This is my time, she thinks laying back into soft pillows. And she won’t feel guilty. He needs this too. She isn’t sure why, if it’s just the sex or the conversation, but he looked a hell of a lot better when she said goodnight than when she left him sitting alone at his dining table. She runs a hand over her belly remembering the last time it was full and round with a child. She’ll help fix him. She’ll give him the summer of his life, but afterward, she is leaving, hopefully with his baby growing inside of her. And she will never see him again.
Two
June
In the morning he knocks on her glass door before sunrise, as agreed. She finishes tying the laces of new black running shoes and joins him on the back deck. He wears gray shorts and a white tee shirt. No university crests or corporate logos provide clues to his identity.
"Good morning," she whispers.
"Are we whispering?" he asks in a comparable whisper.
Looking at her in a running tank and shorts he is tempted to take her back to the kitchen and see what else they can do on that counter. He needs a run though.
"It's so early I feel like we'll wake everyone."
Her eyes dart left and right, looking for something, or nothing. He doesn’t know. The habits of a mother? He wonders.
"Just us, the sunrise, and the pelicans," he says louder, heading down the walkway backwards until she catches up. Enormous black pelicans fly above in their tight line formation. The tide is high and waves beat the shoreline.
They run easily for two miles. He is surprised she can keep up. After two miles she takes off her shoes and moves into yoga poses that look painful but hold promise for her flexibility. He runs another two miles. When he returns, she sits with legs crossed, in quiet meditation. He sits next to her silently. After a few moments her eyes open and she stretches, arms above with palms pressed together.
“You meditate?” he asks.
“Hell no. I was thinking about what I’m going to do to you later.” She bites her lower lip in a way that is going to drive him crazy all day.
No answer is required so he smiles and wonders again how this is happening. Where the hell did she come from? She landed here like a mythical creature, a Muse maybe, at the exact moment when he is leaning over the precipice of a decision that is going to destroy him or save him. Maybe he has finally gone ape shit. Maybe she is a fucking mirage and he has been jerking off in a mental institution. The thought makes him smile. What they did on his deck last night was nothing like jerking off. He pulls her close and his mouth finds hers. He likes kissing her. She tastes of toothpaste and the slightest salt of sweat.
They sit and watch the sky. "Is it overcast? I can't tell in the dark," she asks.
"Wait for it. Just when you think we picked the wrong morning it will pop."
And it does. He has done this many times before. The glorious ball of fire lights ocean and sky with an impossible combination of blues and purples, oranges and reds.
After a while, when the best has passed, he says, “I’m going to run another few.”
“You’re a bad ass,” she says, “Finish your run at my house? I’d like you sweaty in my shower. Can you do that? Run miles and miles and then, well…?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” he says with a wink and runs down the beach, pulling off his shirt and tucking it into the waist of his shorts.
He runs two miles south, cuts back to the streets and winds his way through the heart of town. He knows his way around. He spent summers here with his family as a kid, until he left for college. After that it was a few weeks in July, then after law school, almost never. When he started things with Sarah, it was clear that big family vacations in South Carolina were not going to work for her. She was more suited to a chair in the Caribbean sand, without in-laws.
He takes note of what is the same and what has changed since his last visit. John runs the docks to see which restaurants and shops have made it all these years and to check out what is new. He is glad to see Dock of The Bay has survived the ages and the storms. He has good memories listening to local bands in the outside waterfront bar. He remembers a few times when he did more than listen.
He looks ahead and sees Lynn coming out of the coffee shop. He has to know.
“Lynn,” he calls catching up to her.
“Mr. Halloway, hello,” she sips her white lidded coffee. She is dressed in dark blue slacks and a white-buttoned shirt, unusual attire for a Sunday morning on Osprey Island, but he doesn’t ask.
“Call me John, please.”
“Okay then. Hello John.” Her tone is unnaturally formal.
“Lynn I feel like we know each other,” he says.
“Oh if we do, it was a long, long time ago.” She shuts him down, clearly not wanting to pursue it.
“Lynn, my neighbor, Anna?” He can’t really think of a good question to ask that doesn’t sound like he is plotting to rape and kill her. Is she single? Is she a prostitute? Where did she wake up yesterday morning?
“Ms. Hinton?”
The Ms. is useless, but knowing the last name is interesting.
“Yeah. I was surprised to have a one next door for the whole summer. She’s a great neighbor.”
Lynn smiles with satisfaction. “And quite lovely too. When she called to inquire about a house I just knew 517 was the perfect fit. She was looking for something a little less expensive on the north side, but the owners discounted since it was for a one and for the whole season.”
“Lynn did Anna call before or after I did?” he asks and waits. She takes a long time to answer.
“Does it matter?”
“I want to know if you put her there. For me.” John is starting to get an odd prickle at the back of his neck. “I am getting the feeling that you are fixing me up? Did my parents do something, Lynn?”
She frowns. “Your parents had nothing to do with placing Anna in 517, if that is what you are asking. The decision was all mine.”
