The Beach In Winter

by Pike, Leslie

  Scarlett

  I’m screwed. Three days after our wrestling match in the waves and it’s all I can think about. He’s stayed away, damn him. My stand in the sand was a bit too firm and obviously taken seriously. It might be a good thing. I’m not sure my will would be strong enough to hold steady. A little distance will be to my benefit.

  Sam has been to Parish’s house and yesterday after school they took a walk to check out the lighthouse and talk with the lighthouse keeper. I wasn’t invited.

  There’s so much I have to do to get ready for Thanksgiving, and I only have five days to get it done. Grocery shopping, house cleaning and making sure to put a few decorations up. I have a few new ones waiting. I can’t put up Sam’s familiar holiday decorations.

  Thank God the family’s coming for the weekend. I can only imagine the meal I’d be capable of making without their help. It’ll be great having my support system here and laughing together like we always do.

  I just want to take a breath. It’s exhausting.

  Seems like every waking moment requires one hundred percent of me. I’m required to learn new things, find right answers, be a chauffeur and bodyguard. There’s nothing left over for my own life. I respect mothers on a whole other level now. I didn’t realize what it takes.

  I haven’t begun to know the depth and breadth of the position or what it takes from a woman over a lifetime. Or what it gives. I only know for me it’s composed of great joy and soul-sucking frustration. I guess nothing will be the same anymore.

  A loud knock on the slider glass scares the shit out of me. My hand goes to my heart. Then I see who it is and that heart starts racing.

  “Morning,” Parish calls.

  I’m not completely dressed, still in nightshirt and my favorite Uggs. My weekend uniform till I’m forced to dress and get my shit together. The hair is wild and unkempt. Sleeping in has gone by the wayside like most other habits I enjoyed as a single woman.

  “Morning,” I say sliding the door open. “You scared me!”

  I didn’t factor in what my appearance would do to him. He looks me up and down with a straight face. His jaw tenses. Then I get a big smile.

  “Well Scarlett, I see you’re not wearing pants. Is that how you answer the door?”

  “How do you know if I’m wearing pants or not? Maybe you just can’t see them. And how I answer the door is none of your business. I seem to recall you were pant-less the first time we met, and I never mentioned it.”

  “Touché.”

  A delicious look comes over his face, mirroring mine. We’re amusing the shit out of each other. Trouble.

  “So, where’s Sam? Did he go to the game?” he says.

  “What game? He said he was going to his friend’s house a few blocks away.”

  He walks inside and takes a seat on the couch. Fingers thread behind his head as he stretches his legs out.

  “Not sure that’s a hundred percent accurate.”

  “Why are you saying that?”

  “Because he told me there was a football game at the school today. You know he used to play, right?”

  “I knew he played last year. But he never mentioned anything about wanting to get involved this year. Shit.”

  “Get dressed. Let’s go see if he’s there.”

  “You’re very bossy today.”

  He looks at me with mischief in his chocolate eyes. “Don’t you like it just a little?” he says softly.

  He’s one hundred percent serious.

  “Maybe,” I answer.

  So am I.

  * * *

  It seems like we’ve been walking for a mile.

  “There they are,” Parish says, pointing to the team on the far side of the field.

  “You sure? There’s another team playing over there.” I motion to the big crowd gathered to the right.

  “No. That’s Sam’s school colors. They show up at my door every year selling candy to raise money for the team.”

  “And you answer it? That’s a surprise.”

  “I’ve got a soft spot for the kids. It’s the adults I try to avoid.”

  “Someday I want to hear why that is. Do you think you could let me in that far?”

  He considers the question for more than a few beats. I don’t press.

  “Yeah. But this isn’t the place. Okay?”

  I just nod, afraid he’ll change his mind if I respond at all.

  We walk the rest of the way in silence until we’re close enough to see the faces.

  “Look. There’s Sam. He’s playing,” I say.

