The Beach In Winter

by Pike, Leslie

  There those buggers are. I grab the glasses off the hook in the entry to the laundry room then go back to the window.

  Oh yeah, that’s Parish. The booty. Unmistakable. Then he turns and looks up to his house. Damn. He looks good, face framed by the gray hoodie. He’s a damaged soul my logical self says. True, but what’s my point? We’re both damaged. But to invite more misery into an already miserable situation wouldn’t be right. I can’t expose Sam to that.

  It hits me that I’m thinking for two now. It’s not just my life that’ll be affected by the men I let in. I’m responsible for the moral compass, the physical wellbeing and the spiritual health of another human being. Holy shit. Maybe I should repeat that aloud every morning. Otherwise I could mess this child up, entirely by accident. The realization knots my stomach.

  It’s the first time I’ve thought that out. This sucks. Crying McCryer. That’s me. I wipe the tears from my face and blow my nose on the Kleenex I always have in my pocket lately. Then I go back to watching the two figures at the shore.

  Just as the object of my attention starts walking toward his place, the wind picks up. It blows the hood back. Wow, love the dark glasses. Very James Bond. A sigh escapes me with the sight. He’s beautiful. It sounds corny but he’s really beautiful in a perfect-male way. All the physical attributes line up, but it’s something more. And I don’t know why I know that. We’ve barely spoken.

  Maybe I’m reading too much into the picture, but despite how many things he’s done to push me away I feel he might be tender underneath the hard exterior. And an interesting man hiding behind the lone wolf mask he wears. Or maybe I’m just willing it to be true because he’s so hot. Yeah. That’s it. Man, he’s smokin hot.

  My ringtone snaps me out of the dirty fantasy that just began with me sitting on his face. The feel of stubble against my lips. Woo hoo! When I look at the screen I see the intruder’s name. Harry. Shit. I legit just lost my lady boner.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, doll. How’s it going?”

  I take a seat in the well-worn leather club chair. My bare feet resting on the glass coffee table.

  “Shitty. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, it can’t be that bad. You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”

  It’s that dismissive tone right there that pisses me off. Although, in all honesty, I hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Uh, no. It’s not that kind of thing. My entire life is upside down. I’m not sure you get it,” I say dryly.

  His sigh confirms my suspicions. He doesn’t really give a shit. Otherwise he’d offer some advice or help, or even just the right amount of empathy. Not sure that’s in his vocabulary, though. That’s what I get for thinking with my genitalia.

  “Are you still coming next month?” I say.

  There’s a short pause preceding his answer. “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling. There may be a hiccup in our plans.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got this great opportunity I’d hate to pass up. I’ve been invited on the company ski trip.”

  My blood pressure begins to rise.

  “It’s really not so much a ski trip as it is a chance to network for five days. It would be stupid of me to pass it up. I may not get another chance. Not everyone in management is asked, you know.”

  I have this vision where I’m kicking him in the balls. It’s very satisfying.

  “Scarlett?”

  “I’m here. Yeah, you should definitely go. My family is coming anyway. You’d be bored.”

  I can almost see the smile on his face.

  “Thanks, doll. You’re the best.”

  I used to think that name was so sexy. Now it just sounds like nineteen twenty gangster’s lingo.

  “I’m about to leave for an appointment. We’ll talk later,” I lie.

  “Okay, great. It was good hearing your voice. I’ll call tonight or for sure by tomorrow.”

  Then he’s gone. The fact he’s kind of a douchbag is suddenly clear. Whatever. It’s not like we were in love. It’s just that we had so much fun together traveling whenever we could. My travel agent discounts made it all possible. I thought he’d be a support emotionally. Not that he’d help me, but that he’d listen and respond with compassion.

  But he was mostly a decent fuck buddy if I’m being honest. I guess that was all I was to him. Oh yeah, and a cheaper way to travel. So who am I mad at? Turning to the mirror hanging by the entry to the kitchen I realize who’s at fault. Oh yeah. Me.

  Better check how our dinner’s coming. Funny, I don’t smell anything. I get up and move to the kitchen, glancing to make sure Sam’s still visible. When I lift the lid of the crockpot I get an unfortunate surprise. It doesn’t look like it’s cooked at all. The raw hunk of meat sits under two dense uncooked whole potatoes. What the hell? I feel for the heat on the outside. It’s on. This cooking thing sucks the big one. No wonder I never liked it.

  Are there fast food places nearby? Do they have Dine and Dash out here, or Uber Eats? I go to the refrigerator and peruse the shelves. Jim’s cousin and his wife stocked it for us and the pantry as well. But that was four days ago. Most things here must be non-perishable. My bad. I thought going to the grocery store with Sam would be bonding. Hasn’t happened yet.

  There’s eggs. I could do that much. Scramble a few of those. What goes with it? Do I make breakfast for dinner, or is that wrong for a kid? Shit. Shit. Shit. I know nothing about any of this. Here’s some green olives. What if I chop those up and put them in the eggs? Is there cheese? Oh yeah, the drawers. Eureka! Okay. I’m making an olive and cheese scramble and toast. Pretty creative if I don’t say so myself. It’s the best I can do tonight. Tomorrow I’ll try again.

