Torn and reluctant—duty overpowers my curiosity, and I hurry back to the car. Its red hazard lights throb a mild warning to no one. As I pull away, the double guard gates finally make sense. Whoever comes through the outer gate has access to this hidden drive but not to the house. For all the sense of mystery, I’m certain I’ve just discovered the rear entrance for the estate’s help, which grounds like these invariably have. An access road for the gardeners, the arborists, the housekeepers. I decide to ask the next guard if this is the case. It’s a dumb detail, but I’ll feel proud for having deduced it all on my own, just from a disappearing trail of dust and little more.
The young guard from my previous visit is manning the inner gate. He steps out of his small booth and holds out a flat palm, signaling me to stop. As if I would bash through his bright blue steel bar if he weren’t there to warn me. I have my info ready, including my registration, but he doesn’t ask for these. Just asks if I’m okay.
“Uh … yeah,” I say. “I guess.”
The guard frowns at me. “No car troubles?” he asks.
“No.” I shake my head.
“It’s just that—” He rests his forearms on the roof of my car, leans his head down close. “You checked through the outer gate quite some time ago, is all.”
I can smell the coffee on his breath. “Oh, that,” I say, and the plan to ask him about the hidden drive vanishes in a puff of paranoid self-preservation. “I saw a cardinal. Haven’t seen one in ages. So I got out to take a picture.”
He glances toward my bag, which is sitting on the passenger seat. “Get any good shots?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, in case he asks to see. “Never saw it again. Beautiful time of day though. You’re lucky that you get to work in an office like this. You should see the view from my desk.” I laugh. I realize I’m babbling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous.
The guard just smirks. He pats the roof of my car in a way that’s mildly possessive, mildly offensive. Like I’ve said something cute. Like I’m adorable. Like he might pat a waitress on the ass as she passes a booth full of him and his friends.
“Go on in,” he says, stepping away from my car. He tips his cap, the bar lifts up, and I hit the gas before he can ask any more questions, or before my mouth can get me in trouble.
14
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I get to the house. Ness said we would spend the day shelling, so I imagine something extravagant, like a helicopter with its blades slowly spinning, a pilot flipping switches above his head, and word that a private island somewhere is staging for our arrival. Or maybe a large yacht docked behind his estate, a giant crane on its upper deck that scoops sand from the depths and sifts it through complicated onboard troughs to unveil ancient, fragile treasures. Anything other than Ness sitting on the front porch, waiting for me, in a t-shirt and a loud pair of bermuda shorts.
“You’re late,” he says, glancing at his watch as I get out of the car. The bridge of his nose is white with zinc oxide. As he gets off the bench, he dons an oversized hat with a full brim. All he needs is a bulky camera dangling around his neck to complete the tourist outfit. He looks like he belongs in Times Square, gawking at the electric billboards or getting his picture taken with Spider-Man.
“I got a late start,” I tell him. I pop the trunk and grab my two bags, one full of clothes, the other with my snorkel gear, wetsuit, and toiletries. Ness takes both bags from me and leads me into the house.
“First rule of shelling,” he says. “Don’t be late. Every single thing you do with the ocean depends on the tides, depends on the cycle of the moon.” He glances over his shoulder. “It’s a lot like relationships.”
I think he means to amuse me, but I’m startled instead. I nearly launch into my theory about how shelling is exactly like relationships in hundreds of little ways, but Ness’s manic energy has me struggling just to keep up with him. I follow him down a flight of stairs and through a hallway. He has to set one of the bags down to get the door, and then we’re out through the back of the house and on a rear deck, facing the Atlantic.
The sun glints off the sea, a field of jewels on a blue tapestry. Waves chase each other in jagged white lines toward the beach. Two peninsulas of rock jut out into the ocean. One is natural; the other was made to look natural, but it curves out and then runs parallel to the beach to shelter a small bay to the north. An empty dock and a boathouse sit in the bay. The boathouse would be a fine main residence anywhere else. Boardwalks and a labyrinth of stairs lead down to the bay as well as to the beach directly below the house—which is where I descended after dark on my last visit. I try to take it all in, but I have to hurry to keep up with Ness.