by Nora Roberts
He opened the bottle, chugged as he brought up his work, did a quick review. And with one last glance at the view, dived in.
He escaped.
Since college, he’d written as a hobby—an interest he’d enjoyed indulging. And it had given him some pride when he’d sold a handful of short stories.
In the past year and a half—when his life began to shake into the dumpster—he’d found writing offered him better therapy, a calmer mind than a fifty-minute hour with a shrink.
He could go away into a world he created, he—to some extent, anyway—controlled. And oddly felt more himself than he did outside that world.
He wrote—again, to some extent—what he knew. Crafting legal thrillers—first in short stories, and now this terrifying and seductive attempt at a novel—gave him an opportunity to play with the law, to use it, misuse it, depending on the character. He could create dilemmas, solutions, tightrope along the thin and slippery line, always shifting between the law and justice.
He’d become a lawyer because the law, with all of its flaws, all of its intricacies and interpretations, fascinated him. And because the family business, the industry of Landon Whiskey, just wasn’t a fit for him as it was for his father, his sister, even his brother-in-law.
He’d wanted criminal law, and had pursued that goal single-mindedly through law school, while clerking for Judge Reingold, a man he admired and respected, and into Brown, Kinsale, Schubert and Associates.
Now that the law had failed him in a very real sense, he wrote to feel alive, to remind himself there were times truth held out against lies, and justice found a way.
By the time he surfaced, the light had changed, gone gloomy, softening the tones in the water. With some surprise he noted it was after three; he’d written solidly for nearly four hours.
“Hester scores again,” he murmured.
He backed up the work, switched to e-mail. Plenty of spam, he noted—and deleted. Not much else, and nothing he felt obliged, right then, to read.
Instead he composed a post to his parents, and another to his sister with nearly the same text. No problems on the drive, house looks great, good to be back, settling in. Nothing about recurring dreams, sneaking depression or talkative neighbors who fixed omelets.
Then he composed another to his grandmother.
I’m writing here, as ordered. Thank you. The water’s gone to rippling steel with fast white horses. It’s going to snow; you can taste it. The house looks good, and feels even better. I’d forgotten how it always made me feel. I’m sorry—don’t tell me not to apologize again—I’m sorry, Gran, I stopped coming. But I’m sorry now almost as much for me as for you.
Maybe if I’d come to you, to Bluff House, I’d have seen things more clearly, accepted things, changed things. If I had, would it have all gone so horribly wrong?
I’ll never know, and there’s no point in the what-ifs.
What I’m sure of is it’s good to be here, and I’ll take care of the house until you come home. I’m going to take a walk on the beach, come back and start a fire so I can enjoy it once the snow starts to fall.
I love you,
Eli
Oh, P.S. I met Abra Walsh. She’s interesting. I can’t remember if I thanked her for saving the love of my life. I’ll make sure I do when she comes back.
After he sent the e-mail, it occurred to him that while he couldn’t remember if he’d thanked her, he did remember he hadn’t paid her for the groceries.
He wrote himself a note on the pack of Post-its he found in the desk drawer, stuck it to the computer monitor. He forgot too easily these days.
No point in putting off unpacking, he told himself. If nothing else, he needed to change the clothes he’d worn two days straight. He couldn’t let himself go down that road again.
He used the lift writing had given him, dragged on his coat, remembered he’d yet to put on shoes, then went out for his bags.
In the unpacking he discovered he hadn’t packed sensibly. He hardly needed a suit, much less three of them, or four pairs of dress shoes, fifteen (Jesus Christ!) ties. Just habit, he told himself. Just packing on autopilot.
He hung, folded in drawers, stacked up books, found his phone charger, his iPod. Once some of his things worked their way into the room, he found it did make him feel more settled in.
So he unpacked his laptop case, tucked his checkbook—had to pay the neighbor when she cleaned—in the desk drawer along with his obsessive supply of pens.
He’d go for a walk now. Stretch his legs, get some exercise, some fresh air. Those were healthy, productive things to do. Because he didn’t want to make the effort, he forced himself as he’d promised himself he would. Get out every day, even if it’s just a walk on the beach. Don’t wallow, don’t brood.
He pulled on his parka, shoved the keys in his pocket and went out the terrace doors before he changed his mind.
He forced himself to cross the pavers against the maniacal bluster of wind. Fifteen minutes, he decided as he headed for the beach steps with his head down and his shoulders hunched. That qualified as getting out of the house. He’d walk down, head in one direction for seven and a half minutes, then walk back.
Then he’d build a fire, and sit and brood in front of it with a glass of whiskey if he wanted to.
Sand swirled up from the dunes to dance while the wind sweeping in from the sea kicked at the sea grass like a bully. The white horses he’d told his grandmother about reared and galloped over water of hard, icy gray. The air scored his throat on each breath like crushed glass.