  Parish checks out the scene then, with a hand at my back, leads me into the second row seats at the end of the makeshift bleachers. The blonde woman sitting behind us is watching his every move. Whore. I almost start laughing at my silent overreaction.

  “I’m a little hurt. Why didn’t Sam want me to come?”

  He leans in so our conversation stays private. “He just wants to be invisible right now.”

  I take the whole thing in and roll it around. I get it.

  “I thought if we came together we’d be less likely to stand out,” he says. “Nobody knows we’re here for him.”

  I look in his dark chocolate eyes and my heart melts. It’s easy to see the good man he is. It’s been hidden behind something I haven’t identified yet.

  “Thank you for being so kind to Sam. He’s just a kid who feels alone and afraid.”

  He places a hand in mine and squeezes. Are those tears I see welling?

  “He sees us,” Parish says, breaking eye contact. Taking his hand away he returns it to his sweatshirt pocket.

  When I look, Sam’s eyes are on us. It’s not happiness or anger I see. He’s taking in the scene and processing.

  “Don’t wave,” Parish says.

  “I’m wasn’t going to,” I lie. “I just hope he doesn’t get pissed and walk off because we’re here.”

  But he doesn’t. For the rest of the game we cheer and encourage all the players, careful not to single Sam out. For his part he allows our presence and continues playing to the last quarter. That’s when we decide to bug out. We can’t give our identities away before he’s ready to claim us.

  All the way back to his car we’re each lost in deep thought. I’m betting it’s about the same thing though. Parish’s story needs to be told and heard. Opening the car door for me, I slide in. when he comes around and takes the driver’s seat there’s a look of sadness on his face.

  “It’s chilly,” he says rubbing his hands together.

  Leaning his head back he closes his eyes. It’s obvious he’s stalling. Whatever it is that wounds him so deeply is hard to put words to.

  He makes no moves to start the engine, but instead angles his body toward mine and looks into my eyes. I’m holding my breath in anticipation.

  “So you really want to know what happened to ruin a man?” he says.

  How do I answer that?

  A big sigh escapes his lips and a new expression dresses his face. Wow. Whatever he’s about to tell me is so painful it steals the light in his eyes.

  “I think Sam told you I had lost my child. He asked why I was sad and that’s as much as I told him.”

  I just nod.

  “What I didn’t say, what I wouldn’t say was that it was a school shooting. The shooter used an assault rifle on the children.”

  Tears run down his face and he can’t wipe them away fast enough.

  “Justin was shot four times and died on the floor of his second-grade class. Along with six other children, their teacher and a teacher’s aide.”

  Has a voice ever sounded so broken, or filled with anguish? I feel like the earth just stopped rotating. Oh my God. My God. And then the tears start falling. There’s no stopping them for either of us.

  It’s hard to know what to say or how to say it. Just hearing the facts is crushing. To live with it must be unbearable. How does a parent survive being so brutally broken? How do the images ever leave their mind? />
  “Oh, Parish. How horrible. Come here. Please let me hold you.”

  Taking him in my arms I sense the emotional pain and suffering emanating from his body. He buries his head in the crux of my neck, and his body collapses into my embrace. This is grief at its rawest.

  Like a mother kisses her child, I hold him. Stroking his hair and kissing his head with pure tenderness. Wanting to make it better. But knowing there’s nothing and no one who can do that. I try to get as close as I can.

  I ache to say the perfect thing. Something that will ease his pain if even for one second. But without doubt know it’s an impossibility. So, I stay quiet. Except for the crying. It’s not a choice, but an involuntary response to the most horrific thing I’ve ever been told.

  Now I understand the drinking and the smoking and how being unconscious on the beach was infinitely better than being awake.

  * * *

  We drove home in blessed quiet. Not that it was uncomfortable. I think we both were letting our psyches rest in the aftermath of the conversation. As soon as I got home I knew what I had to do. So I’m channeling detective Kristen, armed with my laptop. My cell is within reach and I’ve got a soft blanket covering my legs. I’m going to find whatever I can about Parish’s son and the shooting. Although I don’t even know where it happened.

