The Beach In Winter

by Pike, Leslie

  “She didn’t like to be told either. Like you.”

  I give him a half smile, but my heart breaks a little. Land mines everywhere. No matter what we do or say.

  I’m distracted because up ahead, behind our house, a figure is closing our mailbox. It’s that Parish guy returning Sam’s blanket.

  Holy holly. He’s surprisingly fit looking. His biceps look sweet pushing against the long-sleeved runner’s shirt. Oh, and the ass. I’d like to pull up a chair and get a ringside seat for that particular show. Pass the popcorn, it’s a double feature.

  Sam’s posture straightens when he realizes his beloved blanket is back. I pull in the driveway and in the process momentarily frighten the man who didn’t realize a car was approaching. He looks trapped, subtly turning his head to either side in an attempt at finding the way out. The only thing stopping him is my car blocking the closest exit.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say to Sam.

  “Bring the blanket,” he orders.

  As I open the door and Parish sees me, he rolls his eyes in my direction. What’s his problem?

  Getting out of the car, I approach the cornered rat. He may be stuck here but suddenly those dark chocolate eyes are taking in this new version of me. I’m not sure he’d noticed I’m a woman. The polished meeting-the-teacher look is a hit. There’s subtlety to the reading, but no hiding he’s checking me out.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Thanks again for the blanket,” he mumbles in my general direction.

  I get a half wave as he heads for the front of the car. Oh my God, I think he’s trying to squeeze himself between the bumper and the Eucalyptus tree in a desperate attempt at escape.

  “Hey, wait!” I say, not really knowing what I’m going to spout next.

  The body language is undeniable. His shoulders slump, he stops and turns back to me in defeat. Think he’s decided to face the consequences of actually speaking and just get it over with.

  “Is it really that painful to talk with me for minute?” I say chuckling.

  Then he smiles. Uh oh. That did it.

  Chapter 3

  Parish

  Relax. She’s not going to bite. Before I can stop myself, a fantasy of her doing that floats through my mind. Doesn’t mean anything. Just an automatic response from a guy who’s out of practice being in the company of an attractive woman. It’s impossible to miss the curve of this one.

  Even in the simple skirt and jacket, she looks good. Much better than I gave her credit for this morning. The sexy schoolgirl look with the long hair and bangs. Yep. The boots don’t hurt, but I think it’s the white blouse that sells the whole package. It’s tailored to her and deceptively meant to be conservative.

  I was always a sucker for a big boobs/small waist ratio. Didn’t realize her chestnut-colored hair was this long and pretty. Nice. And yeah, she has the All-American fresh face thing going on. I used to be drawn to blondes. It’s been years since I cared enough to have a type. Unless you include Women Who Have No Expectations as a category.

  I thought that entire thing out in the time it took her to walk up to me.

  “I call a do-over.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Scarlett. You’re Parish, right? Great name.”

  Well, now it’s required I shake her hand and speak.

  “Yes. Nice to meet you,” I say with a quick handshake. Hmm. Soft skin. Not sure what I’m afraid of exactly. Other than the horror of being forced to make small talk with the new neighbor.

  “I know you must have met Jim and my sister Kristen. They lived here for nine years.”

  “We haven’t met.”

  Her head tilts and the eyes say, what kind of asshole am I dealing with? But she doesn’t voice it.

  “Are you babysitting for them?” I say. My idea of conversation lacks originality.

  What’s that look I’m getting? Wait. Why is she speaking in the past tense? Lived? What happened to Happy Family?

  “I guess you haven’t heard,” she says quietly.

  Oh no. Her eyes swim with tears. I’m living my nightmare.

  “Heard what?” I say.

  “They were in an accident. It was fatal.”

  One fat tear runs down her face. She’s biting her lip, but her chin quivers with the painful retelling. She’s a pretty crier, but that’s not the point. I’m surrounded by tragedy.

  “I’m so sorry. How horrible for Sam Boy.”

