Page 3 of The Beachgoers
two
— Then —
10 Years Ago, Mid-August
The Return
THE GUY HEFTS A LEATHER messenger bag onto his shoulder. It’s Friday afternoon, and he doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush. He casually crosses the driveway to his pickup truck; twigs snap beneath his shoes. From the looks of him, he’s just about thirty, maybe twenty-nine. You can see in his body language some confidence that comes from having your head on straight. From making the right decisions in the past decade. After tossing that messenger bag in the truck bed, he walks around to the driver’s door.
And stops.
Stops, turns and crosses his arms as he leans against the truck’s closed door. Late-afternoon sunlight wavers in the heat of day. Several moments pass when the man just stands there—a shadow of whiskers on his face; sunglasses hooked on his tee collar; his dark hair, overgrown. The distant sound of waves breaking on a rocky bluff whispers in the air.
But there’s another sound, too. One the man appears to be listening to as he tips his head. The noise grows louder, this low reverberation, the closer it gets to him. Until finally, a Harley-Davidson Softail turns into the driveway and rumbles alongside the gabled beach house, then continues up the driveway leading to the backyard. The driver wears wraparound sunglasses; dog tags hang from a gray chain around his neck; a rolled blue-and-white bandana is knotted around his head. Beneath that bandana, his hair is tousled—as though he’d been cruising the highway for hours.
“Hey. It’s you,” the man leaning against the truck calls out. “Glad you’re back, Neil.”
This Neil, wearing a faded concert tee over cuffed jeans, puts down the kickstand and shuts off the bike. From his dark features, and his posturing, you can tell they’re brothers—Neil the younger of the two. “How you doing, Jason? What’d I miss?”
“What’d youmiss? Where’ve youbeen?” Jason asks, still watching Neil fuss with the motorcycle—adjusting a mirror, swiping road dust from the gas tank.
“Took off for a few days to clear my head. Drove around, got ideas for our flip,” Neil says. “Crashed at a campsite. Stopped at a friend’s place up the road.”
“What about Lauren?” Jason pulls his keys from his cargo shorts pocket.
“What about her?”
“Her wedding to Kyle’s next month. You finally square things away with her?”
“I did, actually,” Neil calls back as he gets off the bike, then hooks his sunglasses on the handlebar.
“Good. I’m glad. Everybody will be better off, in the long run.”
“Not sure about everybody, bro. Me and Lauren are still on.”
“What?”
“Yeah. We’ll talk later?” As he asks, Neil walks around the motorcycle. A helmet is strapped onto the backrest; a duffel, secured to the luggage rack.
“Damn straight, we will.” Jason looks at his watch. “How about we grab a beer tonight?” he suggests. “It’s Friday. Should be some live music at The Pavilion.”
“Not sure, Jay. Been on the road all day. I’m pretty beat.” Neil takes his duffel off the bike and sets it aside. “But listen. I wanted to ask you. What’s the status on our flip? We making good time?”
“Seriously? That’s all you’re saying about your disappearing act?”
“For now it is.”
“I can’t believe you’re still messing around with Lauren, Neil. Come on already. Give it up.”
“No, man.Yougive it up and fill me in on the flip.”
Jason blows out a long breath. “The flip… It’s getting there. Dad’s been pitching in while you were gone. Tearing out kitchen cabinets, shit like that.”
“Excellent. I’ll swing by there with you in an hour or so. See where we stand.”
“No can do. You caught me on my way out.” Jason turns, opens his pickup’s door and settles in the truck. “Got a new gig for Barlow Architecture. Headed over to talk to the homeowners now. You know, for the preliminary consultation.”
“No kidding.” As he says it, Neil’s untying that blue bandana on his head, then knots the scarf through a belt loop on his jeans. “Whereabouts?”