He starts to say something and shuts his mouth. He doesn’t believe her but even if she is lying, she seems to have his best interests at heart. It has been a hell of a first day. “Thank you Lynn,” he says genuinely.
She nods silently, indicating that he is welcome.
“Lynn, one more question.” He asks it quickly before she can stop him. “Do you know about me?”
She stares down at her cup and speaks slowly, measuring her words. “I do and I am desperately in despair at the damage that has been done to you. Mr. Holloway. John.”
She takes a short breath like she is trying to hold something in that does not want to be held in. “Disaster has detoured me from making different decisions. Death deprived me of a...”
This time she takes two deep breaths. John is fascinated by what he is seeing in her, this compulsion in her choice of words, the sounds. He thinks she can control it sometimes, but he caught her off guard. “I had a loss too. A long time ago, but it feels like yesterday,” she says quickly.
Now he remembers her. Holy shit.
“Since we have a loss in common, I’m going to take the liberty of lending you a little life lesson. Listen or leave it,” she continues.
He hasn’t had a conversation with someone who knows about Sarah in a long time. He feels exposed, but he is more interested in Lynn’s inability to control her alliterative speech patterns.
“I don’t like to speak about sad secrets, so let me share some simple sentiments.” She stops and closes her eyes, waiting a few moments before she can begin again. “So let me say this and then go. Okay?”
He nods, spellbound.
She speaks quickly to be done with it. “John, don’t let a lifetime pass you by. It happens so fast. In an instant you are stuck in a past you can’t change, neurotic and talking to cats.”
He remembers the summer her fiancé died. A car accident, he thinks. He checks her hand. No ring. Lynn is alone, running her parents real estate business in the same place he last saw her, twenty years ago. She is a few ye
ars older than him. He remembers her young, smiling face, singing old songs to a bunch of guitars around a bonfire. She had a good, strong voice with decent range and a laugh that was full of life. Her brown hair hung to her waist and her eyes sparkled, reflecting the red light of dancing flames. Every guy wanted her. He looks at her now, tight bun, flat eyes, pale skin that probably stays in an air conditioned office six and a half days a week. The tightness in his chest threatens a return. What happened to her? The difference isn’t in the passage of time. She is listless.
“Lynn when we were kids…” he starts.
“Please don’t John. Just let me say this last thing, then I’ll be on my way.”
He feels like he owes her more, but she doesn’t want it.
“Call your parents,” she says in as confident and strong a voice, as he has heard from her yet.
For some reason those three words out of her mouth hit him like a punch in the gut, harder than he would have expected. His eyes are wide with surprise and guilt as she pats his arm and walks off.
“Can I stop by and see you sometime?” he calls after her. He had such a crush on her. He wants her to know. She shrugs and keeps walking with a spring in her step, suddenly looking more like that young girl he remembers.
He sprints the two miles back to 517. A dirty shower scene sounds good, but he isn’t in the right frame of mind after his talk with Lynn. Shit memories and guilt are kicking his libido’s ass.
He walks across Anna’s lawn to break the news. She is waiting on her steps, freshly showered, and hands him a bottle of water. He pops the cap and drinks it down in one pull.
"I'm starving," she admits.
“Good, because I overdid it.” He is panting hard, soaked in sweat, leaning on her railing. “My stamina is a little off for some reason. I was going to let you down on that dirty shower scene.”
“It’s because I have been fucking you senseless. So sorry. I’d make you breakfast, but I have no food. Oh John, that’s a lie. I can’t boil an egg,” she confesses.
“I cook. I’ll feed you. I’m making it my personal mission to fatten you up. But I don’t have anything good and I am ready to eat a fucking horse. Pancakes?”
"Absolutely."
“Quick shower and I’ll be out. There is a great pancake house up the road.”
He returns within ten minutes, showered and dressed in cargo shorts and a light blue tee shirt, not quite recharged, but feeling better. They could walk into town, but he is just as glad not to and they are both ready for groceries and a trip to the Beer & Wine.
"You sure clean up nice,” he says smelling her hair, admiring her long legs in jean shorts. He is a little regretful he didn’t rally earlier. “I'll drive?" he says leading her to his tiny Lexus.
“Top down?” Anna pleads.
With a push of a button, the top settles into place behind them. He loves women who enjoy the top down. In his experience most don’t. She knots her long hair and smiles at him, glowing with the sunshine.
Driving into town, John points out shops and restaurants he noticed on his run that Anna might enjoy. Osprey Island has a solid business community. Year-round residents, many of them artists, ensure a culture of creative and interesting options, not just tee shirt shacks and all you can eat fried fish bars. They keep keen control over zoning and regulate Osprey Island's development with the watchful eye of a lioness over her young.
They walk into the aptly named Pancake House with its pink walls and blue ceiling, are seated and order right away.
“Can I have a short stack, a side of bacon and two eggs over easy, hash browns, wheat toast, no make it rye, coffee and orange juice please?” Anna orders.
“I’m impressed,” John says. “Same but the eggs scrambled. Unless your eggs are pasteurized?”
The waitress shakes her head, “No, sorry.”
“Scrambled well done is fine. Thanks.” He hands her both menus.
