Clate wasn't so sure.
He'd also learned that Piper Macintosh had eclectic tastes in music and books, had done much of the work on her house herself, was a die-hard Red Sox and Bruins fan, didn't like basketball, and had a keen appreciation for the fragility of the environment in which she lived. She also worked hard, teaching, consulting, crafting. Her idea of a vacation was a long weekend skiing in Vermont. During the summer, she found no reason to leave Cape Cod, except for the occasional trip to Fenway Park.
She had never ventured south of the Mason-Dixon Line. She failed to convince him that her three trips to Florida, one to Disney with her nephews, counted.
He found himself wondering about her dreams. He sensed in her a desire for adventure and excitement, for challenge. Maybe it was projection. He would find her day-to-day routines stifling after a while. When he tried to push her on her future goals, on what she wanted from her work, her life, she frowned at him and declared, "I have no desire to be Martha Stewart. I'm happy with my life the way it is."
She left her bottle of goo just inside the back door, and they headed across her yard. The air was still and warm, and shorebirds swooped and wheeled, hunting food at dusk. They took the path through the marsh, walking in silence, until Piper grabbed his wrist, stopping him short. She leaned toward him as she pointed out over a stand of dwarf red oak, whispering, "There—a roseate tern."
He would have to learn his Cape Cod birds. He noted a streaking bird and assumed he'd seen his first roseate tern.
"They're endangered," she said.
They continued down to the strip of narrow, isolated beach, unsuitable for beachgoers because of the encroaching marsh, the tufts of beach grass, the wildlife that didn't distinguish the boundaries of their nearby refuge. Ducks, gulls, terns, songbirds, deer, fox, all used the area. Piper moved with the casual assurance of a woman who'd lived her entire life amidst dunes, marshes, tide pools, and the pounding surf. She'd tossed a deep red cotton twill shirt on over her T-shirt and shorts, trim legs moving gracefully, feet digging into the shifting sand.
She walked out onto the hard, damp, packed sand where the tide hadn't come back in and kicked off her sandals, scooping them up and hooking them on one finger as she let the water seep over the tops of her feet. She yelped, laughing. "It's so cold!"
Clate eased in behind her. "Then get out."
"Oh, I'll get used to it." She plunged in up to her knees, shuddered at the cold, and ran back out again. She gave him an evil grin. "It feels good. Really. You should try it."
"I might in a bit."
A huge swell caught her by surprise, nearly knocking her off her feet. Water swirled up to the hem of her shorts. She gave a soft moan and a shiver that derived more from pleasure than pain. A sharp, hot jolt of awareness nearly had him tumbling into the water with her. He shifted his stance, but it did no good. His throat ached, his breathing was ragged, and an arrow of fire shot straight through his loins.
Piper took no notice. "Take your shoes off and get yourself anointed as a real Cape Codder."
"Now why would I want to do that?"
"Chicken?"
She had the devil in her eye, did Piper Macintosh. She'd lived a life surrounded by people who'd loved and protected her, hadn't had to face the kind of deprivation and hardship he had as a child. Physical and emotional neglect, the helplessness and unspeakable pain of watching two young, vibrant people he loved slowly destroy themselves. An old woman had saved him, had helped him learn from his parents' mistakes or not, shown him that he had choices. But in the process, he'd come to believe that warm, nurturing families were a myth. He expected a dark side to Piper's relationship to her family and community. She wouldn't even think to look for one.
Her teeth were chattering, her lips purple, but she splashed out to catch the next wave. She hooted and hollered and whooped, as if there were no ancient box of letters waiting to be read, as if townspeople weren't worried her beloved aunt was a nut, as if she'd never received a single nasty phone call. She'd played him the message left on her machine. There was no mistaking its intent to unsettle, unnerve, make her feel exposed and vulnerable in her own home.
This was her answer, he thought.
She was out deep enough that the next powerful swell soaked her up to the waist, and the thought of the cold salt water coursing over her hips and thighs, swirling between her legs, was almost more than Clate could stand.
"You're missing a real treat," she called, teasing him, no idea how he was twisting her words to suit his tortured state. Her twill shirt had slipped off her shoulders and was halfway down her upper arms, its hem skimming the water. The cold had her nipples pebbled against the fabric of her T-shirt. "There's nothing like a nice, cold dip in the bay after a long day."