A laugh burst through Nell’s lips. “Maybe I should have a drink, too. Naked as a jaybird?”
“Right, couldn’t be,” said Tim. “A person without any clothes would freeze to death on such a night. Hypothermia in ten minutes flat. So it simply couldn’t be a man.”
From the bar, Fred grunted his agreement as he ladled ice into a glass.
“And there’s the way that it moved. No sooner did I see it, but it just skittered up the rocks like a kite that’s snapped its string, and then the wind grabs ahold and pushes it so hard that it vanishes in an instant.”
Fred handed Nell a small cocktail. “Happened to me once. Nicky and I go fishing out at the Long Pier, and just as we climb onto the boards, a breeze snatches my Red Sox cap clean off my head, and it cartwheels the whole length till it ends up cattywampus in the ocean. My hat, not my head. My favorite one.”
“Honestly, Fred. You’re comparing some ratty baseball cap to a naked man in the middle of the road on the coldest night of the year—”
“He just said it couldn’t have been a man. Not to be blown about like that. I was making a simple comparison.”
“And I’m just pointing out the flaws in your analogy.”
“Not an analogy. Just an observation. A comment on the power of the wind.”
“You’re being a bit windy yourself,” said Nell. “Let the poor soul finish his story.”
Tim downed another slug of Scotch and set the empty glass on the table. “That’s the long and short of it, I’m afraid. I got out of the car to take a look, but the thing was gone. And Nick didn’t see it at all. You may want to check up on him. He caught his collarbone on the seat belt when I hit the brakes. For the life of me, I can’t imagine what else it might have been.”
“A dog,” said Fred. “A big hairy white dog. Or a coyote.”
Nell sneered at the proposition.
“What, I saw a coyote round here just last summer coming down a cul-de-sac. Could have been a wild animal. A deer.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Nell said. “You really don’t listen, do you? He said it was white as a sheet.”
“An old beach towel. A blanket. One of those beach umbrellas caught in the wind.”
Nell smiled to herself. “I still think it was a naked man.”
“You’re always imagining naked men,” Fred said.
Nobody could think of a proper retort, so they all waited for a change of subject. Ice cubes rattled in empty glasses.
“How is Holly?” Nell offered at last. “And your boy?”
“Ah, Jip … Nick and I were talking on the way over, and perhaps we can invite some of his school friends to the house while we have the two of them over Christmas break.”
Some signal passed between the Wellers, a sideways glance that the couple had imbued with shared meaning over the years. They offered no reaction to his suggestion, and he began to regret having raised the possibility.
“I think we might have discovered a hidden talent. He’s taken up drawing.”
The notion sparked her interest. “You ought to get him one of those artist’s kits for Christmas.”
“Does he take commissions? Perhaps my wife would model for you.”
“Honestly, Fred.” She swiveled to put her back to him. “You know, Tim, one of those sets of colored pencils and some fancy paper and maybe some simple paint. Watercolors. Courage the boy.” She laughed at her tipsy slip of the tongue.
Yes, he thought as he rose to make his good-byes. Young artist. Self-expression and all that. What boy, even his own, could not use a proper bit of encouragement?
He was not used to drinking, never more than one beer unless he was out with the neighbors or the vacation home owners, and then only to be sociable. The Scotch grumbled in his stomach, and his head felt heavy as Fred and Nell wished him good night. In the driver’s seat, he took a few deep breaths to stave off the light dizziness. She never changed, desirable as ever. His lips buzzed numbly, so he kissed the air a few times, pretending it was Nell, before driving away.
Ordinarily he loved the deserted shore on a winter’s night, enveloped in solitude for a few moments out of his crowded life. But tonight he could not rid his mind of the image by the roadside. Rounding Mercy Point, he slowed, filled with dread and hope of another sighting. When it did not appear, he pulled off at the spot of his earlier encounter with that strange hallucination. He shut the engine but left the headlights on and slid out of the Jeep. Starry, starry night, and the bitter air filled his lungs. No sign of the thing, not so much as a footprint in the sand. Tim climbed the rocks toward the lighthouse, blinded momentarily by its intense glare, and stopped only when he was high enough to see the whitecaps on the black tide, phosphorescent in the distance, line upon line rolling in.