Page 37 of Stony Point Summer
“Basta!” Elsa calls over from her chair by the open rear doors. “Take it easy already.”
“Trying to,” Cliff says as he rushes to a kitchenette cabinet next. There, he grabs a bag from the cabinet and hurries back to his duffel. Which he unzips once more.
“What are you packing now?” Elsa calls again from her door-side seat. “You’re staying for one night!”
Cliff looks back over his shoulder, then moves so she can’t see the bag of marshmallows he’s tucking in a duffel pocket. “Just a little surprise.”
After setting his packed duffel near the trailer’s front door, Cliff sits again at his faux-patio. Elsa sits beside him. She’s kicked off her sandals, so she’s relaxing now.
“If we leave soon,” Cliff says, “I can help you prep for tomorrow. Get that inn shining for its grand opening.”
“Oh, that’d be great. Maybe you can sweep off the deck.” She pauses, sipping the last of her wine. “Hang paper lanterns while I do the vacuuming.”
“Whatever you need, Elsa.”
Then, nothing. So Cliff just looks out his trailer’spatiodoor to the night. The air’s only slightly cooler than it’s been. Crickets chirp. There’s no sound of breaking waves from his lodgings here—situated on the furthest block from the beach, near the trestle. There’s only quiet … and scratching.
Which is Cliff’s cue.
So he abruptly stands, takes Elsa’s wineglass to the kitchenette sink and rinses both their glasses. And clatters them. And opens and closes the small cabinet where he puts them away. He makes any noise he can to drown out Pip’sclosetnoises, just until he can grab his duffel and hurry Elsa outside, down the metal steps to his car.
“Oh, wait right there,” he tells her once she’s in the passenger seat. “Forgot something.”
And it’s true. He did. After dropping his duffel in the car’s trunk, he quickly runs back up those metal steps to the trailer.
“Do you need help with anything?” Elsa calls out her still-open car door.
“No. Just be a sec.” Cliff unlocks the trailer door and heads straight for that troublesome closet. As soon as he turns the knob, a furry white head presses its way out.
“Okay, you rascally feline.” Cliff leaves the closet door wide open as he heads to the sink to freshen the water bowl. The cat follows him, and weaves itself around his legs when he then adds dry kibble to its food dish. “You’ve got the run of the house tonight, Pip,” Cliff loudly whispers before stepping outside and locking up the trailer.
“What did you forget?” Elsa asks when he gets in the driver’s seat.
“What?”
“You said you forgot something. Inside.”
“Oh, it was nothing.” Cliff puts the car in reverse and spins the tires on the gravel driveway as he pulls out onto the beach road. “Just checked the back door lock,” he lies with a glance at the trailer in his rearview mirror.
* * *
“You made me put on my leg again for that?” Jason asks as he leaves the beach and walks onto Ted’s deck. Maddy is standing outside the locked slider door. She’s got a stick of driftwood clamped in her jaw and her tail is wagging as she waits to get inside. “Seriously?” Jason opens the door and lets her—stick and all—into the kitchen. “You found thatonestick and ran straight back here?”
He walks into the kitchen behind the German shepherd and drops his keys on the countertop. It’s getting late; he’s hot and tired. The dog is, too. She’s lying on the floor at the slider screen. The driftwood is clamped between her front paws as she gnaws at the twisted, weathered stick. “What about all those nice toys I bought for you?” he asks as he dims the recessed lights and walks out of the kitchen.
Finally, the day’s done.
Finally, Jason’s pulling off the navy polo shirt that’s been on for too long now. His dog-tag chain gets a little caught up in the fabric, so he untangles it all and tosses the limp shirt on a club chair. Even getting that shirt off helps. Cools him down. His father’s Vietnam War dog tags stick to his sweaty chest. His hair is a mess.
But everything about the quiet now, and the salt air drifting into the cottage, gets him to unkink. To relax his muscles. To scratch at his bare chest, at his shoulder and onto his back. When his hand feels the road-burn scars there, he blows out a breath and glances around the room. The coffee table is covered with his tablet, and a calculator, and sketches for his shotgun cottage project at White Sands. He brushes through the drawings, picks one up, sets it down in the hushed room. The quiet gives him space to think, even though he’s exhausted. But exhausted in a good way. In a way only Maris can bring out in him.
When his quiet’s interrupted by the sound of that driftwood stick being pawed at on the kitchen floor, Jason gives a quick whistle for the dog. Within seconds, she bounds into the living room and playfully jumps up and paws athimnow.
“Whoa, girl.” He takes the weight of the leaping dog in his open hands, all while stepping back and nearly losing his balance. But he can’t help laughing, and bends to brusquely clap the dog’s shoulders, her flanks, as she paces beside him then. “It was a good night, Maddy,” he tells her. “A really good night.” Stepping back, Jason slaps his chest. “Come on,” he urges the waiting dog, who jumps up so that she’s standing on her two rear legs, with her front paws pressed on his waist. He holds them there, telling her, “Maris misses you, though.” Giving the dog some much-needed attention, he pulls at her alert ears before setting her front paws back on the floor. “Maybe you’ll see her soon.”
Bending, Jason continues to straighten his things on the coffee table. The dog is panting at his feet, turning this way, that way, brushing against him. Once the table’s neatened, Jason eyes that gray sofa of Ted’s—and can’t resist. He drops right onto it. In one fell swoop, he also raises his legs onto the coffee table so that he’s practically reclining.
Finally,finally, he relaxes with a long sigh.