Winter clung to Whiskey Beach like frozen burrs, reminding him he’d forgotten gloves, a hat.
He could walk thirty minutes tomorrow, he bargained with himself. Or pick one day of the week for an hour. Who said it had to be every day? Who made the rules? It was freaking cold out there, and even an idiot could look at that bloated sky and know those smug, swirling clouds were just waiting to dump a boatload of snow.
And only an idiot walked on the beach during a snowstorm.
He reached the bottom of the sand-strewn steps with his own thoughts all but drowned out in the roar of water and wind. No point in this, he convinced himself, and on the edge of turning around and climbing up again, lifted his head.
Waves rolled out of that steel-gray world to hurl themselves at the shore like battering rams, full of force and fury. Battle cry after battle cry echoed in their unrelenting advance and retreat. Against the shifting sand rose the juts and jumble of rock it attacked, regrouped, attacked again in a war neither side would ever win.
Above the battle that bulging sky waited, watched, as if calculating when to unleash its own weapons.
So Eli stood, struck by the terrible power and beauty. The sheer magnificence of energy.
Then, while the war raged, he began to walk.
He saw not another soul along the long beach, heard only the sound of the bitter wind and angry surf. Above the dunes the homes and cottages stood with windows shut tight against the cold. No one moved up or down the beach steps or stood on bluff or cliff as far as he could see. No one looked out to sea from the pier where the turbulent surf hammered mercilessly at the pilings.
For now, for this moment, he was alone as Crusoe. But not lonely.
Impossible to be lonely here, he realized, surrounded by all this power and energy. He’d remember this, he promised himself, remember this feeling the next time he tried to make excuses, the next time he tried to justify just closing himself in.
He loved the beach, and this stretch remained a sentimental favorite. He loved the feel of it before a storm—winter, summer, spring, it didn’t matter. And the life of it during the season when people dived into the waves or stretched out on towels, or settled onto beach chairs under umbrellas. The way it looked at sunrise, or felt in the soft kiss of summer twilight.
Why had he robbed himself of this for so long? He couldn’t blame circumstances, couldn’t blame Lindsay. He could, and should, have co
me—for his grandmother, for himself. But he’d chosen what had seemed the easier way than explaining why his wife hadn’t come, making excuses for her, for himself. Or arguing with Lindsay when she’d pushed for Cape Cod or Martha’s Vineyard—or an extended vacation on the Côte d’Azur.
But the easier way hadn’t made it easier, and he’d lost something important to him.
If he didn’t take it back now, he’d have no one to blame but himself. So he walked, all the way to the pier, and remembered the girl he’d had a serious, sizzling summer flirtation with just before he’d started college. Fishing with his father—something neither of them had even a remote skill for. And further back to childhood and digging in the sand at low tide for pirate treasure with fleeting summer friends.
Esmeralda’s Dowry, he thought. The old and still vital legend of the treasure stolen by pirates in a fierce battle at sea, then lost again when the pirate ship, the infamous Calypso, wrecked on the rocks of Whiskey Beach, all but at the feet of Bluff House.
He’d heard every variation of that legend over the years, and as a child had hunted with his friends. They’d be the ones to dig up the treasure, become modern-day pirates with its pieces of eight and jewels and silver.
And like everyone else, they’d found nothing but clams, sand crabs and shells. But they’d enjoyed the adventures during those long-ago, sun-washed summers.
Whiskey Beach had been good to him, good for him. Standing here with those wicked combers spewing their foam and spray, he believed it would be good for him again.
He’d walked farther than he’d intended, and stayed longer, but now as he started back he thought of the whiskey by the fire as a pleasure, a kind of reward rather than an escape or an excuse for a brood.
He should probably make something to eat as he hadn’t given a thought to lunch. He hadn’t, he realized, eaten anything since breakfast. Which meant he’d reneged on another promise to himself to regain the weight he’d lost, to start working on a healthier lifestyle.
So he’d make a decent meal for dinner, and get started on that healthier lifestyle. There had to be something he could put together. The neighbor had stocked the kitchen, so . . .
As he thought of her, he glanced up and saw Laughing Gull nestled with its neighbors beyond the dunes. The bold summer-sky blue of its clapboard stood out among the pastels and creamy whites. He remembered it as a soft gray at one time. But the quirky shape of the place with its single peaked roof gable, its wide roof deck and the glass hump of a solarium made it unmistakable.
He saw lights twinkling behind that glass to stave off the gloom.
He’d go up and pay her now, he decided, with cash. Then he could stop thinking about it. He’d walk home from there, renewing his memory of the other houses, who lived there—or who had.
Part of his brain calculated that now he’d have something cheerful—and true—to report home. Went for a walk on the beach (describe), stopped by to see Abra Walsh on the way home. Blah, blah, new paint on Laughing Gull looks good.
