How, for that matter, could he tell himself?
Once the rumbling of the street sweeper had faded away, he went back to the bathroom door and wound up spending the next half hour trying to assuage her shocked sensibilities. Eleanor was so appalled at the shortness—and sheerness—of the dress that she would not come out at all until he had sworn—repeatedly—that these were the latest fashions and that everyone dressed that way. “A lot of the time, they wear even less,” he said, wondering what she would make of the first bikini-clad rollerblader they passed. When she finally relented, and stepped, blushing madly, into the room, she took his breath away.
Even that early, Ocean Drive was busy with traffic, and Eleanor shied away from the buses as if they were fire-breathing dragons. The cars, the clamor, the traffic lights, Eleanor clung to his arm as if it were a life preserver. But whatever warmth she had absorbed from the bath was fast receding; her hand, he noted, was cool.
At Point Adélie, she had confessed the thing she most longed for was the hot sun on her face, and he was eager to show her the sunrise over the ocean. They had just stopped at a crosswalk when a vendor pushing a cart of Italian ices pulled up alongside them, almost the only pedestrians out at that hour, and gave them a hopeful glance. He might as well have been selling dynamite, and as Michael instinctively dragged Eleanor away, the vendor looked at him like he was crazy. But Michael knew the rules, and knew, too, that he was never going to be able to let down his guard. He would always have to be vigilant, and until the time came when the rest of the secret had to be divulged to her, he would also have to be secretive. But why burden her—at that rare moment when she might begin to experience happiness again—with something that he could carry alone?
As they crossed the street and then the scrubby dunes, the sky seemed to fade from an inky purple to a rosy glow. Michael led her past the towering palms, swaying in the sea breeze, and down to the surf. As the sun rose on the horizon, they sat down on the white sand and simply watched. Watched as it climbed up into the sky, turning the ocean into a silver mirror, burnishing the clouds with a ruby hue. Eleanor’s green eyes glistened in the morning light, and as a gray-and-white osprey swooped low over the water, she followed its path. It was then that he noticed her rueful smile.
“What is it?” he said.
“I was just thinking of something,” she said, her long brown hair, still damp from the bath, blowing loose over her shoulders. “A music hall ditty, from another time.”
“How did it go?” He felt her fingers slip through his; exposed to the morning sun, they were perceptibly warmer. The osprey darted between the rolling waves.
“‘And oh won’t there be, by the side of the sea,’” she liltingly recited, “‘coconut palms as tall as St. Paul’s, and sand as white as Dover.’”
Her gaze swept across the bright horizon, the broad white beach, and Michael saw something like joy kindled in her eyes. “And so,” she said, still clutching his hand, “there are.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROBERT MASELLO is an award-winning journalist, a television writer, and the author of many other books, most recently the supernatural thrillers Vigil (which appeared on the USA Today bestseller list) and Bestiary. His articles and essays have appeared often in such publications as the Los Angeles Times, New York, People, and Parade, and his nonfiction book, Robert’s Rules of Writing, has become a staple in many college classrooms. His produced television credits include such popular shows as Charmed, Sliders, and Early Edition. A long-standing member of the Writers Guild of America, he lives in Santa Monica, California, and may be reached at www.robertmasello.com.