Page 5 of The Beachgoers
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— Now —
JASON’S SERIOUSLY OUT OF TIME.
Finished with his lunch on the deck, all he’s got is this: A decade ago, his brother went north to see his old beach friend. Neil gave no explanation. There’s no reasoning Jason can see. Just the two guys hanging out one summer day.
But there’ll be no more ruminating, contemplating or guessing the story behind the mysterious beach binoculars photo.
There’ll be no more connecting the dots between Shane and Neil.
Shit, between the rebel and the ghost.
Because once Jason’s cell phone dings with a reminder, he’s got better things to do. Lord knows, any time spent with Maris is better than, well, than anything else. And in only a few hours, he’s got a date with her. From coffee at a little Italian bakery, then on to Elsa’s Ocean Star Inn grand opening, it could be the night of the summer.
So he returns the old photograph to Neil’s canvas scrapbook, wraps the book with its salty fishing line, collects his lunch wrappings and heads for the slider. He whistles for Maddy to come in, too. After the German shepherd scrambles out from her shady spot beneath the deck table, Jason drops his stuff on the kitchen counter. The clock’s ticking. Vague photographs and forgotten stories will have to wait.
Instead, with Maddy loping ahead of him, Jason grabs his work duffel and rushes upstairs to the guest bedroom. He needs a shower, but first? First he hangs tonight’s outfit on the closet door: heathered-white V-neck tee over very faded jeans. Gray sport jacket over it all. His brown beaded bracelet Maris likes will finish the look.
Oh, and one more thing.
A lot’s riding on his coffee date, so he’s got to look sharp. He walks to the bed and opens his duffel there. He didn’t bring much when he came here to Ted Sullivan’s cottage, but a spare bandana is always in his workbag. After his brother died, Jason actually kept most of his riding bandanas. He lifts a washed-out blue one now, folds it into a narrow square and walks to the closet door. Carefully, he tucks the folded bandana into the gray jacket’s breast pocket, then pulls out enough of the bandana’s blue-and-white-swirled fabric to edge the top.
Stepping back then, Jason eyes the fitted, two-button sport jacket. He gives that pocket a firm pat as he does.
* * *
Elsa’s putting away the lunch dishes Friday afternoon. And she did it, she really did. During lunch with Celia, she turned on her can-do attitude—and it stuck. It’s in her step, in the smile that comes and goes. Yes, if Elsa DeLuca had to name it, she’s actually feeling a little better. It’s taken all these days—since Monday, when she received that certified letter—to get to this positive place. Dragging a dishtowel over the last of the plates, she then sets the dish in the cabinet. Celia came around, too. Like Elsa, she’d been devastated upon learning the contents of that dreaded letter. But Celia—bless her heart—turned cautiously optimistic after hearing Elsa’s plan.
We’ll get through this, Celia promised while crossing the lawn to her gingerbread cottage behind the inn.Together!she’d called out after lunch. Even when she walked a few steps backward and gave a wave, her teary smile was hopeful.
“We will,” Elsa tells herself now as she puts on the gold bangle she’d removed to wash the dishes. “Because wehavea plan.”
Sometimes that’s all you need: a plan. A direction to take. Movement setting you on your way. Lifting her plant mister then, she turns to her garden window. Each little red pail of oregano, basil and sage gets a spritz of water. “We have a plan to save the night,” she murmurs.
And so it begins.
After looking down at her maxi sundress knotted at the hem, Elsa rushes off to her bedroom. Her outfit for tonight’s celebration is hanging on her closet door. It seems right that it be the same outfit she wore last fall. It was a special night then, as everyone sat around her dining room table. Candlelight glimmered throughout the room. Glittered pinecones and tiny white pumpkins were placed among flickering lanterns on her long tabletop. Sitting at the head of the table, Elsa announced to everyone—the whole beach gang gathered there—that her Ocean Star Inn wouldnotbe put up for sale. Instead it would open by this summer.
Now she considers the outfit hanging on her door. The fitted black jumpsuit has a tailored top with a sheer lace neckline and lace sleeves. And… wrinkles! Quickly, she plugs in her handy-dandy steamer and gives a few puffs to the delicate fabric. As she does, her cell phone dings on the dresser. So, steamer in hand, she crosses the room and reads the text from Cliff:Be over soon. Need anything?His words are followed by a heart emoji.
Elsa looks from the phone to her jumpsuit—which she finishes steaming before texting Cliff back. Suddenly the evening seems fast approaching. There’s a shower to be taken, clothes to be donned, food to be prepped, decorations to check, seating to arrange, Cliff’s text message to type.
And another message—a very necessary one—to be delivered to all.
Thatmessage will be presented beneath the late-summer sky. So after texting Cliff back, Elsa heads outside to her garden shed. She lightly hums while grabbing her floral-print kneepad and chalk bucket. Turning to the inn’s walkway, she first glances through the secret path to the beach. She stops, too, right near those dune grasses, and takes a deep breath of that sweet salt air rising from the sea. Her eyes drop closed for a long second. It’s another moment of hope, for sure, before she turns back. Hope that her plan for tonight is the right one.
That plan starts right here at herinn-spiration walkway. Arching ornamental beach grasses whisper around her. Large conch shells dot the edge of the stone path. As she kneels there beneath the afternoon sun, the sound of waves breaking on the beach comes to her. Those easy waves lap, over and over, on the sand. The rhythmic sound has her think of time, and of how it goes on. Every week, every day, every hour. There’s never any stopping it.
Which means the hours leading to tonight are ticking past, too. So Elsa reaches for a fat blue chalk piece from her bucket. Kneeling there, she taps a finger to her chin and considers her words. Then, in grand cursive, her arm sweeps across the stone as she pens herinn-spiration for all on this much-anticipated evening by the sea:
Smile,
and stay awhile.
* * *
With papers, keys and a folder of information for a Hurricane Family Emergency Plan all gripped in one hand, and a cell phone in the other, Cliff walks up the four steel steps to his trailer door. He’d texted Elsa, too, as his keys dangled from his typing hand. Somehow he now manages to insert the right key into the industrial-style door’s lock and get inside his pseudo apartment. And check his cell phone for a return-text while kicking the door shut behind him.