  But it’s kind of surprising. As I Google Parish Adams, it’s site after site about his novels and barely anything pertaining to his personal information. And absolutely nothing about a child.

  Parish Adams may be a nom de plume. Okay, let me go after this another way. I dig for school shootings. It takes barely five minutes for me to find it. Here it is. I think. A newspaper article from The Daily Breeze. Redondo Beach School Massacre. The year matches what Parish said. I look for the victims list and my eyes go right to the second name, Justin Adams, age eight.

  A deep sigh slips out as I look at the innocent faces who lost their lives. He was a beautiful blond boy with a cherub-like smile. Then I see the other picture. It’s Parish at his child’s funeral, his face contorted in grief. I start crying. Again.

  Underneath the photo the journalist’s words grab my attention.

  New York Times best-selling author, P.J. Adams attends his child’s funeral.

  What?

  He’s P.J. Adams?

  I’d read both of his novels before never seeing one again. I always looked for his next one, but it never came. Oh my God. He’s been hiding behind his full name. And he’s changed genres. Stayed in fiction but went to a detective series.

  Unbelievable. I’m going to have to hold this information close, till he’s ready to discuss it. It may be never. In the meantime I’m going to read everything he’s written, including the first two again as his real self.

  * * *

  Parish hasn’t left his house for three days. I’ve walked to these windows and slider a hundred times. Watching for him. Yesterday I just sat in the sand in front of his steps hoping he’d feel bad for me having to do that. But I got nothing.

  Even Sam’s disturbed by Parish’s absence on the beach. It’s nearly winter and the season reflects my inner reality. I’m cold with thoughts of his suffering and I feel life’s chill stronger than ever before.

  Why are we all destined to bear so much? What purpose does crippling sadness have? Why isn’t he calling?

  Sam will be home at three thirty. There’s time. I’m going over there and knock on his door till he lets me in. I grab my jacket and head out.

  With every step across the sand I’m having an imaginary conversation with him. What I’m going to say, what he’s going to respond with. How I’ll make it better for him, if just for today. But first he has to open the door.

  I take the stairs boldly so he can hear me coming. When I get to the deck I wait. I can’t see him through the glass. But I ring the bell anyway.

  Is that him on the couch? Was that the top of his head moving with the sound of the doorbell? But then nothing. I start knocking and pretend I know for certain he’s there.

  “Parish! Open up!”

  Silence.

  “Parish, god dammit, open the fucking door!!”

  At first there’s no sign of life. Then very slowly a head rises from behind the couch and turns toward me. Yes!

  “Come on. Just let me in for five minutes. You better do it. I’m not fooling around,” I yell trying to sound threatening.

  I watch as he makes his way to the door, pausing before he decides to do as asked. As I demand.

  I’m reminded of that first day, when just his bloodshot eye peeked out. But today, as the door opens the required two inches, they’re clear. He looks tired but not hungover. The rest of him looks the same, hair in his eyes, stubble, a serious expression.

  “Scarlett.”

  That’s all he says. Just my name.

  “Parish. Are you alright?”

  “Not sure that’s possible. But I’m trying.”

  “You don’t look like you’re getting much sleep.”

  “It’s overrated.”

  My heart breaks for his struggle. “Can I come in?”

  For a few beats he’s weighing the decision, then the door slowly opens.

  “I’ve been worried. Sam too. We miss you.”

  I don’t wait for him to ask me in or to sit. I walk inside, take a seat on the couch and pat the spot next to me. He reluctantly sits.

  “I don’t want to talk about that day anymore,” he says.

  “That’s understandable. Let’s talk about today. What’s going on up here?” I tap the side of my head.

