by C B Cox
Eliah waves me off from the door.
I arrive at the causeway just as the tide threatens to submerge it. I run across. Alighting onto the island, I swing around and see the causeway disappear under the ocean. Seawater fills the rock pools at my feet. The sun is at its zenith. I enter a small stand of pines. Sun and shade dapple the path. When the wood opens up again, I feel the heat of the sun upon my face. Already, it’s too hot to work. Besides, my head aches.
I need a lie down.
It’s been one hell of a morning. I’ve been tetchy. Anxious. And guilty of blowing things out of proportion.
Bella follows me inside and I fill up her dishes. She laps at the water, but turns her nose up at the dry dog food. She mooches over to her bed, flops down and exhales. She’s not eating. Perhaps it’s the heat? I don’t cajole her. She’ll eat when she’s good and ready. I take a long slurp of water from the faucet – I’m dehydrated – as soon as the cool water enters my stomach, I feel the throbbing in my temples start to subside.
I flop onto the sofa in the den and start yoga breathing. I take deep breaths: in through my nose, long blows out through my mouth. I banish the ‘Charles’ episode from my mind. I don’t want to think about it, him, anymore.
I need sleep. An hour should be enough to shake off my anxiety. With luck, I’ll get some writing done.
Chapter Twenty-One
I wake, and it’s dusk. I’ve slept for almost five hours. I keep doing this lately, either sleeping at the wrong time, not sleeping enough, or sleeping for far too long.
Perhaps, if I take a shower, then eat something, I’ll be refreshed enough to write until I’m tired again. I must get into some kind of daily routine.
And that’s just what I do. I forego the shower and grab a snack.
Two hours later, my fingers halt over the keyboard. I check the word count. It’s not huge, but at least I’ve bashed out some meaningful words and the day isn’t a complete waste. I press SAVE. I’m only on Chapter Ten – less than a quarter of the way through the novel – however, I’m delighted to have put Charles’s antics to the back of my mind. It’s a small victory. I’m pleased with myself. I’ve not allowed him to destroy my creativity.
I’m getting stronger. I’ve got this.
Tomorrow, I’ll swim from the beach. Exercise makes me feel great. All those endorphins being released. I’ve not been getting enough these past few months. It sets my imagination running. Improves my writing. Shutting myself away is toxic. Seclusion doesn’t help when you’re trying to breathe life into characters and stories. I ought not to generalize, but that’s how it is for me. I do my best writing on benches in Central Park, libraries and coffee shops. The hustle and bustle of people going about their daily routines helps me think straight. I love the din. Voices feed dialogue; often become a catalyst for new ideas, characters. I realize it’s too quiet around here. It’s not healthy.
“I need to change things up,” I say aloud, stepping into the bathroom to take a hot shower, before retiring to bed.
This time, mentally exhausted, sleep comes easily.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Day 17
It’s a perfect day for a swim.
When we arrive at the beach, I slip out of my shorts and T-shirt and stand in my bathing suit, gazing out across the surf.
“I’m going in, Bella. You coming?” I run towards to the ocean. Bella rushes past and throws herself into the breakers. I laugh out loud and watch her frolic in the surf. A minute later, as if sensing she’s out of her depth, she turns and doggy paddles back towards the shore.
“Wait for me,” I call out, diving headlong into the surf.
I swim out for a couple of strokes, then turn to join Bella in the shallows. The water is freezing. I hear Bella’s huge paws paddling hard against the current. Some dogs are swimmers. Bella is a paddler.
I hop and skip out of the ocean, squealing like an excited toddler. I throw myself onto the beach and let the sun warm me.
Charles and I used to swim here every day during our summer vacations. Sometimes, we’d venture in up to our knees and fool around in the shallows. Bella would join in the fun by chasing after sticks and balls. Other times, we’d race to the jetty at the far western end of the cove.
He’d never let me win. His superior height and strength advantage would always win out. But I’m a strong swimmer and competitive. I always gave him a good race.
There I go again. Romancing my failed marriage.
I must cleanse him from my soul.
