In the last week of January, the weather turned bitterly cold. The sky gave up all trace of blue and hunkered down as if for battle. Trees shivered along the shoreline, waited for the freezing rain to turn to snow.
Elizabeth made her last trip to town. The two-lane coastal highway curled lazily along the rim of the cliff. To her left lay the mighty Pacific, on the right, a wall of old-growth forest whose trees were among the biggest in the world. Locals claimed that herds of mighty elk lived in those woods, and when you looked into all that black and green darkness, it was easy to believe.
The road took its last hairpin curve, then rolled down to the ocean.
welcome to echo beach, where god answers back, read the sign on her left.
Downtown ran for exactly four blocks. There were no stoplights to slow you down, no sprawling resorts or chain restaurants. The nearest four-star hotel was the Stephanie Inn, miles down the coast.
Old-fashioned streetlamps stood at regular intervals along the cobblestone sidewalks. The storefronts had beautiful leaded windows and arched doorways. Shingles were on every exterior wall, their wooden surfaces aged to the color of ash. The only signs were handwrought, of wood or iron, and they hung discreetly beside the closed doors.
Even the names were different here. The Tee-it-up Sportswear Shop; the Take a Hike Shoe Store; the Hair We Are Beauty Salon. There were countless gift shops and restaurants and ice cream parlors. Brown, leafless vines of sleeping clematis and wisteria climbed along the fence that separated town from the old-fashioned beach promenade.
Elizabeth parked on the street in front of the Beachcomber restaurant (all you can eat on Thursday nights!) and ran her last few errands. She dropped off a box of clothes and paperback novels at the local Helpline House, alerted the post office to her change of address, picked up her airline tickets, and reminded the local sheriff that the house would be empty until renters were found (John Solin had been too busy to schedule a viewing, but Sharon was still hopeful).
Her last stop was the library. She dropped off a box of canned goods for the local food drive, then headed back to her car. She was halfway across the street when the rain stopped.
The clouds parted suddenly; a shaft of pure yellow sunlight spilled over the street. Rainwater glistened on the pavement. The misty fog lifted itself, revealing the ocean.
A breeze fluttered through town, kicking up wet leaves. In it, she smelled the salty tang of the water and the barest hint of beach grass.
She crossed the empty street and came to the promenade. The wide path was paved in pink-colored stone; on either side of it, evergreen boxwood had been trimmed to a perfectly square hedge. Every few feet there was a lovely iron bench. The one beside her had a plaque that read: in memory of esther hayes. Old-fashioned ironwork streetlamps had been carefully placed at regular intervals along the walkway. It was easy to imagine Gatsby and Daisy strolling along this promenade in their white finery while children in oversized bathing suits ran giggling across the sand.
Elizabeth stepped down onto the sand. Seagulls circled over-head, cawing out at her, diving in close every now and then to see if she was a tourist with food to spare.
The beach stretched out in front of her, miles of gray, wind-sculpted sand. Gigantic black rocks rose from the shallow water like leviathan shark fins. Waves tumbled lazily forward, licking playfully along the shore.
She walked along the beach, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her face. In a secluded cove, she sat down on a flat black rock. Behind her, beach grass swayed in the breeze.
Just looking at it soothed her nerves.
She was no one out here; maybe that was the attraction. Not Mrs. Jackson Shore, not Jamie and Stephanie’s mother, not Edward Rhodes’s little girl.
She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. The air smelled of sand and kelp and sea. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, she could breathe.
She hadn’t understood until just now, this very moment, that she’d been breathing badly lately. Holding her breath. Sighing heavily. Tension and unhappiness had stolen this simple gift.
But the clock was ticking. Tomorrow morning, she’d have to board a plane and fly east toward a city that had frightened her in the best of times—and these were far from the best of times in New York.
Once there, she’d have to move into an apartment she hadn’t chosen and sleep beside a husband she’d forgotten how to love.
Her last day in Echo Beach dawned surprisingly bright and clear. The ever-present clouds had scraped clean the sky, left it a tender, hesitant blue.
She woke early—she’d hardly gone to sleep, it seemed, when the alarm rang—took a shower and got ready to go. She called the local taxicab and made arrangements to be picked up in an hour, then dragged her luggage out onto the porch.