Whiskey Beach Part 4

Hester says:

Write here, and why aren't you already?

Relayed by Abra.

He frowned at the note a moment, not sure he appreciated his grandmother's using her neighbor to relay her orders. Then, the note still in his hand, he looked around the room, the windows, even into the little bathroom, the closet that now held office supplies as well as linens, blankets and pillows. Which meant, he concluded, the sofa was a pullout.

Practical again. The house held a dozen bedrooms or more-he couldn't remember-but why waste s.p.a.ce when you could multipurpose?

He shook his head at the gla.s.s-fronted mini-fridge stocked with bottled water and his own guilty favorite since college, Mountain Dew.

Write here.

It was a good s.p.a.ce, he thought, and the idea of writing held a lot more appeal than unpacking.

"Okay," he said. "All right."

He went to his room, retrieved his laptop case. He slid the keyboard and monitor to the far left, gave himself room for his own tool. And since it was there, what the h.e.l.l, got a cold bottle of the Dew. He booted up, plugged in his thumb drive.

"Okay," he said again. "Where were we?"

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 s.h.i.+fting 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 a.s.sociates.

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 bl.u.s.ter 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 gla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s.

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 sh.o.r.e like battering rams, full of force and fury. Battle cry after battle cry echoed in their unrelenting advance and retreat. Against the s.h.i.+fting sand rose the juts and jumble of rock it attacked, regrouped, attacked again in a war neither side would ever win.