Page 52 of Stony Point Summer
Watching Celia, Shane gets the sense she isn’t really talking about the inn anymore. There’s so much else in her tone. Some grief. Aria. Living at Stony Point. Her life. Her loss.
“So tomorrow? Well … it’s even better with you here.” This Celia says while patting the little pink hippo peeking out of her leather satchel.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Shane takes her purse and sets it on a small table on the porch. He loops his hands around her waist, then.
“Thank you for tonight,” Celia tells him, drawing her fingers along his jaw, his neck. “It was thebestsurprise.”
“Likewise, Celia.” Shane pulls her closer on the porch and kisses her once more. He feels the smile form on her lips, too, making it damn hard to leave. Brushing her hair back, he presses another kiss on the side of her head. “I’ll cut through Elsa’s secret path and cross the beach to get back to my place.”
“Okay.Goodnight,” Celia softly says before retrieving her bag and turning the key in her cottage door.
* * *
Once she’s inside, Shane walks across the inn’s expansive yard. A few dim lights shine in some windows. He turns past a porch, around the side to the rear. On the way, he notices paper lanterns strung around the deck. But the familiar Foley’s back room is dark tonight. It’s all in shadow. He’s sure some ghosts would stir, though, if he were to walk into that silent room. Some movement would have him turn in the glow of the jukebox. There’d be some sound that he’d tip his head to hear. He has so many old beach memories there.
But it’s funny how maybe, just maybe, he’s liking his new memories better.
Around back, more solar garden lights shine on the landscaping edging Elsa’s yard, so he has no problem finding the secret path to the beach. The dune grasses whisper as he walks through. Where the path empties onto the sand, waves gently lap at shore in the hazy moonlight.
But something catches his eye. As Shane steps onto the dark beach, he notices a campfire down a ways. Red and yellow flames flicker; sparks float skyward. The scent of its smoke fills the air. Totally illegal—and totally something he’d done, years ago. He squints into the shadows, but can’t make out who’s sitting around the fire. Kids, he’s sure, partying on the beach before summer’s over. So he gives a salute in that direction, turns and walks the other way across the beach, toward the footpath, and his little rented bungalow beyond.
* * *
On the beach, large stones circle the campfire. Its flickering flames are perfect—not too high, not too small. The fire burns right in front of a washed-up tree log facing the night water. The moon and stars are cooperating, too, casting just the right silver light on the sea.
“Howeverdid you arrange this?” Elsa asks as she steps over the washed-up log and sits on it.
“I had some help.” Cliff sits beside her and pulls his bag of marshmallows from a small tote he’d brought along. “I know the right people, don’t forget. Beach commissionersdohave connections,” he says, passing her a fresh marshmallow. “It was Nick,” he admits then.
Elsa, he’s sure, would saysomething, except she can’t. Not with the way her eyes drop closed as she pops the untoasted marshmallow in her mouth. Well, she does manage one word, if you’d callMmma word.
Cliff simply shrugs, then takes another marshmallow and puts it on the end of a long dried-out stick—which he also hands to Elsa. Spearing one himself then, he props his elbows on his knees and holds his marshmallow over the crackling flames. In a moment, Elsa leans into him and does the same. She rests her head on his shoulder and tells him how nice this all is, too.
“Just what I needed,” she says with a long sigh. “Though you’re breaking every ordinance in the book, Commissioner.”
He tosses a wink her way. “You’re worth breaking a rule or two for, Mrs. DeLuca.”
Minutes later, when their marshmallows are perfectly toasted, they go at it. Those first ones are sublime—light brown on the outside, a bit charred at the edges, and barely melted inside.
“The finest beach delicacy,” Cliff says as he bites into his.
Elsa nods. Bending forward, she eats her marshmallow straight off the stick. She nibbles one toasted side, then pulls the whole thing off and presses the rest of the gooey mess into her mouth—plucking her coated fingers out afterward.
For the next half hour, they keep going—digging into that marshmallow bag. They talk placement on the toasting stick, and how position over the flames affects the final outcome. Some sagging, melting marshmallows drop onto the sand. Cliff wipes a spot of marshmallow off Elsa’s chin. She offers him a totally burnt one that had caught on fire.
After a while, Elsa leans into his shoulder again. The waves lap just beyond their campfire. The moon shines hazy on the calm water. A distant lighthouse beam sweeps across the Sound.
“Thank you for dinner tonight, Cliff,” Elsa says, not moving.
Cliff sets down his marshmallow stick. When he feels her fingers lace through his, he turns to kiss the top of her head.
“Actually, I thank you for everything you’ve done for me this past year,” Elsa quietly tells him. “Our trailer dinners. Sunrise dates. Kite-flying afternoons. Even shopping at the dollar store together. There were some days … well, I couldn’t have gotten through them without you.” She puts a hand against his jaw, leans in and kisses him there in the moonlight.
Cliff loops his arm around her shoulders and holds her close. He kisses her again, and brushes his fingers across her cheek. “Cold?” he asks.
“Little bit.”
“Do you want to leave?”