  That slips out before I know what I’m saying. But it gets a grin from her. Even though the moment is uncomfortable, I can’t help but notice her mouth. Snap out of it.

  “Is that what you call him? Sam Boy?”

  Nodding my head, I try and condense my story. “Sometimes when Sam was little his father would call Boy when he wanted him to come in from the beach. Your sister always called him by his name. Because we hadn’t met, I just gave all of them the names they’d holler to each other.”

  “Very creative. What was my sister’s name?”

  “Babe. That’s what her husband called her. She called him honey.”

  Oh man. The look on her face reminds me of myself when my Justin’s death was new. Whenever someone would talk about memories of him they’d have my undivided attention. From other’s perspectives you see a new view of your lost one. A missed piece to the whole.

  It’s heartbreaking and a particular kind of thrill at the same time. I never wanted them to hold back because it might make me cry.

  Her hands lift to her mouth and stops the sob that wants to be set free. My stomach twists in response. I’m not prepared to sooth some else’s wounds when my own run so deep.

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have told you that. I’m gonna go.”

  When I begin to turn, she gently places a hand on my arm.

  “No. Please. What you told me brings me some joy. Despite evidence to the contrary. It reminds me how much love my sister had in her short life and how happy they were together.”

  She releases me and wipes her tears with the pads of her fingers.

  “I don’t know anyone here. Not on this stretch of beach or in town,” she says, voice cracking with emotion. “I’m really happy to meet our next door neighbor.”

  I just nod my head because how can I fight that. Poor woman. It’s not going to be easy for her.

  “Did you ever actually meet Sam Boy?” she says gesturing toward the car.

  “No. Not really.”

  Her face brightens. “It would be really great if I could introduce you now. He’s having a hard time, as you can imagine. I’d like it if he could at least feel there’s a man close by in case we need help in an emergency. I respect your privacy and it’s obvious you like to be left alone. I promise not to take advantage.”

  Like a kid in class who doesn’t know the answer, I’m struggling to gather the words and come up with an acceptable response. Usually adept at expressing myself, this surprises me. Suddenly I’m tongue-tied. It gives her the chance to continue.

  “And you don’t have to worry about Sam bugging you. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Not even me.”

  Then she gives me a pleading look I find hard to ignore.

  “Yeah, I guess that would be okay,” I say with the little enthusiasm I can muster for doing the right thing.

  She holds up one finger, gesturing for me to wait while she gets the kid. As she turns and walks back to the car I’m watching that eminently watchable ass. Boom, boom, boom, beat the rim shots in my mind.

  When I look up Sam’s watching me watching her. I get a hint of a smirk.

  The kid’s on to me. That deserves a chuckle and a nod. Pretty sharp for a young guy. As he reluctantly gets out I realize it’s him I’m doing this for. I recognize the pain behind his eyes. It lives behind mine too.

  I just hope neither of them expect too much. I haven’t got much to give. If he doesn’t want to talk too regularly it should work out. It’s most likely the woman I’ll have a problem with. Women in general like to talk more than I do. She’s stuc
k in this situation for life now, and it’s obvious she’s out of her depth. And a little lost too. But she is good to look at.

  Guess my readers aren’t the only ones who gravitate toward a troubled character. Because like the moon in the day, she’s beautifully out of place.

  * * *

  LOUIE’S DINER looks like shit from the outside. The O in the neon sign has gone dark, making it the L UIE’s DINER. It doesn’t really matter because the parking lot’s always full. Regulars like me keep the place in business. Not one of us would think of trading our alliance. Foods great, simple and fresh. The kitchen’s clean. I’m always afraid it’s going to be discovered.

  Why is it residents of beach towns are so territorial? Maybe because like me the people here have found the privacy they need and can’t get it in other places. For whatever reason being apart from the crowds and traffic that make up neighborhoods is the pull. In the end we just want to be left alone at the edge of the sea.

