Page 13 of The Beachgoers
six
— Then —
10 Years Ago
Saturday, August 26
The Last Day
THE COUPLE WALKS ALONG THE dunes behind the beach. Wild grasses whisper; shrubs of beach roses spill from the sand. You can tell August is in the air. Late August. There’s a change in the early morning sunlight. It’s more pale. The heated pulse of summer has weakened some. So the two people walk leisurely. She’s got a canvas tote looped over her shoulder. His dark hair is wavy in the sea damp.
“How’re you feeling, Lauren?” the guy asks as he plucks a wild beach rose. “Okay?”
“I’m all right.” She walks barefoot down the few granite steps to the sand.
“Did you drive here last night? To your grandparents’ cottage?”
“Yeah, for the weekend. It was pretty late. I really needed the salt air, Neil.”
“I hear you. Cures what ails you.” With that, this Neil tucks the wild rose into her long blonde hair. And it’s obvious then that he won’t leave her side—especially in the way he keeps pace with her. “Have you cancelled anything yet? The reception hall, the flowers. All those wedding commitments.”
“Next week.” Lauren breathes in that salt air. “I’m taking a few quiet days first, just to get my bearings. Figured some walks by the water and a beach day Sunday might help.”
“Definitely. We’ll just lay low, Lauren, and ride things out.”
Lauren nods. “Yeah. So I planned to do all the cancellations after the weekend.”
“That’s good,” Neil says, giving her hand a squeeze. “This’ll get easier then, you know?”
“I hope so,Neil,” she whispers. “I hope so.”
And anyone could believe her, if you were to believe in giving in. Not giving up, but giving in. Because that’s what it looks like this Lauren’s done—given in to something. To some painful thought, or moment, maybe. Oh, shelooksfine, pretty even, in her fitted black tee over a short pleated-denim skirt. Peacock-feather earrings dangle from her ears; strings of tiny beads hang around her neck. But it’s there, that giving in, in her tired smile.
Neil must see it. Because he says nothing and instead loops his fingers through hers as they walk across the beach to the water. Small waves lap easy, splashing in a silver froth onto the sand.
Lauren bends to pick up a chipped conch shell. “This one’s good,” she says.
“What are the shells for?” Neil sits on the sand and loosely cuffs his jeans. “Will you paint them?”
“No,” Lauren tells him while putting the shell in her tote. “They’re to use in my tent later. I arrange shells and stones between my driftwood paintings. On the shelves. I add a few hurricane lanterns, too, to set a beachy mood. It’s all marketing, to sell the driftwood art.”
“What time’s the craft fair?” Neil asks, standing at the water’s edge now.
“All day, in Addison. So I have to get going pretty soon.” She picks up a few smooth beach stones. “After I grab more shells.”
“There’s one.” Neil wades in the shallows and reaches for a white clamshell, its underside swirls of pale cream. “Good?”
Lauren takes it from him and brushes off a few grains of sand. “Perfect,” she says, gently putting it in her tote.
They don’t talk much while walking along the driftline. The beach is nearly empty this early, and they wind around a lone umbrella or two staked at the water’s edge. Empty sand chairs are also set out, reserving families’ beach spots for later in the morning.
“One of those blue-sky days,” Lauren says with a sigh. “It’s gorgeous out.”
“It is,” Neil agrees. “But not as gorgeous as you.”
“Neil!” She swats his arm.
Neil gives her a sidelong glance while they walk. “Made you smile, didn’t I?”