I drag myself up and tiptoe into the shallows. I step over broken shells and smooth pebbles until the water rises past my hips. Low breakers take my breath. Foam licks at my bare stomach. My hands skim the surface as I shuffle forward until I’m ready to sink onto my knees and let the water cover my shoulders. I take tentative breaststrokes at first, feeling my way. I swim in a slow controlled rhythm, taking shallow breaths, adding speed with each stroke. The gentle hand of the swell sweeps me along and assists my forward momentum. The water is ice-cold, yet the air is warm. I narrow my eyes against the sun’s glare reflected on the surface of the ocean. Tilt my head, suck in air. Salt water washes over my face, tickles my nostrils and stings my eyes. The hot pulse of adrenalin courses through my veins.
I feel alive.
Ten feet below, sand gives way to rock. Ahead, sea vegetables wave and catch the sunlight in the shimmering currents. I’m picking up speed. Racing an unseen opponent. Supported by the briny water, I feel strong. I’m speeding towards the jetty – the halfway point – when I lift my head to catch a lungful of air. Momentarily, I’m blinded by sparkling diamonds of sunlight captured by the oceans’ undulating surface. I blink away the brightness. Emeralds and rubies twinkle on the back of my eyelids and replace the sea diamonds.
Within touching distance of the jetty, I stretch out my fingertips and ready myself to touch the rough wood. I’ve reached my goal. It feels great. I’m invigorated. Triumphant. I punch the air with a clenched fist. My chest heaves from the exertion, but I don’t care. It’s another personal victory.
I tread water for several minutes. Enjoy the burning sensation in my lungs. A minute later, with my breathing recovered, I’m ready to swim back to Bella on the beach, laid in the shade by the boulder at the center of the cove. I take easy strokes. I’m lost in the joy of swimming. I embrace the tingle of salt on my lips. Currents fizz between my toes and legs.
I’m almost there, when, twenty feet from the beach, a clammy hand appears from under the surface and tightens around my ankle.
I scream. It punctures the tranquility.
Water fills my mouth. I cough and splutter. My arms thrash wildly as I desperately try to keep my head above water. I twist and turn, madly. Kick out with my legs. Fight off the hand. My feet drag and graze along the seabed. I’ve made it to the shallows. At last, I’m able to stand. I launch a kick at the hand. Its grip loosens. I lose my balance and land with a dull thud on my backside.
Greasy fingers wrap around my ankle.
I’m kicking and thrashing around in the shallows, when the ‘hand’ floats to the surface besides me. In reality, it’s a long and slimy piece of khaki-green kelp.
Bella joins me in the splashing game, snatches the kelp in her jaws. She spits it out, as the salt assails her taste buds.
I expel a throaty cackle. I’d caught my foot on a bloom of kelp. I’m relieved and embarrassed in equal measure. I tiptoe over sharp shells and fall onto the sand. Laugh at my stupidity. What was it that Charles called me? Scaredy cat?
“I’m a ditzy blonde, Bella,” I say. She bounces on her hind legs. I roll her over and tickle her belly. We play fight in the soft, warm sand. Bella yaps. I’m laughing so hard, my ribs ache.
Bella signals that she’s tired of the game by flopping her furry bulk onto the beach. Her face rests along her paws, like it always does. I lay back and soak up the mid-morning sun. Several more mornings like this, and I’ll catch myself quite a tan.
&nbs
p; Adios to peaky, unhealthy looking me. Hola to healthy, sun-kissed me.
I dry off. Pull on my shorts and T-shirt over my bathing suit, all the while gazing out across the ocean. I’m just about to turn and leave when I notice a small boat beyond the jetty. I narrow my eyes against the sun. Struggle to identify exactly what I’m looking at. There’s a man onboard with his back to me. It’s possible he’s a fisherman. It’s difficult to tell. I didn’t hear a motor. I’m not sure how long the vessel has been there. The solitary occupant appears oblivious to my presence. He casts something into the water. It lands with a splash. The boat bobs and pitches. The fisherman – if that’s what he is – gazes out to sea, concentrating, or so it seems, on the task in hand. I wonder if he’s laying lobster pots? It’s hard to tell from where I’m stood. He’s too busy to notice me. I call for Bella to ‘come.’ We amble up the beach towards the timber steps leading up to the lodge.
