Out of Her Depth Read online

  Out of Her Depth

  by

  Brenda Hiatt

  Bell Bridge Books

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-271-2

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-208-8

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2013 by Brenda Hiatt

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Photo credits:

  Photo (manipulated) © Joanne Weston | Dreamstime.com

  :Ehod:01:

  Dedication

  For my daughters, who continue to inspire me to have adventures.

  Chapter One

  February—Palm Beach, Aruba

  NO FEAR.

  I read the blood-red lettering, set inside the outline of a shark, on one of the t-shirts adorning the walls of the dive shop. Another shirt proclaimed, Divers Do It Deeper. Uh-huh.

  Definitely not my kind of place. It was just as well I was only here to cancel the scuba lessons I’d signed up for eight months ago. Before my life was turned upside down.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” The girl at the counter couldn’t be any older than my younger daughter Debra, though I cynically told myself that her impressive suntan would have her looking forty in another five years.

  “Um, yes. I signed up for dive lessons, starting today. But now I—”

  “Mrs. Seally?”

  I nodded warily, wondering how she knew that.

  She must have seen my surprise. “Only three women are signed up for this class, and the other two have already checked in. I’ve got your forms here.” Then, glancing behind me, “Isn’t your husband with you?”

  “I no longer have a husband.”

  The girl looked stricken, and I realized with a completely inappropriate spurt of amusement how that must have sounded.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. Did he . . . die recently?”

  “No, I let him live.”

  Now she looked confused, so I added, “We’re divorced. As of three weeks ago.”

  Her expression cleared, though she still looked dubious. I couldn’t blame her. I was still dubious myself about the wisdom of coming all the way to Aruba alone on what should have been my twenty-fifth anniversary trip. For about the hundredth time, I wondered whether I was crazy.

  Probably.

  Still, my defiant little burst of irony temporarily restored my confidence, and when the girl shoved a clipboard toward me, I abruptly changed my mind about backing out of the class. Instead, I filled out the form and read the disclaimer that essentially promised that if I were eaten by a shark, I wouldn’t sue. I glanced over my shoulder at the NO FEAR t-shirt again.

  Taking a deep breath, I signed my full name: Wynne Nightingale Seally. Little did I know that I had just set in motion a harrowing adventure that would change my life—permanently.

  “The class will be starting in about five minutes, through that door, there.” The girl handed me a copy of the form.

  Six people were already in the small classroom at the back of the dive shop—five students, sitting in a row of old-fashioned school desks, and a blond, tanned, handsome fellow of perhaps thirty, standing in front of them with an air of authority.

  Vainly (in both senses of the word) wishing I were a decade or two younger, I handed him my paperwork. He glanced over it, then checked the list he held.

  “Is—?”

  “Nope, just me,” I replied before he could finish the question and moved to a desk in the second row, behind the others.

  “Okay, then,” he said, after only the slightest hesitation. “I’m Jason, and I’ll be your dive instructor. Before we start, let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.” He indicated one of the two dark-haired young men up front. “What’s your name and where are you from?”

  “I’m Rick, from Texas. Er, in the United States.”

  The next young guy was Dobry, from Poland, then a very attractive blonde girl, Bebe, from Maine, and a cute couple from Canada, Greg and Linda, in Aruba for their honeymoon. All of them appeared to be in their twenties.

  “And I’m Wynne, from Indiana,” I said, feeling more strongly than ever that I did not belong here.

  “Great, let’s get started,” Jason said briskly before I could give voice to my doubts. “Did you all bring your books?”

  I pulled out the handbook I’d been mailed months ago, shortly after signing up for the class, and nodded along with the others.

  For once, my insecurities had worked in my favor. On the off chance I’d be foolish enough to go through with this, I had read every word of the book and done all of the quizzes. As Jason asked us questions, it quickly became obvious that I was the only one who had.

  “Wynne?” Jason prompted—again—when no one volunteered the atmospheric pressure at a depth of twenty meters.

  Feeling like a high school know-it-all, I smiled sheepishly as I answered, “Um, three atmospheres?”

  Jason beamed at me. “Very good. Okay, everyone, what’s the most important rule in scuba diving?”

  Since we’d already gone over this twice, everyone chorused together, “Keep breathing.”

  “Right. You never, never want to hold your breath. Now, let’s watch the first video, and then we’ll get you all outfitted and head to the pool for your first taste of the fun stuff.” He started the video, dimmed the lights, and left the room.

  I had to force myself to focus on the video, simplistic as it was, to keep from panicking. It was just a swimming pool, I told myself. How badly could I embarrass myself in a swimming pool? I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out. I’d always done better in academic settings than real-world ones. The fact that I’d been blindsided by my husband’s infidelity was proof of that.

