by Nan Rossiter
“All right, then,” Nate replied. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow so I can show you which windows need the most attention.”
“All right, I’ll come by,” Asa said, shaking Nate’s hand.
Samuel gave his son a hug. “Love you ... Behave.” Then he added, “Tell your brother too.”
“I will,” Asa replied. “Love you, too, Dad.” He caught Noelle’s eye and smiled as he went out the door.
“Twelve o’clock!” Samuel shouted after him.
“Okay,” they heard him answer from outside.
“It’s damn hard lettin’ them go,” Samuel said, shaking his head.
Nate put his hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “You’ve done a great job, Sam,” he consoled. “I wish I’d had the chance.”
“You never know,” Samuel said, taking the replenished bowl from Noelle. He smiled and winked at her. “Miracles do happen.”
Nate laughed. “It would take a miracle—not to mention I’m much too old for such nonsense!” Nate turned to look at Noelle, knowing she would love nothing more than to have a family. She returned a sad half-smile but didn’t say anything as she stepped outside while the two men lingered in the kitchen.
Noelle slipped through the gathering of friends and made her way over to the railing to look out at the waves. What Nate had said was true—she would love nothing more than to have a child. It was her deepest prayer. She looked at the sky, which had become a radiant blaze of pink and orange, and then turned to watch the lighthouse continue its steady, assiduous rhythm.
4
Asa pulled the truck into the parking lot of the package store, and Isaac climbed out. “Get bottles!” Asa called after him. Isaac came out and put the beer into the empty cooler. He poured some of the ice on top and then pushed the Tanqueray and tonic into the ice of the other cooler.
“Damn, I forgot a lime,” Isaac said. “We’re going to have to make another quick stop.”
“Bet you forgot cups too,” Asa said. “I don’t know why you have to drink something so complicated.”
“Someone has to carry on the family tradition.”
Asa just shook his head.
Fifteen minutes later, the boys pulled into the parking area at Nauset Light. They were greeted with cheers and jeers by their small circle of friends, people they had spent every childhood summer with—most whose parents were at the gathering back at the house. The cheering was because they had finally arrived, the jeering because they were late. Isaac got out of the truck and shook hands with the fellows and gave hugs to the girls. There had been a time when Samuel had worried that his sons did not interact enough with other children. In most group situations, they had always tended to stay together, and even in Sunday school, Asa had always wanted to tag along to Isaac’s class.
Isaac had said, “Don’t worry, Dad. Asa’s my wingman.”
Samuel had laughed. And he need not have worried, because as soon as they became teenagers, Isaac and Asa seemed to have no trouble interacting with others.
Asa sat in the truck, grinning. “All right, we brought the wood. You guys get to carry it down those stairs.” They all knew what he meant. The bluff overlooking Nauset Light Beach was straight down, and one trip up the stairs was a workout. It would take several trips to carry down all of the wood.
“Maybe there’s enough down there already,” someone offered.
“Oh, don’t be a slouch,” Asa teased. “I run up those forty-seven steps all the time.”
It was true. Asa loved to run. On most days, he ran from the lighthouse to the coast guard station. He would return with a goal of running the stairs four times, although he would sometimes change his mind after three. On other days, he would ride his bike down Ocean View Drive, leave it at the coast guard station, and run farther down the beach, past the weather-beaten two-room structure the locals called the Outermost House. Asa knew the history of the little house, but he preferred to call it the Fo’c’sle, just as its original owner had. This sun-bleached structure that sat in front of Nauset Marsh had been built by a local carpenter in the late spring of 1925 for author and naturalist Henry Beston. Beston, who referred to himself as the “Vagabond of the Dunes,” had then spent a year weathering the coastal storms of Cape Cod and living in solitude. He had chronicled his experience in a book called The Outermost House. The slim volume had captivated Asa, and he drew inspiration from its descriptive passages of secluded life, buffeted between the relentless forces of nature and the serenity of observing the gradual change of seasons. When Asa ran past the house, he could almost picture Beston sitting out front, becoming as much a part of the landscape as the tall sea grass swaying on the dunes. Oh, what an experience it must have been!
Asa climbed out of the truck and slung his bag over his shoulder. He reached under the dash for his bottle opener, slipped it into his pocket, walked to the back of the truck, and pulled down the tailgate.
“If you all take two or three pieces, you might have to make only a couple of trips,” he said teasingly while he pulled out his cooler and chair and headed for the stairs. He started to walk away but then smiled, turned around, and came back to grab two big pieces of wood.
Before long, the group had a good fire going. They lounged in beach chairs, and Isaac made a round of gin and tonics for anyone who was interested. The boys in the group toasted life, using their fathers’ legendary gin and chowder toast, and, after a while, several in the group decided to go for a walk along the water. When it turned out that everyone was going, Asa decided to stay behind.
“I’ll just stay here and keep an eye on the fire,” he said.
“Sure you don’t mind?” Isaac asked.
“You know I don’t mind.”
In fact, Asa couldn’t have been happier. As the group started off, shouting and waving good-bye to him, Asa waved back, laughing at them and pulling his cooler closer to his chair. He slipped out an icy bottle, opened it, leaned back in his chair, and took a long drink. He watched the fire for a while and then fished around in his shoulder bag for his notebook. Asa never minded being alone. Sometimes he thought he could spend his entire life alone—a recluse, like Beston or Thoreau.
He watched the sparks of embers shooting up into the darkness and listened to the pounding of the waves. He looked at the moon and its reflection on the water. And then Asa looked higher and watched the red and white beams of the lighthouse circling endlessly in the night sky, and he wondered what Noelle was doing at that very moment... .
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2012 by Nan Rossiter
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7818-0