At the top of the steps, I swing around and check on the fisherman’s progress. He’s not there. The ocean lies empty.
Life goes on around Tern Island. I shrug and set off for home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day 19
I make a late breakfast of ham and eggs. Sip rich coffee. The bitterness makes my taste buds tingle. My morning swim has improved my mood and appetite. After breakfast, I sit on the porch enjoying the hot sun cooled by the delicate breeze wafting against my face. The blueness of the sky is sublime. It’s a perfect day. Far too nice to waste working indoors.
I remember the antique foldaway card table that Charles brought to the island one Thanksgiving. He’d thought it a fun way to while away the long, dark winter evenings. It gave him an opportunity to massage his competitive ego, more like.
He’d tried to teach me how to play poker. Texas Hold’em, he’d called it. I was a slow learner, but after a while, I came to understand the different hands: Royal flush, straight flush, straight and all the others in between. My attempt at ‘poker face’ was a catastrophic fail. The very first time he dealt me three of a kind – from my first five cards – I squealed and jumped around the room clapping my hands like a wind-up tin monkey. My reaction frustrated the hell out of him. In an instant, he consigned the card table to the closet. He never suggested we play poker again.
Such an asshole.
I find the table and picnic chairs tucked away behind buckets and brooms in the closet under the stairs. I drag them out and dust them down. Set up a writing station outside on the porch. I fetch my laptop, notebook and pencil – the one with the heart-shaped emoji eraser top – from upstairs. It’s from a kid’s store. Martha gave it to me. It makes me smile every time I use it. I place it alongside the open notebook. Once I’ve set up my new workstation, I step back to admire the fruits of my labor. Perfect. I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and sit down to write.
I’ve been mulling over a change of direction for my heroine. I’ve backed her into a cul-de-sac. She needs to figure a way out. I let my arms rest on my lap, fingers entwined, and stare out across the tranquility of the garden. Thoughts bounce around my head. Scenarios come. Scenarios go. I rule ideas out. Find merit in possible solutions. My eyelids flutter closed. I’m in ‘the zone’. I’ve lost hours, days and weeks, in ‘the zone’. I wonder if Charles ever noticed?
I hear the crunch of gravel underfoot and a low grunt. The noises break my cerebral reverie. I lose my train of thought. I open my eyes, slowly. Raise my head.
Levi Wiley stands at the foot of the porch steps, clutching a cardboard box against his chest, his unblinking stare directed to the ground. He kicks at the dirt. A cloud of dust covers the bottom half of his trousers.
“Levi. Hi! So nice to see you.”
“Yup,” he grunts, all the while maintaining his stare toward the ground. It’s the extent of his vocabulary.
“Is this my grocery order?”
Levi takes one precise step forward and thrusts the box towards me.
“Yup.”
“Would you mind carrying it into the kitchen, please?”
Levi ascends the steps onto the porch. I take a step back, press my back against the door and hold it open. He stands on the welcome mat, wiping his feet. He counts as he wipes. Ten. No more. No less. His mop of greasy brown hair bounces with each nod. With his ritual completed, he strides over the non-existent step at the door, follows me into the kitchen and places the box down on the counter. Once more, he adjusts the box until it aligns perfectly with the edge of the counter. This time, he’s satisfied at his first attempt. He steps back, dips his head toward me and wipes his sweated brow with the back of his huge hand. He looks up. For a nanosecond, we make eye contact before he returns his gaze to the floor.
“It’s real warm, Levi. Would you like a cold drink?”
He peers at me in silence through his vertical mop of hair, as if he doesn’t quite understand the question.
“Water, maybe? Soda?”
“Yup,” he says, abruptly.
I take his reply to mean he would like a soda. I pull a can of cola from the cooler and hand it to him.
I smile and watch him pull the ring and drain the contents in a single gulp. He burps. Smacks his lips. Makes a satisfied, “Argh.”