See, not isolating myself, concerned family. Getting out, making contacts. Situation normal.
Amused at himself, he composed the e-mail as he climbed. He turned down a smooth cobble path between a short yard laid out with shrubs and statuary—a fanciful mermaid curled on her tail, a frog strumming a banjo, and a little stone bench on legs of winged fairies. He was so struck by the new—to him—landscaping and how perfectly it suited the individuality of the cottage, he didn’t notice the movement behind the solarium until he had a foot on the door stoop.
Several women on yoga mats rose up—with varying degrees of fluidity and skill, to the inverted V position he identified as the Downward-Facing Dog.
Most of them wore the yoga gear—colorful tops, slim pants—he’d often seen in the gym. When he’d belonged to a gym. Some opted for sweats, others for shorts.
All of them, with some wobbles, brought one foot forward into a lunge, then rose up—with a couple of teeters—front leg bent, back leg straight, arms spread front and back.
Mildly embarrassed, he started to step back, to back away, when he realized the group was following Abra’s lead.
She held her position, her mass of hair pulled back in a tail. The deep purple top showed off long, sculpted arms; the stone-gray pants clung to narrow hips, slid down long legs to long, narrow feet with toenails painted the same purple as the top.
It fascinated him, tugged at him as she—then the others—bowed back, front arm curved over her head, torso turning, head lifting.
Then she straightened her front leg, cocked forward, leaning down, down until her hand rested on the floor by her front foot, and her other arm reached for the ceiling. Again her torso turned. Before he could step back, her head turned as well. As her gaze swept up, her eyes met his.
She smiled. As if he’d been expected, as if he hadn’t been—inadvertently—playing Peeping Tom.
He stepped back now, making a gesture he hoped communicated apology, but she was already straightening up. He saw her motion to one of the women as she wove through the mats and bodies.
What should he do now?
The front door opened, and she smiled at him again. “Eli, hi.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . until I did.”
“God, it’s freezing! Come on inside.”
“No, you’re busy. I was just walking, then I—”
“Well, walk in here before I freeze to death.” She stepped out on those long bare feet, took his hand.
“Your hand’s like ice.” She gave it a tug, insistent. “I don’t want the cold air to chill the class.”
Left without a choice, he stepped in so she could close the door. New Agey music murmured like water in a stream from the solarium. He could see the woman at the rear of the class come back up to that lunging position.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m interrupting.”
“It’s all right. Maureen can guide them through. We’re nearly finished. Why don’t you go on back to the kitchen? Have a glass of wine while I finish up?”
“No. No, thanks.” He wished, almost desperately, he hadn’t taken the impulsive detour. “I just— I was out for a walk, and I just stopped by on the way back because I realized I didn’t pay you for the groceries.”
“Hester took care of it.”
“Oh. I should’ve figured that. I’ll talk to her.”
The framed pencil sketch in the entry distracted him for a moment. He recognized his grandmother’s work even without the H. H. Landon in the bottom corner.
He recognized Abra as well, standing slim and straight as a lance in Tree position, her arms overhead, and her face caught on a laugh.
“Hester gave it to me last year,” Abra said.
“What?”
“The sketch. I talked her into coming to class to sketch—a gateway to persuading her to practice. So she gave this to me as a thank-you after she fell in love with yoga.”
“It’s great.”
He didn’t realize Abra still had his hand until she took a step back, and he was forced to step forward. “Shoulders down and back, Leah. That’s it. Relax your jaw, Heather. Good. That’s good. Sorry,” she said to Eli.
“No, I’m sorry. I’m in the way. I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want that glass of wine? Or maybe, considering . . .” She closed her other hand around his, rubbed at the cold. “Some hot chocolate?”
“No. No, but thanks. I need to get back.” The friction of her hands brought on a quick, almost painful warmth that emphasized he’d let himself get chilled down to the bone. “It’s . . . going to snow.”
“A good night to be in with a fire and a good book. Well.” She let go of his hand to open the door again. “I’ll see you in a couple of days. Call or come by if you need anything.”
“Thanks.” He walked away quickly so she could close the door and keep the heat in.
Instead she stood in the open door, loo
king after him.
Her heart—one some often told her was too soft, too open—just flooded with sympathy.
How long had it been, she wondered, since anyone but family had welcomed him out of the cold?
She shut the door, moved back to the solarium and, with a nod for her friend Maureen, took over again.
As she completed final relaxation, she saw the snow Eli had predicted falling thick and soft outside the glass so her cozy space felt just like the inside of a fanciful snow globe.
She thought it perfect.
“Remember to hydrate.” She lifted her own water bottle as the women rolled up their mats. “And we still have room in tomorrow morning’s East Meets West class in the Unitarian Church basement at nine-fifteen.”
“I love that class.” Heather Lockaby fluffed her short cap of blond hair. “Winnie, I can pick you up on the way if you want.”
