Summer Shadows

by Gayle Roper

  He blinked at the change of topic and glanced quickly at the water. “I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  How was he able to convey with just the tone of his voice the idea that she had asked a foolish question? “Oh. I just thought you might know, living here and all.”

  He answered with icy cool. “I bought this house three months ago. I have lived here a total of one week thus far.”

  “Oh.” She watched the gentle surf roll onto the sand, a covey of quick-footed sandpipers darting just ahead of the advancing waves, then dashing back to search for food before the next comber came. The gloriously radiant sun bathed the scene, making her squint against the glare in spite of her sunglasses. It was all she could do not to hug herself with delight in spite of her grouchy landlord.

  A place at the shore, right on the beach in the southern part of the island that was Seaside. When she’d driven over the Thirty-fourth Street Bridge onto the island just a few miles south of Atlantic City, she’d greedily inhaled the tangy, salty air. She felt like she was coming home though she’d never before been in Seaside longer than two weeks at a time. Still, the feeling of rightness reinforced her belief that she’d made the correct decision in deciding to settle here.

  From the top of the bridge she looked down on Egg Harbor Bay. In the marshes she saw a great white heron standing still as a statue, its plumage brilliant against the deep green of the swaying grasses. On a slim strip of beach outlining an islet of shrubs and grasses sat at least ten cormorants, their snaky necks stretched to the sun, their wings spread wide to dry.

  Then she’d driven into Seaside, turned right on Central Avenue, and found 4311. Her new home. Her new porch with nothing between her and the sea but the wide strand of soft, golden sand.

  When she and her parents had come to Seaside through the years for vacations, they had always rented the first floor of a house that stood three blocks back from the beach. Financial considerations had forced that rental.

  As a child, she had thought everyone lugged chairs, umbrellas, towels, toys, rafts, and bottle upon bottle of suntan lotion to the beach every day only to tote it all back every evening, all sandy and sticky, tired and grumpy. One day it dawned on her that people actually lived in the houses that lined the beach. These fortunate few got up each morning, had breakfast on their big, wide porches, and stepped off their decks right onto the sand. They went back to their houses for gritless lunches, then walked back onto the sand for the rest of the afternoon. They even played on the beach in the evenings after the lifeguards went off duty or sat on their porches and watched the waves.

  Nothing was more thrilling than watching the waves, nothing, and it was like they belonged to the people who lived right on the beach. They could watch no matter the weather. Even on a wild, rain-soaked day, they could sit inside all dry and cozy, observing the temperamental sea slapping the sand, waves crashing in fury, spume flying.

  Now here she was with her own porch right on the beach. She could eat breakfast on her own deck to the music of the purling sea. She could sit beneath her own awning and watch the sun jewels dance on the ceaseless motion of the water until she was glutted on the sight. If she wanted to, she could lie on her chaise and listen to the waves sigh and break all night long. When the weather turned, she could enjoy the ferocity, the violence, from behind her floor-to-ceiling windows. And she had only to step from the walk beside the house onto the sand, then cross the lovely cream expanse to stand in the cool green water.

  Three cheers for insurance settlements.

  “Let me show you around the apartment.” Marsh gestured toward the door just behind him on the landing.

  Abby glanced at him. “That’s okay. You needn’t bother.”

  She knew she sounded less than gracious, but he hadn’t exactly been the warm and welcoming host. Besides, she wanted nothing more than to be alone. She was bone tired. She ached from head to foot, and she needed the bathroom badly. She gave a perfunctory smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  This time he took the hint. With a brusque nod, he started down the steps. “Let’s go, Fargo.”

  The dog threw her one last look before lumbering off in his master’s wake.

  Abby turned back to the view, telling herself it was all right that she was uncharacteristically unfriendly. She had a good excuse. Sitting in the same position for five hours had played havoc with her hip, making the muscles tighten, the nerves scream. Add to that the tension of traffic and the fact that she was essentially a runaway, and she was stressed. It was perfectly understandable that she was brusque.

  But she was free!

