Page 44 of Stony Point Summer
Reaching for his wallet on the dresser top as Celia leans close to the mirror and dabs gloss on her lips, then straightens her thin silver necklace.
This light on, that light off.
Her fingers brushing down his tattooed arm; his fingers stroking a strand of her soft hair.
A few easy words in the old cottage. Easy laughs now.
Easy touches.
A cool glass of water, a glance out at Long Island Sound before they’re trotting down the seven painted porch steps and climbing into Shane’s pickup.
* * *
Minutes later, they’re driving the beach roads. The truck windows are open. A salty breeze blows through the cab. Cottages are illuminated; windows glow with lamplight; tall iced drinks clink in glasses on lantern-lit front porches. Couples take lazy nighttime walks to the beach. Voices rise in casual conversation.
And so it goes. Some physical tension between them is long gone, replaced with unstoppable touches in the truck. A hand-squeeze; a finger brushing across a cheek; a leg stroke.
“What about Nick?” Celia asks as they approach the train trestle.
Shane glances at her. And touches her hair again. “What about him?”
“He’ll see us, if he’s at the guard shack now.” She gives a small smile. “Our secret will be out, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“No worries. Nick had beach patrol today. New fellow’s stationed at the trestle.”
Moments later, and with relief, they wave to that new guard before driving beneath the train trestle and heading to The Sand Bar.
“Take the long way?” Celia asks as he turns onto Shore Road.
“My pleasure.”
Leaving the stone trestle behind, they pass bait shacks closed for the night, and folks standing outside ice-cream shop take-out windows, and shadowy marshes where dune grasses whisper. His and Celia’s voices talk softly in the truck. A breeze blows in, too, September warm.
After this long day that began with uncertainty hours ago, Shane’s looking forward to not only an ice-cold brew, but even more so, to a drink with the good company beside him.
sixteen
— Then —
15 Years Ago, August
The Gathering
THE PHONE RINGS RIGHT AS he sets his duffel and newsboy cap on the counter. On the second ring, the guy waves it off. Walks right past that phone, sits himself down on his sofa, leans back and tosses an arm across his eyes.
Still, the phone rings.
Still, the man doesn’t move. He looks exhausted. His jeans are loose, with the pant legs tucked into tall rubber boots. His sleeveless tee is untucked. A fresh tattoo shows on his forearm. His face hasn’t seen a razor in days.
Finally, the phone goes quiet. But only for a minute. Again, the ringing starts up.
First, he glares at it from the couch. Then the guy pushes himself up, grabs the phone and sits at his kitchen table.
“All right, already. Hello,” he says, rubbing his temples as he does.
“Shane?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?” Shane asks.