  The sound of the slider opening pulls my attention.

  “Sam?”

  He walks into the kitchen and finds me in the refrigerator.

  “Hey.”

  Putting on my best happy face, I give him the news. “New plan for dinner. That roast isn’t working out.”

  He gets this pissy look on his face, as if I’m a moron.

  “You should have started in the morning. It takes hours,” he says like it’s information everyone should know.

  An arm comes around me and grabs a Coke.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that? And are you supposed to drink that many Cokes in one day? That’s your third,” I say.

  “I thought you knew what you were doing. And yeah. I can have all I want.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not true. Your mother wouldn’t let you do that.”

  The look I’m getting could freeze a lava flow. He leaves the Coke on the counter and walks out.

  “We’re having pizza at Parish’s at six.” The voice trails behind him.

  See, now I don’t know what to do. I don’t like the idea of a kid barking orders, but I already reprimanded him about the soft drink. How many issues can I address at the same time?

  Okay, Scarlett. You won the Coke battle for now. Let him claim a victory on the dinner plans. And would being within close proximity to Parish be so bad? My mom tells me it’s about compromise with kids. She says you pick your battles.

  * * *

  “Why are you bringing the nuts?” Sam says with a confused expression.

  We climb the stairs to Parish’s front door. I see him in the background through the dark glass. This time he’s wearing pants. There’s not a cigarette butt to be seen on the deck.

  “When you go to someone’s home for a meal you bring a little gift.”

  The door opens, and I’m taken aback. Drool may be involved. He looks less like a man recovering from a drunken night on the beach and more like a model in an ad for Guys You Want To Fuck magazine. Hadn’t noticed the salt and pepper temples.

  The white soft-looking top highlights his jet-colored hair. Then there’s what’s going on below. God. He wears charcoal running pants and they hang low on his hips. The waistband shows through the shirt. A
nd one other thing. #restingbulge. It’s impossible to miss the most important detail.

  “Nuts?” I say offering my gift.

  A chuckle leaves his mouth and I get a grin. He’s probably used to the effect he has on women.

  “Come in. I put the pizza in when I saw you two coming.”

  We walk into the spider’s lair and my eyes scan the room and take in the details. Women are so good at that. Before deciding where to sit, I’ve noticed all the books. There’s so many they take up three walls, floor to ceiling. The spines are worn. These aren’t for show. He’s a voracious reader. On the desk sits a laptop and a thick notepad. Everything here seems ordered. The man’s neat. Interesting.

  “Take a seat. I’m finishing the salad,” he says gesturing to the barstools at the counter where he stands chopping a tomato.

  Sam is looking around like I’d like to. Up close to the shelves and peeking around the corners.

  “Does that bother you?” I say to Parish, nodding toward Sam who’s unaware there’s two other people in the room.

  “No. Let him look. I’m an open book.” He pauses. “A short story.”

  “I think you’re more of an unread novel in a foreign language.”

  He stops chopping and looks at me. It’s piercing.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I can’t make sense of you. But I think there’s lots to the tale.”

  His brows draw together but the grin remains.

  “Hey, did you write this?” Sam calls from across the room.

  We both turn to see him taking a book from the shelves. I can’t see the text from here, but I take it the author’s first name is Parish.

  “You wrote all these?” Sam asks.

  “Yeah. That’s what I do.”

  “How come there’s no picture of you?” Sam says.

  “I didn’t want that. Are you a reader, Sam?”

  “No. Just what I have to at school. What’re your books about?”

  “I write about a detective. He lives at the beach like we do. In fact, it’s this beach I’m describing.”

  “Maybe I can read one of them.”

  Parish tilts his head. “They might be a little mature for your age group. But I think you could take it. You’d have to get your aunt’s permission.”

  Sam looks at me and the message is clear. He wants my permission.

  “We can talk about it,” I say.

  “If not, I can suggest a book for you. I know some really good ones,” Parish adds.

  This is an interesting development. A writer? Didn’t see that one coming. But I should have. The tortured artist syndrome is pretty clichéd. When he looks at me I give him a raised eyebrow and a nod of approval. I’ll be ordering a book on Amazon tonight. I’m interested in mature writing.

  “Okay, I’m pretty casual here. Want to eat on the couch? I don’t have an actual dining table.”

  “Yes!” Sam’s reaction is immediate. That’s the lightest expression he’s worn in a month.

  “That was the best pizza I’ve ever had,” Sam says licking the cheese from his finger.

  “Thanks, man. When you live alone learning to cook is a must. Otherwise you starve.”

  That’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh since the accident. There’s no doubt he’s connecting to Parish. And from what I’ve seen here, it might be a good thing. Other than occasionally being the drunk passed out on the beach, he’s surprisingly together. Or at least he can play together-guy.

  “So, Scarlett. What about your story? You have a boyfriend?”

  “No. No boyfriend,” I say completely surprised by the question.

  “What about Harry?” Sam pipes in.

  This is one of those times I heard my sister talk about. When your kid contradicts you by telling the unvarnished truth. She’d say it was always mortifying. Kristen, I hear you. I get it now.

