. I nonchalantly turned toward the sound.

Dressed in board shorts, and flip-flops, March Watson stepped through the doors and onto the deck. I mentally gawked at the sight of him. It was the first time I’d seen him without a shirt, and I hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

His chiseled physique defined athletic perfection.

Instead of staring, making a comment, or allowing me to torture myself with sexual thoughts, I simply rolled to my side and stared out at the beach.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was hard as hell. But, it was necessary. If I continued to look at him, I’d make a complete fool of myself. Drooling wasn’t becoming, even for me.

My nostrils flared as a faint hint of his cologne wafted in front of me.

“Thanks for trusting me with the box,” I said over my shoulder.

“Thanks for giving me reason to.”

Convinced I was right where I belonged, I closed my eyes and inhaled a slow breath.

Please, Lord, don’t let this ever end.