I slip out of bed, pull on layers of clothing for the cold. The sun is just rising as I reach the beach, but the tide is high. The waves crash against the cliffside where the shore juts into the sea, making the route impassable to Douglas Ingram’s secluded beach.
To avoid wading in ice-cold water, I have to hike back home through the grassy dunes. The terrain looks different here, littered with driftwood. I come across the skeletal remains of a fort built of weathered limbs coughed up by the sea. I’ve been here before, inside this makeshift teepee, with Jacob, only the day was warm, the ocean calm. It was summertime. I wore a sleeveless silk shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I took off the flip-flops, dug my toes into the warm sand to feel the cool, damp underlying layer. Jacob pulled his shirt up over his head. He was utterly appealing. He took me in his arms. Nobody can see us here, he said, kissing my neck, my shoulders. We made love right here, on this deserted beach on a beautiful summer afternoon, when the sun shimmered on the water, the salty smell of the sea wrapped around us. Sand got into our clothes and all over our skin. Every sensation was heightened by the heat, intensified by the recklessness of our lovemaking. I felt daring, exposed, but we were alone.
No, not alone.
Someone was watching us. Nancy had come down the steps from the garden that afternoon. We didn’t notice. She approached in stealth. Maybe she saw Jacob’s shirt draped over the side of the fort, like a flag. I looked up and caught her watching us, a stunned look on her face.
Nancy! I scrambled out from under Jacob, grabbed for my clothes. Jacob laughed and said, Oh, shit. He was not embarrassed. He seemed to take her voyeurism in stride. We were covered in sand, our faces flushed.
Orcas, a whole pod breaching, she said, looking at Jacob. Dozens of them. They’re in the cove in Mystic Bay. Someone said there’s a new baby . . . See you there.
She turned and walked away, as if she had not seen anything.
“Kyra!” someone calls from the top of the steps. I look up at the figure of a burly man. He’s waving at me.
“I’m down here!” I yell, waving back. From this distance, the man looks a lot like Van Phelps. I race back along the beach, away from the fort, and up the steps to greet him.
“I was about to give up,” he says when I reach the garden. He hands me a carton of eggs. He’s in cargo pants, rain boots, and a hooded windbreaker. The familiarity returns—we’ve conversed before, and I remembered what I thought of him, a solid, earthy fix-it man, a fearless diver. He seems uncomplicated. But then, looks can be deceiving.
“Thank you,” I say. “Jacob’s not around?” How long was I walking on the beach? I’ve lost track of time. I can still see Nancy’s face, the surprise in her eyes, and a touch of jealousy.
“He’s not here, and he’s not in the cottage.”
“I don’t know where he went, but I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Would you like to come in?”
“I could use a cup of coffee.” He follows me inside, into the warmth. Jacob has made coffee, as usual. The pot is full, the fire crackling pleasantly in the woodstove. Maybe he drove back into town, or he went for a jog on the beach, heading north.
“How’s Nancy?” I say brightly.
“Same as ever.”
“Meaning she’s well?” I say.
“Meaning she’s Nancy.”
I reach up into the cabinet to bring down two coffee mugs, and when I turn around, Van looms over me.
He steps back. “I was going to reach those for you.” Let me reach that for you, he says in my mind.
“Thanks, I can reach on tiptoe.”
“I see that.” He pours us both coffee, hands me my mug. His gaze shifts to Jacob’s latest to-do list on the counter.
SWEEP DECK, CHECK GUTTERS, WEEDING.
BUY SALT, OLIVE OIL.
“Milk?” I say, opening the fridge. He’s still too close.
“I take my coffee black.” He makes no move to go and sit down.
I put the carton of eggs in the fridge.
He leans back against the countertop, points with the mug to the scar on my forehead. “Does it still hurt? Looks like a pretty bad scar.”
“I don’t feel it anymore. Only its aftereffects.”
“Aftereffects.” He turns the word over on his tongue, as if he’s tasting a bouquet of wine. “What does that mean? You feel phantom pain or something?”
“My vision blurs now and then, dizziness. Gaps in my memory. It’s annoying.”
“It would annoy the hell out of me, not remembering.”
“Funny, though, certain things are coming back to me. Something about you.”
His brows rise. “What about me? You remember coming to the boat?”
I nearly drop my mug. My knees go weak. “We’ve been on your boat?”
“You weren’t with Jacob.” His eyes darken, creases forming on his forehead.
“I went alone. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Jacob told me not to tell.”
“He knows. Why would he want you to keep information from me?”
“He said not to bring up the past with you, to let you figure it out on your own.”