  “I’m trying to get to a better place. I want to stop with the drinking. It hasn’t really solved anything. But it’s a struggle. I’m a weak man.”

  “That’s not true. If you can be so brutally broken and still find the courage to be kind to another being, like Sam, then I think you’re actually a badass with a heart of gold.” My words come easily because it’s the truth.

  I get a half smile.

  “I think you can do whatever you want to. I think you will do it. But maybe we can help by keeping everything between us like it has been. Don’t you see? We distract each other from our pain. If only for an hour at a time.”

  “What if instead my pain adds to yours? Or worse yet, to Sam’s.”

  “You’re overthinking it. You’re in here too much,” I say pointing to my head. “Being with you feels good to us. It’s better having someone else to laugh with and talk to. We relate to each other because we’re all damaged. The three of us, Parish, we’re like broken playthings on an island of lost toys. And you’re the king. We can’t abandon our leader.”

  The look on his face makes me almost cry. He knows I see how deeply he’s hurting. And then I do something that wasn’t planned. I lean in for a kiss. And I don’t stop there.

  “I want you. And I want the comfort of sex. We both need it,” I say.

  He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “No. Not like this. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but not now.”

  “Please, Parish. I’ve been thinking too much. Help me.”

  I bring my face close to his, our lips almost touching. I gaze in his beautiful tear-filled eyes. “I want to touch you. I want to feel your hands on my skin. Come on, won’t you cut a girl a break?”

  He takes my hands in his. “I want you too. You already know that, Scarlett. But I’m not sure I’d be myself today. I can’t get out of my mind, and you deserve a man’s undivided attention.”

  How do I politely ask him to slam me against the wall and fuck me senseless? I’m ready for fireworks instead of sparklers. I know this is the man to give them to me. I cut off his stupid words with a nibble on his ear and a tongue trailing down his neck. He stops protesting.

  Damn, that smile.

  Chapter 7

  Parish

  Our hands take the lead, reaching for each other before there’s time to think things through. I’m on fire and Scarlett’s fanning the flames. Didn’t plan on i
t, didn’t think I wanted it. Never been so wrong. Wouldn’t be surprised if we self-implode with all the pent-up desire straining to get out.

  I grab a fistful of her hair and pull it back hard, challenging her with my eyes. You want it? Buckle up, baby. There’s the look I was hoping for. Defiance. She’s game. The ultimate seduction.

  But my lips kissing her neck and nibbling her ear turn gentle. Her natural scent is intoxicating. Deceptively innocent. It tames me for a few seconds, threatening to change the direction of things. Then she gives me some of my own medicine, threading fingers in my hair, and pulling my head back. Hard. It makes me chuckle.

  “However you want it,” I say.

  There’s a kind of desperation in the way we go at each other. Our clothes get thrown to the floor as if they’re on fire. Our pain has turned to an aggression that needs to be expressed. Released. Scarlett matches me in intensity. There’s no wilting flower here and no sign of shyness. It’s fucking hot.

  Beautiful full breasts, pink aroused nipples, her spectacular ass and the perfectly formed lips, major and minor. Everything is on display. She’s shaved clean. My erect dick and blue balls beg for release.

  Our hungry mouths and busy fingers exploring and appreciating it all. Her body’s my party. Mine hers.

  The fact this side of her was hidden behind sweatshirts and ponytails makes the contradiction all the more striking.

  There’s an unrehearsed wild dance happening and I’m aroused beyond anything I’ve experienced before. All five senses are engaged and on alert. What I see ticks every box. What I touch sends a current up and down my spine. It always lands squarely on my dick.

  I hear her moans and smell the sweet juices and the aroma of our mingled sweat. But the taste of her sex, oh God. That’s the one that should be bottled and sold to men with erectile dysfunction. They’d get it up in no time.

  How the hell did I think this might be too sad to be pleasurable? The opposite’s true. I can’t hold any other thought than the excitement of knowing I’m about to fuck this stunning woman.