Whiskey Beach Part 3

Maybe she wasn't here at all.

Then her hand lay over his, just for a moment, warm and real. "Your coffee's going to get cold."

"Right." He lifted the mug, drank. And felt marginally better.

"You haven't been here for a while," she continued, and poured the egg mixture into the omelet pan. "There's a nice little restaurant down in the village-and the pizza parlor's still there. I think you're pretty well stocked now, but the market's still there, too. If you need anything and don't want to go into the village, just let me know. I'm in Laughing Gull Cottage if you're out and want to stop in. Do you know it?"

"I ... yes. You ... work for my grandmother?"

"I've cleaned for her once or twice a week, as she's needed it. I clean for a few people-as they need it. I teach yoga five times a week, in the church bas.e.m.e.nt, and an evening a week in my cottage. Once I convinced Hester to try yoga, she was hooked. I do ma.s.sages"-she gave him a quick grin over her shoulder-"therapeutic. I'm certified. I do a lot of things, because a lot of things interest me."

She plated the omelet with the fresh berries and toast. Set the plate in front of him, added a red linen napkin and flatware. "I have to go, I'm running a little late."

She folded the market bags into an enormous red tote, slipped on a dark purple coat, wound a scarf of striped jewel tones around her neck, yanked on a purple wool cap.

"I'll see you the day after tomorrow, about nine."

"The day after tomorrow?"

"To clean. If you need anything in the meantime, my numbers-cell and home-are on the board right there. Or if you're out for a walk and I'm home, stop by. So ... welcome back, Eli."

She walked to the patio door, turned, smiled. "Eat your breakfast," she ordered, and was gone.

He sat, staring at the door, then looked down at his plate. Because he couldn't think of anything else to do, he picked up his fork and ate.

CHAPTER Two

ELI WANDERED THE HOUSE, HOPING IT MIGHT HELP HIM orient. He hated this feeling of free-floating, just drifting from place to place, thought to thought, without any sense of anchor or root. Once he'd had structure in his life, and purpose. Even after Lindsay's death, when the structure broke to pieces, he'd had purpose.

Fighting against spending the rest of his life in prison equaled a strong, defined purpose.

And now with the threat less immediate, less viable, what purpose did he have? His writing, he reminded himself. He often thought the process and the escape of writing had saved his sanity.

But where was his anchor now? Where was the root? Was it Bluff House? As simple as that?

He'd spent time in this house as a boy, as a young man, so many summers with the beach always tantalizingly close, so many winter holidays or weekends, watching snow heap itself on the sand, on the rocks jutting through it.

Simple times-innocent? Had they been? Sand castles and clambakes with family, with friends, sailing with his grandfather in the pretty sloop he knew his grandmother still kept moored in Whiskey Beach marina, and noisy, crowded, colorful Christmas dinners, with all the fireplaces snapping and sizzling.

He'd never imagined himself wandering through these rooms like a ghost straining for the echoes of those voices or the faded images of better times.

When he stood in his grandmother's bedroom, it struck him that while she'd made changes here-the paint, the bedding-much remained just as always.

The big fabulous four-poster where his own father-due to a blizzard and a rapid labor-had been born. The photograph of his grandparents, so young and vibrant and beautiful on their wedding day more than a half century before still stood, as it always had, in its gleaming silver frame on the bureau. And the view from the windows of the sea, the sand, the jagged curve of the rocky coastline remained constant.

Suddenly he had a vivid, movie-stream memory of a summer night, a wild summer storm. Thunder cras.h.i.+ng, lightning whipping. And he and his sister, who'd been spending the week at Bluff House, running in terror to his grandparents' bed.

What had he been-five, or maybe six? But he could see it all, as if through a clear, crystal lens. The flashes of light outside the windows, the wonderful big bed he had to climb up to. He heard his grandfather-and wasn't it odd to just that moment realize how much his father had come to resemble his grandfather at a similar age?-laughing as he'd hauled the terrified Tricia into the bed.

They're having a wild party up there tonight! It's heaven's rock concert.

Even as the image faded, Eli felt steadier.

He walked to the terrace doors, flipped the lock and stepped out into the wind and cold.

The waves kicked, riled up by the strong, steady wind that tasted of snow. On the tip of the headland, the far end of that curve, the bride-white tower of the lighthouse rose above a tumble of rocks. Far out in the Atlantic, he saw a speck that was a s.h.i.+p plying those restless waters.

Where was it going? What did it carry?

They'd played a game long ago, a variation on A is for Apple. It's going to Armenia, Eli thought, and it's carrying artichokes.

For the first time in too long, as he hunched his shoulders against that ice-pick cold, he smiled.

To Bimini with baboons. To Cairo with coconuts. To Denmark with dental floss, he thought as the speck vanished.

He stood a moment longer before stepping back inside, back into the warm.

He needed to do something. He should go out, get his stuff. Unpack, settle in.

Maybe later.

He walked out again, wandered again, all the way to the third floor that had once served-before his time-as the servants' domain.

Storage now, ghost-draped furniture, chests, boxes, most in the wide s.p.a.ce while the warren of rooms where maids and cooks had slept stood empty. Still, with no purpose in mind, he walked through them to the sea side, and the gable room with its wide, curved windows facing the sea.

The head housekeeper's room, he thought. Or had it been the head butler's? He couldn't remember which, but whoever had slept there claimed prime territory, down to the private entrance and terrace.

No need for all that staff now, or to keep the third floor furnished, maintained, even heated. His practical Gran had closed that off years ago.

Maybe one day whoever was in charge would repurpose it, bring it back, shake off all those ghost cloths and strike up the warmth and light.

But right now it felt as empty and cold as he did.

He went down again, continued to wander.

And found more changes.

In what had been one of the second-floor bedrooms, his grandmother had reimagined, redesigned it into an office/sitting room. A study, he supposed. Complete with a computer station on a gorgeous old desk, a reading chair and what he thought of as an afternoon nap sofa. More of her art-petal pink peonies spilling out of a cobalt vase, mists rising over windswept dunes.

And the view, of course, spread out like a banquet for a hungry soul.

He moved into the room, to the desk, and pulled the sticky note off the monitor.