  “Who’s Harry?” Parish directs his question to the boy.

  “He’s a guy that Aunt Scarlett brings to holidays. And they go on trips together.”

  “You like him, Sam?”

  “Not really,” he says. “He’s too into himself.”

  Parish laughs with that one.

  “Well, let’s not tell all my secrets,” I say shooting Sam a death ray.

  For some reason both Sam and Parish think the whole thing’s funny.

  “He’s just a friend who comes with me sometimes,” I add.

  “Dad said you were boyfriend girlfriend because you stayed in the same room together.”

  I give my nephew a shut-the-fuck-up look which hits its mark.

  “I’m gonna take a walk on the beach,” Sam says.

  “Want company?” I offer.

  He walks to the door without turning around. “No.”

  “Come back before it gets dark,” I say.

  And he’s gone.

  “Sometimes a guy just needs to be alone,” Parish says in response to my worried expression. “You can watch him from here.”

  I sigh my agreement. “Let me help with the cleanup,” I add, trying to fill the space between us with words.

  He doesn’t move. Just stretches his arm over the back of the couch and watches me across the room. His legs are spread and he looks like he’s very comfortable. I’m sitting in the comfy chair but that’s a deceptive description. His silence is making me feel awkward. Too self-aware. But being the observer suits him.

  “No. I’ll do it later. Relax.”

  Relax? Oh yeah, that’s going to happen. My mind shuffles through the conversation starters I have in my arsenal.

  “So, tell me about you,” I say, instantly regretting my unoriginal question.

  “There’s not much to tell. I’ve lived here for five years. I write. I walk on the beach. I drink. That’s about it.”

  Now what am I supposed to do with that?

  “I think you may be giving me the condensed version. No one gets to our age without some dramatic chapters,” I say.

  He tilts his head and smiles. “Our age? How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five. And a half,” I giggle. “Those halves used to be so important to me. Somewhere along the way I stopped wanting to quicken the process.”

  “You look younger. I’m forty-three. And I don’t mind the passing of time. In fact, I wish the whole thing would speed up.”

  “Why in the world would you wish that? Looking forward to senior discounts?” I tease.

  He shakes his head. “No. It’s just all too much sometimes.”

  “Too much what?”

  He abruptly stands and looks out the window.” I don’t know what I’m talking about. Forget what I said. I’m gonna grab a beer. Want one?”

  I’m not going to forget. I want to find out what burden he’s carrying. Because that’s what just showed on his face. But this isn’t the right time.

  “No. Not tonight,” I say. “But I will have another piece of pizza.”

  He likes that.

  “Good. That’s the best review a cook can get.”

  Moving to the kitchen, he gets our second helpings.

  “What about you, Scarlett? Tell me about your life before you came here.”

  He makes my plate with a fresh pizza slice and another one of the sweet pickles I took two of earlier.

  I see him guzzle a few swallows of the beer before returning.

  “My life was…well, it was pretty great. I’m from Montana and until last month I planned on staying. My whole big crazy family’s there. My parents and three brothers. Kristen was the only one who moved.”

  “Big family.”

  “Thank God. My brothers have really rallied around us. They call every day to see if Sam and I are okay. They’re all mindful of how difficult it is for their nephew. And they always try to make us laugh.”

  “Why did your sister move to this isolated beach?”

  “Jim was from here. His family owns lots of property in town.”

  “Are you the eldest?”


  “I’m the baby. My father says I was the big surprise. They thought they were done with babies when I showed up.”

  “Three big brothers. I bet your boyfriends had it tough.”

  I chuckle at the memories. “Well, they tried to interfere all they could. But I had a mind of my own. Even at sixteen.”

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m a travel agent so really I can work from anywhere. But it’s a moot point now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’m taking a year off to be here. We all decided moving Sam would be too much for him right now. I’m going to try to get him through middle school in this familiar setting. He’ll graduate from eighth grade next year. I’m hoping to get back to Montana then,” I say, pausing for a few beats.

  “We’re all going to decide together what works for high school. My family is awesome, and they’re helping Sam and I get through this. I can’t imagine doing it on our own. Bottom line, this isn’t a part time job.”

  “Sounds overwhelming for someone who got dropped into it.”

  “It is. Even with the support. Completely overwhelming. I’m not sure what to make for dinner, let alone how to parent. Sam’s a good kid. I love him with all my heart. But he didn’t plan on having me as his mother, and I didn’t plan on being one. God. That sounds terrible,” my voice trails off.

  Parish scoots to the edge of the couch and rests his elbows on his knees. “I think you’re allowed to have doubts. From what I can see you might make a good mom. I’ve been around someone who wasn’t meant for motherhood. It doesn’t look anything like this.”

  Interesting.

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  “You’re underestimating what a compassionate thing you’re doing. For your nephew, your sister, her husband. You’re voluntarily giving up whatever it was you dreamed your life would be. I think it’s remarkable.”

  The tears come without my permission. My chin is quivering. And all because a virtual stranger saw how difficult my journey is and he showed empathy. I wipe the drops from my cheeks and try getting ahold of myself.