Warmth: a memory of it assailed him. Warmth, and the smell of the sun on his skin, the glint of his board, and the prickling of water droplets drying on his shoulder blades as he stretched his arms wide and dug his nails into the sand. Rain pissing down washed the Caribbean vision away, making it fade and disperse, like squid ink in the sea. Danny grimaced, wiping the raindrops from his brow, determined. Once this was over, he’d take Lexie to St Croix. How could he not have done so before? He should have spent all the years that had slid by teaching his daughter to surf, fish and fly kites. How could he not have mended what had been broken between them? And how could she have grown up so fast? In the final few seconds of waiting – slowing his breathing, readying himself for what would come next – he felt a burst of hatred for himself, for the selfishness of his grief. He’d wallowed in self-pity when he should have stood tall. For Lexie. No matter how ruined he’d felt inside, he should never have let her move to England to be with her grandmother.