  Two

  WELL, SHE WAS free until tomorrow afternoon. Then Len and Hannah MacDonald, full of love, concern, and advice that she did not want to hear, would pull into the drive behind her car.

  She cringed as she thought of her parents’ well-meaning but highly pointed comments when they would arrive.

  “Abby, my dear.” Her mother’s voice would be heavy with hurt. No one did hurt better than Mom. “When I found your note, I felt pain as if a knife had pierced my heart. You ran away. You left without us.” A tear would appear. “I cried on your father’s shoulder all night.”

  Right.

  Then they would look askance at the staircase. A whole flood of comments would gush forth like a geyser exploding, playing, drenching everything nearby, attempting to drown Abby’s independence. After ticking off all the problems, Mom would switch to that overwhelmingly compassionate tone she used when she wanted to comfort or correct Abby, a sound that grew more cloying every time Abby heard it until she thought she’d scream.

  “You can’t stay in this place, sweetheart. You simply can’t. You can’t deal with the stairs.” And she’d pat Abby’s cheek with her slim, well-manicured hand and say in her loving, infuriating way, “I’m so sorry. I know this meant a lot to you.”

  “Don’t worry, kitten,” her father would say, his voice too hearty and avuncular. Apparently he thought that if he acted like the glass was half full, she’d automatically agree with him that all was rosy. This in spite of the fact that her glass was totally empty and had been for far too long. “We’ll just break the lease and find you another place somewhere.” Then he’d pause and give her his father-knows-best look. He’d rub his hands together and say, “I suggest that you just come home with us, baby, and we’ll take our time and plan more carefully.”

  By which he meant, “Come home with us, and we’ll make certain that you never leave again.”

  But she couldn’t go home. She knew that with absolute certainty deep in her bones. She’d die if she went home. Her spirit would suffocate under the loving, smothering burden of their affection and concern.

  She sighed. How had she come to feel such resentment toward these two people who loved her more than anyone else in the world? She knew they wanted only happiness for her. She shook her head. The root problem was that they reserved the right to define what happiness should be for her.

  A loud bark drew her attention. Fargo was standing beside her car, staring in the open back window. He barked again.

  The snarl that followed would have done credit to a jungle cat. Fargo backed up a step, then frowned with menace.

  Uh-oh. Puppy.

  Abby grabbed the rail and began as rapid a descent as she could manage. By the time she reached the bottom, Fargo and Puppy were engaged in a verbal war that reverberated loudly in the narrow space between this house and the one next door. Apparently the animals were going to get along as well as she and Marsh.

  “Puppy, shush!” Abby hissed through the car window. The black-and-white cat lay crouched in her carry cage in the middle of the backseat. Her ears were down, and her fur stood at attention all down her back. “It’s only a dog. Granted he’s quite large, but he’s only a dog.”

  Puppy was not convinced. She let out a shriek guaranteed to raise the dead. At least it roused Marsh Winslow.

  “What in the world?” He stood at the edge of his back porch
and stared at her. This time he had papers in only one hand.

  “Call off your dog,” Abby ordered. “He’s scaring my cat.”

  “She doesn’t sound scared to me.”

  Abby pushed at Fargo. “And you, you monster, get away from my car. You’re drooling all over it.” She stared with disgust at the saliva sliding down the shiny paint.

  “Here, Fargo.” Marsh rattled his papers. “Here, boy. Let the poor kitty alone.”

  Abby slitted her eyes and stared at Marsh. Was that laughter she heard in his voice? Or sarcasm? His face was a bland mask, but she was sure he was enjoying her distress.

  Fargo gave one last bark, then padded to Marsh’s side where he sat, tongue lolling, the picture of innocence.

  With a snort, Abby turned to Puppy, who was muttering to herself as she turned circles in her cage. Abby opened the car door. “It’s okay, baby. The mean dog’s gone. Don’t you worry. Mommy’ll protect you.”

  Abby thought she heard a snort from Marsh—or maybe it was Fargo—but she didn’t look their way. She slid in beside Puppy and poked a finger into the cage. Immediately the cat rubbed herself against it, purring sweetly.

