Whiskey Beach Part 5

Above the battle that bulging sky waited, watched, as if calculating when to unleash its own weapons.

So Eli stood, struck by the terrible power and beauty. The sheer magnificence of energy.

Then, while the war raged, he began to walk.

He saw not another soul along the long beach, heard only the sound of the bitter wind and angry surf. Above the dunes the homes and cottages stood with windows shut tight against the cold. No one moved up or down the beach steps or stood on bluff or cliff as far as he could see. No one looked out to sea from the pier where the turbulent surf hammered mercilessly at the pilings.

For now, for this moment, he was alone as Crusoe. But not lonely.

Impossible to be lonely here, he realized, surrounded by all this power and energy. He'd remember this, he promised himself, remember this feeling the next time he tried to make excuses, the next time he tried to justify just closing himself in.

He loved the beach, and this stretch remained a sentimental favorite. He loved the feel of it before a storm-winter, summer, spring, it didn't matter. And the life of it during the season when people dived into the waves or stretched out on towels, or settled onto beach chairs under umbrellas. The way it looked at sunrise, or felt in the soft kiss of summer twilight.

Why had he robbed himself of this for so long? He couldn't blame circ.u.mstances, couldn't blame Lindsay. He could, and should, have come-for his grandmother, for himself. But he'd chosen what had seemed the easier way than explaining why his wife hadn't come, making excuses for her, for himself. Or arguing with Lindsay when she'd pushed for Cape Cod or Martha's Vineyard-or an extended vacation on the Cote d'Azur.

But the easier way hadn't made it easier, and he'd lost something important to him.

If he didn't take it back now, he'd have no one to blame but himself. So he walked, all the way to the pier, and remembered the girl he'd had a serious, sizzling summer flirtation with just before he'd started college. Fis.h.i.+ng with his father-something neither of them had even a remote skill for. And further back to childhood and digging in the sand at low tide for pirate treasure with fleeting summer friends.

Esmeralda's Dowry, he thought. The old and still vital legend of the treasure stolen by pirates in a fierce battle at sea, then lost again when the pirate s.h.i.+p, the infamous Calypso, wrecked on the rocks of Whiskey Beach, all but at the feet of Bluff House.

He'd heard every variation of that legend over the years, and as a child had hunted with his friends. They'd be the ones to dig up the treasure, become modern-day pirates with its pieces of eight and jewels and silver.

And like everyone else, they'd found nothing but clams, sand crabs and sh.e.l.ls. But they'd enjoyed the adventures during those long-ago, sun-washed summers.

Whiskey Beach had been good to him, good for him. Standing here with those wicked combers spewing their foam and spray, he believed it would be good for him again.

He'd walked farther than he'd intended, and stayed longer, but now as he started back he thought of the whiskey by the fire as a pleasure, a kind of reward rather than an escape or an excuse for a brood.

He should probably make something to eat as he hadn't given a thought to lunch. He hadn't, he realized, eaten anything since breakfast. Which meant he'd reneged on another promise to himself to regain the weight he'd lost, to start working on a healthier lifestyle.

So he'd make a decent meal for dinner, and get started on that healthier lifestyle. There had to be something he could put together. The neighbor had stocked the kitchen, so ...

As he thought of her, he glanced up and saw Laughing Gull nestled with its neighbors beyond the dunes. The bold summer-sky blue of its clapboard stood out among the pastels and creamy whites. He remembered it as a soft gray at one time. But the quirky shape of the place with its single peaked roof gable, its wide roof deck and the gla.s.s hump of a solarium made it unmistakable.

He saw lights twinkling behind that gla.s.s to stave off the gloom.

He'd go up and pay her now, he decided, with cash. Then he could stop thinking about it. He'd walk home from there, renewing his memory of the other houses, who lived there-or who had.

Part of his brain calculated that now he'd have something cheerful-and true-to report home. Went for a walk on the beach (describe), stopped by to see Abra Walsh on the way home. Blah, blah, new paint on Laughing Gull looks good.

See, not isolating myself, concerned family. Getting out, making contacts. Situation normal.

Amused at himself, he composed the e-mail as he climbed. He turned down a smooth cobble path between a short yard laid out with shrubs and statuary-a fanciful mermaid curled on her tail, a frog strumming a banjo, and a little stone bench on legs of winged fairies. He was so struck by the new-to him-landscaping and how perfectly it suited the individuality of the cottage, he didn't notice the movement behind the solarium until he had a foot on the door stoop.

Several women on yoga mats rose up-with varying degrees of fluidity and skill, to the inverted V position he identified as the Downward-Facing Dog.

Most of them wore the yoga gear-colorful tops, slim pants-he'd often seen in the gym. When he'd belonged to a gym. Some opted for sweats, others for shorts.

All of them, with some wobbles, brought one foot forward into a lunge, then rose up-with a couple of teeters-front leg bent, back leg straight, arms spread front and back.

Mildly embarra.s.sed, he started to step back, to back away, when he realized the group was following Abra's lead.

She held her position, her ma.s.s of hair pulled back in a tail. The deep purple top showed off long, sculpted arms; the stone-gray pants clung to narrow hips, slid down long legs to long, narrow feet with toenails painted the same purple as the top.

It fascinated him, tugged at him as she-then the others-bowed back, front arm curved over her head, torso turning, head lifting.

Then she straightened her front leg, c.o.c.ked forward, leaning down, down until her hand rested on the floor by her front foot, and her other arm reached for the ceiling. Again her torso turned. Before he could step back, her head turned as well. As her gaze swept up, her eyes met his.

She smiled. As if he'd been expected, as if he hadn't been-inadvertently-playing Peeping Tom.

He stepped back now, making a gesture he hoped communicated apology, but she was already straightening up. He saw her motion to one of the women as she wove through the mats and bodies.

What should he do now?

The front door opened, and she smiled at him again. "Eli, hi."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize ... until I did."

"G.o.d, it's freezing! Come on inside."

"No, you're busy. I was just walking, then I-"

"Well, walk in here before I freeze to death." She stepped out on those long bare feet, took his hand.

"Your hand's like ice." She gave it a tug, insistent. "I don't want the cold air to chill the cla.s.s."

Left without a choice, he stepped in so she could close the door. New Agey music murmured like water in a stream from the solarium. He could see the woman at the rear of the cla.s.s come back up to that lunging position.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm interrupting."

"It's all right. Maureen can guide them through. We're nearly finished. Why don't you go on back to the kitchen? Have a gla.s.s of wine while I finish up?"

"No. No, thanks." He wished, almost desperately, he hadn't taken the impulsive detour. "I just- I was out for a walk, and I just stopped by on the way back because I realized I didn't pay you for the groceries."

"Hester took care of it."

"Oh. I should've figured that. I'll talk to her."

The framed pencil sketch in the entry distracted him for a moment. He recognized his grandmother's work even without the H. H. Landon in the bottom corner.

He recognized Abra as well, standing slim and straight as a lance in Tree position, her arms overhead, and her face caught on a laugh.

"Hester gave it to me last year," Abra said.

"What?"

"The sketch. I talked her into coming to cla.s.s to sketch-a gateway to persuading her to practice. So she gave this to me as a thank-you after she fell in love with yoga."