  The tinkling of the bell sounds as I walk inside. Good, a seat at the counter’s open. Too bad the two surfer dudes are on one side. They’re talkative, and it’s never stimulating conversations. I’m okay on the left. That old guy, with the faded Yankees baseball cap, never says an extra syllable more than what’s required.

  I make my usual limited eye contact. Then a nod to the cook, Oscar, who can be seen through the passageway to the kitchen. He gives me his normal acknowledgment, a lift of the chin, then goes back to flipping flapjacks.

  Terri’s on today. She’s elevated her waitressing job to an art form. Plus, she reads the room and knows when to stop with the small talk. I take my seat and watch her approach.

  “You’re late,” she says pouring my coffee. “What’ve you been up to?”

  The one thing I don’t like about her are the curved nails. Orange talons that make clicking sounds on the counter like the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park.

  “I had a few things to take care of.”

  “You look like hell. Hard night?”

  “I’ll have the Benedict,” I say closing down further discussion.

  “Okay, sugar.”

  Taking the hint, she walks away and puts in my order. While I’m adding the cream to my coffee, Beavis and Butthead start up.

  “Did you see the chick living in the big grey house?” Beavis says stuffing himself with a forkful of potatoes. Peripherally I see half of it land on the table. His fingers scoop it up and return it to the intended orifice.

  “You mean the MILF with the kid?”

  My ears perk up.

  “No, dude. She’s dead. The husband, too. I’m talking about the new chick.”

  “Dead? When did that happen?”

  “They got hit by a drunk driver on 1. Gruesome. It was on the news about a month ago.”

  “What about the little dude?”

  “No. He wasn’t with them. The aunt’s staying at the house with the kid. A smokin hot chick with big tits.”

  Idiots. Their conversation pisses me off for multiple reasons.

  “How do you know all this?” Butthead says.

  “My mom. The chick came into the bank and had all the accounts changed to her name. Dude, she got all the money. Lucky bitch.”

  What idiots these two are. And obviously the mother at the bank isn’t too sharp either. Jesus.

  “What about the kid? Doesn’t he get any of the inheritance?”

  “She’s the guardian. Probably will go through it by the time he’s old enough to need it.”

  Thank God the food comes and with it a change of conversation for the geniuses next to me.

  * * *

  The nights usually come slowly. No mystery why. My rule of not drinking till five has made hours move at a snail’s pace. It’s a miracle I’ve been able to keep the promise. Don’t know if it’s going to last but for some reason today hasn’t been as bad as yesterday and the thousand days before. It’s almost a sign from God. If I was a believer.

  I’ve still got forty-five minutes to get to the drinking hour, and for the first time in a month it seems doable. I might just have a few beers tonight and see how that plan works. It would be good to sleep in my bed.

  Got in the three-thousand-word epilogue all in one afternoon session. Early on I discovered I can’t write drunk, which helps with my vow. Despite my idol Ernest Hemingway’s edict of write drunk, edit sober. He proved it worked for him. He was unusual in that regard. For me both jobs require my being one hundred percent levelheaded.

  I stretch out my kinks and close the computer. Moving to the wall of glass, I spot Sam, all alone, making his way toward the shoreline. How he holds his body, the slope of his shoulders, it all tells a story.

  I feel for the kid.

  Navigating grief is bad enough when you’re self-sufficient. When you’re young you hardly have any control. Where you live, what you eat, when you get up or go to bed. It’s all someone else’s decisions. Fuck. Being able to hide myself and control my surroundings so successfully has been my saving grace. Sam, poor kid, can’t hide.

  I grab my sweatshirt and head out, taking the steps quicker than usual. The sand is cool under my feet and the wind’s getting stiffer. I zip up and throw on the hood. Burying my hands in the pockets, I find a couple of sticks of gum. How long have they been there? They’re a little stale, but so what. I unwrap one and stick it in my mouth.

  “Hey!” I shout over the wind as I approach.

  Sam Boy doesn’t turn, but just looks over his shoulder at the intruder. Mouth set in a hard line. His private moment gone. There’s no smile or wave. Just a look.