  “Good baby,” Abby crooned. “Sweet Puppy. Let me take you upstairs where you’ll be safe.”

  She grasped the handle on the top of the cage and, Puppy in hand, slid awkwardly out, hauling herself upright by pulling on the car door. When it started to close because of her weight, she lost her balance and fell backward. She let out a little squeak as she landed sitting on the edge of the backseat.

  Instantly Marsh was there. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage. “I’m fine.” She looked into the carry cage. “So’s Puppy.”

  Marsh gave a stiff little nod and stepped back as Abby climbed successfully out of the car.

  Puppy lay in a boneless heap in the cage until she spotted Fargo standing behind Marsh. She stiffened, hissed, and spit while Fargo growled deep in his throat.

  Marsh looked at the dog. “Stop that.” Fargo glanced up, gave a final growl, and collapsed. He laid his great head on his paws and watched Abby carry the cage to the stairs.

  She grabbed the rail and began to pull herself upstairs once again. She’d reached the third step when Marsh said, “Here. Let me.”

  Something in his voice got her dander up. Maybe it was the you’re-an-idiot-I’ll-save-you condescension. Maybe it was the me-strong-male-you-weak-female attitude. Whatever it was, she looked at him as he stood beside her, hand outstretched for the cage, and said quite clearly, “No, thank you. I can manage quite well by myself.”

  He drew his hand back and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She stared back. No one was going to pity her or talk down to her just because she limped. No one. She had to put up with it from her family because there was no way to get rid of them, but by George, she didn’t have to take it from anybody else, not even a landlord.

  She turned from him and continued up the steps. Puppy and the cage thumped against her hip, getting heavier and heavier by the second, but she ignored the discomfort and kept climbing. Finally she reached the top, and it was a good thing. Her leg was trembling.

  She went to the door and let herself in, using the key the realtor had given her. The pride she felt as she walked into her own home more than compensated for the staircase. She dropped Puppy onto the sofa and unlatched the carrier door.

  Puppy was out in a flash. Then she froze as she realized she was in a new place. She hunkered down and looked around suspiciously.

  Abby sat on the sofa and, leaning over, ran her hand from Puppy’s head to tail several times. “This is your new home, sweetheart. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Puppy slithered from beneath her hand and across the floor to the TV. She looked behind it like she expected Fargo to be hiding there. She moved to the overstuffed chair and circled it. Then she jumped up onto it, sniffing and patting.

  Abby smiled and went into the kitchen. She needed to take a muscle relaxant and fast. She rooted in her purse until she found her vial of pills.

  “Don’t leave home without it.” She dumped the contents in her hand and grabbed a relaxant and a pain pill. She swallowed them, then sat on the edge of a dining room chair and kneaded her sore leg and hip.

  Puppy came up to her, butted her shin, and whined.

  “Uh-oh.” Abby got to her feet. “The litter box.”

  Sighing, she returned to the car and pulled out Puppy’s litter box. She took it to the bottom of the stairs, balanced it against one hip, and grabbed the rail. The top seemed miles away, tired and sore as she was. But she had to prove to herself that she could manage here, and she had to prove it today. Tomorrow her parents would be here to undermine her.

  “Abby, dear girl,” her father would say. “You have come so very far, but you aren’t the girl you used to be, and you never will be.” Then he’d smile lovingly. “But we love you just as you are. We count it a privilege to take care of you.”

  Well, she was sick of being cared for! She was going to manage on her own even if it killed her. If Jimena de El Cid, widow of the famed Spanish warrior, could defend her own castle from the Moors back in the late 1090’s, Abby Patterson could climb a flight of stairs today.

  Halfway up the stairs she felt the litter box begin to slide off her hip. She imagined little granules of litter flying all over the place, messing up Marsh’s neat and tidy steps, to say nothing of depositing a couple of unsought treasures where someone—probably Marsh—was likely to step on them. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of finding her unable to do simple tasks.

