“Feel like shopping?” Dutch asked Malin.
“I don’t know. Do you?” she asked Sofia.
Dutch smiled when the two women went off arm in arm.
“How is she doing?” asked Onyx.
“Fragile, but a lot of that is my fault.”
“You did what you had to do.”
“Right,” he answered, but he knew what Onyx was referring to, wasn’t what made her fragile.
“What did you find?” he asked, walking up behind her and inhaling the sweet scent of her that brought up more good memories than bad.
Malin was watching a woman weave seagrass baskets. “They’re so beautiful,” she said, running her hand over a smaller-sized one.
“What’s your name, child?” asked the weaver.
“Malin,” she answered, walking over to look at the delicately woven Christmas ornaments.
“You pick out your favorite, Miss Malin, and it’ll be my gift to you.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
The woman stood, grabbed her cane, and walked over to the small tree where the ornaments hung.
“Which one, child?” he heard the woman whisper. “If you don’t pick, I will.”
“I like the angel,” Malin answered.
“That’s the one I would’ve chosen for you.”
The woman took the ornament off the tree and wrapped it in tissue paper.
Dutch wanted to buy every single basket she had for sale just to thank her for her kindness to Malin.
“That angel will watch over you, child. It isn’t just for Christmas. You keep it with you always.”
4
By the time they left Charleston, it was chilly out on the water, giving Dutch an excuse to put his arm around Malin and feel her body close to his. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when they hit the wake of a bigger boat and they were sprayed with cold water, she almost climbed on his lap.
Unfortunately, it took them less than twenty minutes to go from the military-controlled marina to the island’s dock. The waterway they traveled across had no public access and was patrolled by the same team that manned the marina.
“Please tell Sofia we said thanks again,” Dutch said to Onyx when he helped him carry the bags from the dock to the main house.
“Will do,” he answered, setting them on the counter. “You can order whatever supplies you need from here,” Onyx told him, handing him a piece of paper. “You know the drill for the island’s security, right?”
Dutch nodded. “I spent a month here after that op in Malawi.”
There was something about the place that welcomed him from the first time he set foot in it. It wasn’t fancy or even what one might consider a house should look like on a privately owned island.
Built on stilts, it had three levels, making it very Charlestonian in design, with piazzas facing southwest to take advantage of the island’s breezes.
The outside was covered in a mix of yellow pine and cypress clapboard that had been cured in salt water for hardness, making it rot and termite resistant. It was painted in the pastel colors used so often in this part of the south—dark Charleston green, pink, and salmon.
The inside was modestly furnished with casual decor. Big sofas sat in the main living room on the first floor, facing two walls of windows along a third with French doors leading out to a piazza like the ones they saw on their carriage ride. The ones on this house, like most of those on the mansions downtown, were squared off on the corners rather than round.