  Keeping that in mind, I paid close attention to the video demonstration of how to set up all of the gear we’d be using. Even though I’d read the book, it looked complicated—and a little bit scary. I guess they had to point out everything that could possibly go wrong, but it didn’t help my confidence any.

  In front of me, the newlyweds whispered and giggled together, and Rick and Bebe took turns pantomiming how bored they were. Only Dobry was paying attention to the video, possibly as insecure with his slight language barrier as I was with my advanced age.

  Just before the video ended, Jason rejoined us. In spite of my nervousness, the crescendo of dramatic music that ended the video almost made me laugh. We were going to play in a swimming pool, for Pete’s sake!

  “Who already has their own masks, fins, and snorkels?” Jason asked, flicking the lights back on.

  Rick, Bebe, and the newlyweds raised their hands.

  “BCDs and regulators?”


  Only Rick raised his hand.

  “I have my own wetsuit,” Bebe volunteered.

  Jason smiled, and I wondered if I imagined the spark between them. “That’s good. You won’t need it for the pool, but you’ll want it for our open water dives later this week.”

  My stomach clenched at the words “open water dives,” but I trooped gamely back into the dive shop behind the others, where we were fitted for our equipment. On Jason’s advice, I went ahead and bought my mask, fins, and snorkel. Even if diving scared me as much as I expected it to, I could still use them for snorkeling.

  Forty-five minutes later, the group of us stood beside the swimming pool, awkwardly holding our gear. I wondered if the others felt as silly as I did under the curious stares of the hotel guests on their lounge chairs.

  “Okay, let’s strip down to bathing suits for the swim test,” Jason said. “Two hundred meter swim—that’s ten lengths in this pool—and a ten minute float. You can all do it at once.”

  I was now several zip codes outside my comfort zone. After stepping out of my shorts and peeling off my t-shirt, I crossed my arms over my middle, which was already well covered by my modest one-piece. I couldn’t help wishing I’d been a whole lot more faithful about getting to the gym in recent months. The other two women in the group wore bikinis and looked disgustingly good in them.

  Not that I’d have worn a bikini even if I were in fabulous shape. I firmly believed there were some things a forty-plus body just shouldn’t do, and a bikini was one of them.

  “Everyone into the pool,” Jason urged.

  I had a fleeting worry about what the chlorine might do to my Auburn #6 haircolor, then jumped into the pool. What difference did it make, really? It’s not like anyone here cared.

  Though I’d swum competitively in high school, it had been years since I’d done more than splash around on vacation, since my gym didn’t have a pool. I was pleased to discover I could still manage a decent breast stroke. And I could float with the best of them, though I preferred not to think about exactly why that was.

  Jason congratulated us all when our ten minutes expired, then told us to get into our dive gear.

  My stomach clenched again. This was where I’d either panic and make a complete fool of myself, or prove that an old dog like me really could learn a new trick. I desperately hoped it would be the latter. Pressing my lips together in concentration, I started putting my equipment together exactly the way we’d been shown in the video.

  “I learned all this stuff from my cousin on South Padre Island a couple summers ago,” Rick was saying loudly to Bebe. “So let me know if you need any help.”

  “Um, okay.” Bebe was already further along in the process than Rick was.

  I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who had to stifle a laugh when Jason came up to him a moment later to point out that he’d put the first stage onto his air tank backward. “Remember? You want the gauge on your left and your regulator on the right.”

  “Uh, right.” Rick kept his back to us as he fixed it, and didn’t make any more offers of help.

  I had some difficulty getting my BCD (short for “buoyancy control device,” the inflatable vest) strapped tightly enough to my tank, but once Jason showed me how to cinch the strap, I managed everything else on my own.

  Reciting the instructions in my head, I clipped one air hose into the BCD, another to the depth and pressure gauge, a third to the regulator, for breathing, and the final one to the “octopus,” or backup regulator, which I obediently clipped to the vest to keep it out of the way.

  Jason estimated how much weight each of us would need to stay submerged and handed out weight belts, which we all fastened around our middles. Following his directions, I pulled on my fins and mask, snapped myself into my vest, and, with some difficulty, stood up. The tank was a lot heavier than I expected, given that it was full of air, not lead.

  “You all look great,” Jason told us, though I thought we all looked pretty stupid. “Now, one at a time, do the giant stride you saw on the video to enter the pool. That’s exactly how we’ll be doing it off the back of the boat in a couple of days.”

  I refused to think that far ahead, since I was already working hard to keep panic at bay. Instead, I concentrated on shuffling all the way to the edge of the pool in my big, fluorescent green flippers without falling on my face.

  Greg and Linda stepped into the pool with resounding splashes, and then it was my turn. Swallowing hard, reminding myself yet again that this was just a swimming pool, I scooted the toes of my flippers over the edge.