  Calmly she stopped, steadied herself, and set the box back against the top of her hip. When she reached the top of the stairs, she felt like she’d just climbed Everest. She grinned all the way to the kitchen where she placed the box on the floor beside the refrigerator.

  Puppy immediately padded over and climbed in.

  “Life goes on,” Abby said. “One point for me.”

  And, oh, but the small victory was wonderful.

  The pain pill and the muscle relaxant were kicking in, so Abby decided to survey the apartment rather than collapse. All in all, it was larger and brighter than she’d expected.

  The living room took up one half of the front of the house, looking out through great floor-to-ceiling panes of glass on to the sea. The other half was a dining area with sliding glass doors that opened onto the porch. The kitchen was directly behind the dining area. A central hallway ran from the living room toward the street with two bedrooms opening off each side.

  Abby immediately chose the large yellow-and-white bedroom on the left as hers and the cozy pink-and-white one on the right as her sewing room. The others could be guest rooms, though she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to stay in the violently purple room that had an honest-to-goodness lavender shag rug. She bet her parents would like the relaxing room done in soft greens and beige.

  I hope the mattress is lumpy enough so they won’t want to stay too long.

  She was promptly smitten by guilt that poured over her like a vat of boiling oil poured from the castle wall onto the attackers below.

  She sighed at her disloyalty. Oh, Lord, I don’t intend to be so mean. I’m sorry. But I don’t want them to stay too long. Thank goodness Dad’s not retired yet and has to go home to work!

  Another vat of guilt poured over her.

  The apartment came furnished, and though Abby wouldn’t have picked the plaid beige-and-blue sofa with its sturdy nylon upholstery or the recliner in an equally tough beige-and-blue tweed, the living room was homey and comfortable. The kitchen was all white, and she decided that a couple of colorful pot holders and dish towels would give personality to the otherwise sterile room. She’d also take down the white valance and replace it with one in some pretty floral print.

  But her main concern at the moment was food. The refrigerator was bare of even ice cubes. She filled the white plastic trays
with water and slid them in the freezer. She took another pain pill and lay down for a rest, forcing herself to use her bedroom instead of the porch on the theory that she’d sleep better if she didn’t hear the waves. She managed to sleep for about fifteen minutes. Then she stared at the ceiling, grinning, for fifteen more.

  Now she had to get some food. When she ran away this morning, she’d left while her mother was at the food store getting everything she deemed Abby would need. Then Hannah MacDonald planned to spend the afternoon making delicious dishes so Abby wouldn’t have to worry about what to eat until she decided to come home. Meatloaf, casseroles, macaroni and cheese, spaghetti sauce, chili—there was no limit to the woman’s plans.

  Too bad she never asked Abby if she wanted all that food.

  Ironically, she did. Her mother was a wonderful cook, much better than Abby. And when she started her new job as children’s librarian at the Seaside library, she’d be more than happy not to have to cook dinner every night.

  But tonight she did have to take care of herself. She found the phone book in a kitchen drawer and looked up the local Acme. She was at Forty-third and Central. It was on Eighth. No big deal.

  As she drove slowly along Central Avenue, she noted that the town was still off-season quiet, especially here at the southern end of the island where the summer people stayed. She passed several new homes squeezed between the more typical two- or three-story rectangles. The new homes were invariably built on pilings with nothing but a garage at the first floor level, a protection against a hurricane’s surging tides. Above were two living-area levels with interesting windows even here on the street side of the houses. She wondered what these places looked like from the beach. Probably glass, glass, and more glass.

  She turned on a country-western station and cranked the volume. No one yelled, “Turn that terrible music down, Abby!” Not her parents, not her husband. She sang along with Faith Hill at the top of her lungs.

  The light at Central and Thirty-fourth was red, and she slowed. A little girl in pink overalls skipped up to the opposite corner, her stride awkward as she worked to hone what was obviously a new skill. Her ponytail was caught back in a pink scrunchie, the same shade as her overalls, and it bounced with every skip. Her mouth moved, and she was obviously singing to herself.