An awkward quarter minute passes.
“Good,” he says, returning the empty can to me.
He can speak.
I conclude he prefers silence. He turns to leave and I follow him outside onto the porch. He stops besides the desk, causing me to pull up abruptly behind him. He takes a step right, as if the desk is blocking his path. It isn’t. He shifts his head forward and extends his neck like a bird, as if he’s listening or thinking. He does that thing with his fingers, tightening and relaxing his fists.
Nonplussed, I explain, “I’m a writer.” I’m not sure why, but I feel the need to explain the desk and writing paraphernalia.
“Yup,” he says with a nod, stepping down off the porch, bounding off along the path, right foot lagging half a step behind him. He disappears into the woods. I catch myself shaking my head in mild disbelief. He’s an oddity is Levi. He seems harmless enough, though.
In the kitchen, I investigate what goodies Eliah has sent. There are fresh eggs, cured ham, two salmon fillets, salad, vegetables and the pièce de résistance, a lemon drizzle cake. Made, I can only assume, by Eliah’s long-suffering wife, Dorothy.
“This’ll up the calorie count, Bella,” I say, loading the cake into the refrigerator. I promise myself coffee and cake, later. It will be my reward for a good day’s writing. If I don’t achieve my target word count, then there’ll be no cake.
Yeah, right.
I notice Bella is neither in her bed, nor laid on the porch. I’m about to call for her, when she trots up from the direction of the woods. Her tongue lolls from the side of her mouth. She seems to smile a doggy smile.
“Where do you think you’ve…”
My words die mid sentence. Surprise steals them. Curtis Jackson strides along the path behind Bella. He halts at the porch steps.
“I gave her a doggy treat. That all right?” Intense hazel eyes bore into me.
“Err … yeah … no problem…” I stutter. He’s moving up the steps. He halts on the porch in front of me. Bella settles at his cowboy-booted heel.
“I saw Levi Wiley heading over. Thought I’d keep an eye on him. Make sure you’re all right.”
“He came by with my grocery order.”
“I see. Does he stop by often?”
It feels like an interrogation, yet he smiles a bright smile.
“Once a week,” I say.
Is it any of your business? I think.
“Levi’s a poacher,” he says flatly. “He acquires things. Things, that don’t necessarily belong to him. Watch him. He can’t be trusted. He’s got a volatile streak.” His frown is deep. Lips pursed tight. His hands have settled on his hips.
I shrug. Give him a wide-eyed look. “He seems harmless enough. He’s no trouble. He delivers my
order. It’s a big help.” For the second time today, I feel compelled to explain myself to someone I hardly know.
“Great. Just so long as you know to keep an eye on him,” he says, tickling Bella’s ears.
“Thank you ... I will.” I suppose it’s his way of showing concern – kindness – of watching out for a neighbor. I turn the suspicion down several notches to ambivalence.
“Okay… I’ll leave you to it,” he says, nodding at the laptop. He turns and steps off the porch. Bella lifts up. Pads after him.
I tap my thigh. “Come here, girl.” I feel a twang of jealousy. Whenever Charles was around, she always gravitated to him, too. She’s a man’s dog, I guess.
He stops and turns. “I’ll see you around, Mrs. Madison.”
He waves a casual salute, turns away. I remember the car. Call after him. “Did you source the part?” I try not to sound too desperate, but the words squeak out. “The part for the truck?”
He turns back, slapping his forehead theatrically. “Gee. Sorry. I forgot to mention… I went into town. Ordered a new starter motor. The one on the car, it, was all busted up.”
A long sigh escapes my lips. I can’t help myself. I don’t know if I’m more annoyed that I won’t get my car back soon, or that he almost forgot to give me a progress update.
Am I invisible?
“Holy crap, that damn car is almost new. Did they specify a delivery date for the new part?”
He nods. “Couple of days. Don’t worry, it’ll be as good as new before you know it.”
He seems confident in his abilities. Since there’s nothing I can do to speed things along, I elect to calm down. Getting cross won’t help the situation.