“John, are you a food neurotic?” Anna asks with a smirk.
“I might be.” He smiles, then remembers his conversation with Lynn. Neurotic must be the word of the day. He debates discussing it with Anna.
“John, are you okay? Your face just went dark,” she lays a hand on his.
“Oh yeah, sorry,” he stalls trying to decide if his conversation with Lynn is going to lead to any land mines with Anna. He doesn’t want to back into a discussion about Sarah’s suicide over breakfast. He needs food and he can’t be bothered to think about it now.
She lays a napkin in her lap avoiding his eye. “I am actually sorry. You can go dark in the face whenever you want. I’m being nosy. It’s none of my business.”
It is John’s turn to smirk. “We are so fucking weird,” he laughs.
“What do you mean?” But Anna doesn’t laugh.
“We are fucking like jack rabbits and working very hard to learn as little as possible about each other.”
The waitress sets down coffee and juice with a raised eyebrow. “Thanks,” John says.
Anna has no reply, and plays with the tines of her fork.
“I saw Lynn on my run. We talked. I’d tell you about it, but I really just need food right now,” he says as a short answer explanation.
“Good God are you going to drop on me?” Anna asks, concerned. “We need to nourish you better if we are going to keep this up. Maybe a regimen of vitamins?”
“I’m fine,” he says and takes her hand in his, feeling the soft spot between her thumb and forefinger. Within five minutes the waitress sets ten plates down on their table. For some reason no two foods come on a single plate.
“Did I really order all this?” Anna laughs, pouring syrup. “By the way, that waitress wants to jump your bones. I may have to fight her for you.”
“She outweighs you by about eighty pounds, we’d better get you into training,” John says glancing over his shoulder.
“Can you fight? Can you train me to fight?” she asks, then whispers. “The first rule of Fight Club is you don’t talk about Fight Club. Am I right John?”
“Chuck Palahniuk is a fucking god,” John says alluding to their earlier conversation about the author. “It was a good movie too.” John appreciates her reference, but it also reminds him of how many teeth he’d knocked out in Argentina. Yeah, he can fight.
John eats everything including half of Anna’s pancakes. Finally energized, they leave the car and walk the docks, admiring boats and imagining stories about their owners —Fortune 500 CEO, drug cartel lord, Crocket from Miami Vice, divorced aging playboy with a comb over, Kardashians’ cousin, and so on. They stop for groceries, beer, wine and bourbon.
Back at the houses, as they unload groceries from John’s car, Anna asks, "Is this too much?" gesturing to the bags in his arms. He knows she is not asking about the weight of the bags, but the familiarity of buying and unloading groceries together.
"No," he says meaning it. "For you?"
"No, not at all," she says with an easy smile.
He helps her carry her bags before taking his own into his house. Playing house is pretty fucking nice, he thinks, tossing salmon steaks into the fridge.
They meet on the beach a few hours later. John brings out two blue sand chairs. Anna lays two green and blue striped towels over the back of their chairs. John sets a cooler between the chairs, flipping the lid into a table and tosses his book in the chair to his right.
“Wait, are you a lefty or a righty?” she asks.
“Righty. Why?”
“Just go with it. I feel very serious about our first beach set up. Do you? We are creating a setting here. You’ll sit on the 516 side and I’ll sit on the 517 side then?”
He moves his book into the designated chair. “Okay then a serious question about our serious setting. Umbrella or no umbrella?”
“What color is it?” she asks.
“I don’t understand the relevance. It blocks the sun, creating shade.”
She ignores his words and reasoning so he goes back to the
house and chooses the large blue umbrella which he thinks matches the chairs well enough, if that is what she is going for. He leaves the orange umbrella and the dirty white umbrella behind.
“Good enough?” he asks holding it up, pretending to be annoyed.
“Lovely,” she smiles clapping her hands.
They stand back admiring their picture perfect set up. It could be a book cover.
Finally they sit, shaded from the hot sun, smoothing sand with their feet and wiggling chairs back and forth to find the perfect angle. John points out the hunting osprey, diving for its catch to take back to the nest and feed its young.
“Shit. I forgot something,” he jumps up and goes back to the house.
“First day set up is serious, isn’t it?” she calls after him.
Minutes later he returns with a short black wire with a metal tip that splits into two short black wires, with black tips.
“What the hell is that? A fucking sex toy?” she asks with a surprised smile.
“You are welcome to try it out,” he laughs and sits beside her. “I’d be happy to watch. But I’m sorry to say, no, it’s a splitter. Give me your headphones.” She tosses them over and he plugs in her set and his set creating a single plug in for her device or his. “I want to listen to what you’re listening to.”
“My god that is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Literally the sweetest thing. What are we starting with?”
Her hand stroking the inside of his arm makes him lose his thoughts. Sarah used to do that. It is personal. He leans far to his left to break the connection. He pulls out his phone, where he keeps his music. They agree on OneRepublic’s Waking Up.
“This is damn good music for closing your eyes and sitting in the sand,” he says.
Circling The Shadows (Sunshine and Moonlight Book 1) Page 4