  I was breathing loudly through my regulator, sounding like Darth Vader, when Jason nodded. With one hand on my weight belt and the other spanning my mask and regulator, just like in the video, I swung my right leg forward over the water and pushed off the ledge. I had one frantic moment of terror as the water closed over my head. Then I remembered to breathe.

  Cool!

  The water gently cocooned my whole body as I hung suspended in total silence, except for the sound of my own breathing. It made me think of an astronaut doing a space walk. The weights on my belt let me sink to the bottom of the pool, where I sat cross-legged next to Greg and Linda to wait for the others.

  I could see the length of the pool with the help of my mask—much farther than I was used to seeing underwater. Also cool, even though there was nothing to see but some hotel guests’ legs at the far end. For the first time since signing in, I was glad I hadn’t chickened out.

  Once the class was assembled on the bottom of the pool, we followed Jason’s lead in removing, replacing and clearing our masks and regulators, and practicing buoyancy control by inflating and deflating our BCD vests while slowly swimming around.

  By the time we surfaced for the day, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I hadn’t panicked, and I hadn’t screwed up, which was more than show-off Rick could claim. Twice, he’d had to stand up, gasping, when he’d forgotten to clear his regulator before taking his first breath after recovering it.

  But I wasn’t about to get cocky. Rick’s example showed exactly how easy it would be to do something stupid when it really mattered—like when we were fifty feet under the surface of the ocean. Still, I didn’t find that prospect nearly as terrifying as I had that morning.

  THE HOT ARUBA wind dried my swimsuit almost instantly, so I pulled my shorts and shirt back on before heading to the poolside grill for a quick lunch. The rest of the class dispersed, but that was fine. Being alone gave me a chance to get my bearings.

  I’d assumed Aruba would be tropical, but it was more like a desert—a very windy desert. The previous afternoon, during the drive from Queen Beatrix International Airport through tiny, bustling Oranjestad and on to the high rise hotels of Palm Beach, I’d noticed there were only limited patches of green, mainly in the tourist areas. That is, unless you counted the scattered stands of cactus along the four-lane road that passed for a highway.

  Now, as the dry noontime heat seeped into my skin, I began to fully appreciate what a different world this was from the one I’d left behind in Indianapolis. Not only was it at least fifty degrees warmer—it was February—but the whole atmosphere was calmer, slower . . . less judgmental.

  Finishing my burger and diet soda, I entered the hotel and headed across the opulent, open-air lobby. Signs I’d barely noticed last night pointed to a casino at one end, a tiki bar and a boutique at the other.

  Near the casino, to my left, was a more upscale bar sporting a grand piano with a huge bird-of-paradise flower arrangement on top. The elevators were just beyond. I stepped in and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor.

  Last night I’d been tired and depressed, and the opulence of my room had only made me feel worse. The king-sized bed, whirlpool tub, glassed-in shower, and wide balcony overlooking the beach had reminded me of a honeymoon sui
te—a thought that had reduced me to tears.

  But that was last night. Now, I was able to look at the room with new eyes and appreciate the luxury. I deserve this, I told myself, and almost believed it.

  I unplugged my cell phone from its charger on the desk and turned it on, wandering out onto the balcony as it powered up. Gazing out at the expanse of white sand and astonishingly blue ocean, I reminded myself that I’d come to Aruba to celebrate my new freedom. In fact, I’d brought along my old wedding ring with a vague idea of symbolically flinging it into the ocean. Maybe I’d—

  My cell phone rang in my hand, startling me out of my thoughts. “Hello?”

  “Mom?” It was my younger daughter, Debra. “Where have you been? You haven’t been home, and your cell phone has been off since yesterday. Did you get my voice mail?”

  “Oops, no, sorry.” My old cell phone hadn’t worked internationally, so I hadn’t even thought to turn my new one on until now. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, but I was hoping I could come over for dinner tonight. My fridge is empty, and I don’t get paid until Friday.”

  This had become a pattern for Debra, despite the fact she’d landed a plum job with an advertising firm right out of college. She always seemed to end up with more month than money—but no shortage of designer clothes.

  “Sorry, sweetie, but I’m out of town and won’t be back for a couple of weeks.” I waited for the inevitable question, wondering how she’d react to the answer.

  “Out of town? Out of town where?”

  “Aruba.”

  “What? Oh, wait. There’s an Aruba, Indiana, right? Like Peru and Brazil? So where is Aruba?”

  “Off the coast of Venezuela. As far as I know, there’s no Aruba in Indiana. I’m on the actual island.”

  There was a long silence. “Why?”

  Good question. I’d asked it myself a few hundred times, but the answer seemed even less plausible as I said it out loud to Debra.

  “I booked the trip for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary before . . . well, you know.” In fact, I’d booked it the very same day I’d caught Tom cheating on me, but Deb didn’t need to know that. “With everything going on, I forgot to ask for a refund by the deadline, so I decided what the heck.”