  “What up?” I say kicking an empty clam shell over with my toe.

  “Nothin.”

  “You’re talking to the waves. That’s something.”

  He gives me a look I recognize, only it’s usually coming from me. Fuck off it says. I ignore it.

  “That’s what I do when I don’t want to talk to people. I tell the waves my story,” I say.

  The eye rolling says he thinks I’m a fool. No words needed.

  “I do. They hear everything. Especially about the things that hurt.”

  I stop there. Give him time to take it in. I’m surprised I said that much. But man, the pain on his face. There’s no ignoring the fact I see he’s alone on the edge of a cliff. And he’s just a boy.

  When he turns to face me tears are streaming down his cheeks.

  “Just let it go, man. It helps. I know from experience.”

  “What do you have to be sad about?” he says, voice quivering.

  I didn’t think this out.

  “Uh, well I lost someone, too.”

  “Who?”

  “My son.”

  Shit. Now my eyes are filling up. He sees my reaction and it throws him. He stops crying and watches me.

  “Sometimes I’m happy if the only thing I do on any given day is breathe,” I sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, eyes steady on mine.

  That was one of the most sincere condolences I’ve ever heard. Two words offered by a heart so broken there should be no tenderness left.

  I find the other piece of gum and hand it to Sam. “Here.” I sniff my tears to a stop. “Fuck. Didn’t plan on crying.”

  “Just let it go,” he says, giving me a taste of my own medicine.

  He takes the gum, and when he looks back up at me he’s smiling. You can always count on a kid enjoying a good expletive. I remember my uncle saying the f-word in front of me one time when I was twelve. It was the coolest moment. I felt like an equal.

  “Thanks,” he says chewing away. “This might be the best thing I eat tonight.”

  “What? Why’s that?” I say.

  “Aunt Scarlett isn’t a good cook. She tries, but I don’t think she likes having to do it.”

  I want to laugh, but it’s not funny for the kid.

  “Then you better learn your way around the kitchen. What’s on the menu tonight?”

  “She’s making a roast with potatoes
in the crockpot.”

  “Well, that sounds pretty good.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy. “I don’t think she’s used one before.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “When Mom used it, she’d start early in the day. Aunt Scarlett put it on about a half hour ago. And I don’t think she used any spices. I looked inside when she was in the other room and it looked bad.”

  I can’t help but chuckle, which makes Sam smile.

  “Listen, why don’t you come eat with me tonight. We can have pizza and I’ve got some potato salad. I’ll wrap up the leftovers so you can take it home.”

  He’s running the invite around in his mind, probably wondering if I’m a pervert. Or maybe deciding which dinner scenario would be better. Bad food and going to bed hungry, or good food and having to talk at a relative stranger’s house.

  I put him out of his misery. “You can bring your aunt. She needs to eat too.”

  His face relaxes.” Okay, I’ll ask her. Thanks.”

  I realize I’ve left out the most important piece of information.

  “Oh, and after dinner I’ve got to get back to my writing. It’s going to be a short night. Is that okay?”

  Sam’s grin answers my question. No follow up needed. We’re already speaking shorthand. He’s going to have his favorite meal and be back in his room by seven. As for me, I’ll have plenty of time to drink as much or as little as I want before choosing my bed for the night. It’s a win-win.

  Chapter 4

  Scarlett

  What’s going on down there? Is that Parish with Sam? I can’t tell with that friggin hood hiding the fine face. I hope it’s him. Otherwise, some stranger is chatting up a young boy. I’ve got to be aware. Child predators were never on my radar before. Now they have to be. How will I know if I’m missing some really important thing I should be watching for?

  Shit. Where the hell are those binoculars I saw last night? They’ve got to be close by. Kristen was always a pro at spying on people. She’d take me on her “missions” to watch what her boyfriends were up to. She was in college and I was still in high school and I thought she was the coolest girl I knew. God. So many funny memories. Instead of laughing, they bring tears to my eyes. I miss you, sister.