Free Crossing Oceans by Gina Holmes Page A

You’re a hard woman not to look at.”
    Isabella wiggled in my father’s arms, wanting to be let down. When he lowered her, she ran to Craig. “Can we go now?”
    I gave him a questioning look. “Go where?”
    “Swimming.”
    “Why don’t we let your mommy get some breakfast first,” my dad said.
    These days, nothing held less appeal for me than the thought of eating. On those rare occasions when I did have an appetite, it was usually accompanied by nausea. “Forget breakfast. Let’s swim.”
    Deep lines of concern creased my father’s forehead as his gaze traveled down me. “Jenny, you’re getting way too thin.”
    My stomach sank. I was thin, but not terribly so. If my size-five frame worried him now, how much more would my size two, six months from now. “I’m okay, Dad.” Maybe after church I’d swing by the supermarket and pick up some Ensure. If I was going to feel sick every time I put something down my throat, I might as well get the most nourishment and calories for my buck.
    “Are you turning anorexic?”
    Shock and embarrassment stole my words. I couldn’t believe he just blurted that out in front of Craig and my daughter. I was thin, had always been thin, and yes, in the last few months my lack of appetite had cost me another ten pounds, but I was hardly a skeleton.
    “I’m fine,” I said coldly. “C’mon, Bells, let’s get ready for church. We’ll swim this afternoon. Promise.”
    * * *
    Isabella in a polka-dot one-piece and I in a less flamboyant solid black stood side by side on the patio, looking out at the most beautiful piece of real estate to be had in Duncan County.
    Centuries-old pine, oak, and sycamore trees framed Lucas Lake on three sides, with the fourth being cleared to serve as our downward-sloped backyard. A fifteen-foot dock parted the water. Tied to one of its posts bobbed a weathered canoe.
    The streams of sunlight cascading over the rippling water brought to mind golden scarves fluttering in a breeze. In the distance, hazy blue mountain ridges stretched along the horizon.
    When I was younger, my father and I had argued about whether the body of water in our backyard was really a pond or a lake. We never did come to a solid conclusion, which resulted in our referring to it alternately as Lucas Lake and “the pond out back.”
    I inhaled a lungful of the fresh valley air, while Isabella wiggled her pink toenails and bit her bottom lip. Her eyes were wide with anticipation. “We’re going to swim in that giant pool?”
    “That’s a lake.”
    Without another word, she took off running. Her beach towel, which had been draped over her shoulder, hit the ground as her curls bounced against bronzed shoulders. I threw mine on top of hers and raced after her. Two summers of swimming lessons had made her fearless but had just the opposite effect on me.
    Before I could reach her, she splashed into the water, getting only to her shins. I tried to call out, but her name stuck in my throat. She shrieked, turned toward me with alarm, then ran back out.
    I hurried to her, heart thumping. “What’s wrong?”
    She looked on the verge of tears. “Something icky’s in the pool.”
    “Did something touch you?”
    She pointed down. “On the bottom. It’s all yucky, like melted ice cream.”
    I relaxed. Rocky Road, no doubt. “Honey, this isn’t a pool; it’s a lake. It has a mud bottom, and fish and other creatures live in here.”
    Her cold, wet arms became a tourniquet around my leg. She looked at the water as if she’d just learned it was the home of the Loch Ness Monster.
    “It’s okay. Everything in there is harmless. They’re God’s creatures.” Her grip became tighter. “It’s just like swimming in a giant aquarium.” I rubbed her back, wishing I could always be there to comfort her this way.
    Her chest rose and fell in rapid succession, and I knew tears were soon to follow.
    I looked over at the porch, where Mama Peg and my father were rocking. The screen door