Page 77 of The Beachgoers
“No, it’s not. I’ve got many months ahead of me with no work now.And… Elsa also swore me to secrecy about the vow renewal. So I couldn’t let on to you earlier, for her sake. And for Kyle and Lauren.”
“And what a night you pulled off,” Shane says as he paddles past the channel leading into the boat basin. “Limoncello out of lemons, seriously.”
“It was perfect, wasn’t it? Seeing Kyle and Lauren recommit the way they did? Beneath the stars?”
“Heck of a ceremony. But seriously? I couldn’t take my eyes off ofyou.”
Celia just shakes her head, but squints into the night then, too. “Shane, wait.” She twists around in her seat and looks at the passing channel diminishing with each pull on the oars. “The boat basin,” she says, looking from the channel to him. “It’s back thataway.”
Shane takes a long breath and lifts the oars from the water. They drip as he holds them aloft and lets the rowboat drift on Long Island Sound. “And my cottage? It’sthataway,” he says with a nod in the other direction. “Your call, Celia.”
* * *
After rounding the stony point, Shane keeps paddling. It’s a dark night, but he knows what to look for as he rows along the coastline—his neighbor’s solar landscape lights lining a low rock wall. Shane’s little bungalow is right next door. He gets the rowboat as close to shore as possible before dropping anchor and shutting off the twinkle lights.
“How will we get out?” Celia asks as the dark water keeps the boat slightly shifting.
Shane leans forward on his bench seat and cuffs his black jeans. Keeping his balance, he climbs over the edge of the boat and stands in the shallow water. It laps at his legs and wets the bottom of his jeans, too.
Celia starts to stand, but quickly sits and grips the rocking boat’s side. “Now what?” she asks.
Shane motions her to the edge of the boat. “Come on.” He extends both arms toward her. “I’ll carry you.”
“Really? You mean it?”
“Let’s go, sailor.”
So she does. Sitting on the bench, she swings her legs over the side of the boat. Shane scoops her right into his arms then. “All set?” he quietly asks while holding her close.
“Wait. Back up a little.” When he does, Celia reaches into the boat and lifts out her sandals.
“Get mine, too.” Shane carries her toward the rear of the vessel, where he’d left his boat shoes—which she grabs for him. He wades to shore in darkness then. In her fitted black dress, Celia’s relaxed in his arms. Her legs hang easy; her arms loop around his neck. It isn’t until the water laps only at his ankles that he sets her down. “Okay?” he asks. When she nods, his hands move up her arms to her shoulders as he leans close and kisses her.
It doesn’t escape him, either, how the kiss continues—right there in the water. Right as the sea sloshes at their feet. Right as Celia clutches their shoes. Nothing stops them, not even while they get themselves out of the water and onto the tiny beach there, then to Shane’s yard. They only separate once they reach the seven olive-painted steps leading to the back porch of his rented cottage. And even then, Celia drops their shoes right there on the porch before sidling up behind him as he unlocks the back door. Her arms wrap around his waist. Her body presses close.
Once inside the cottage, Shane turns on a kitchen light. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks over his shoulder.
Celia only shakes her head.
So Shane turns to her. And takes her hands to pull her to the kitchen table.
When she sits, when he lets go of her hands, she takes his wrist. As she does, Shane pulls out the chair next to hers and sits, too. All the while, her finger drags over a tattoo visible beneath his braided leather cuff. “6h 12m?” she whispers.
Shane says nothing. He only watches her finger tracing the inked numbers.
“What does it stand for?” she asks, looking up at him.
“Six hours, twelve minutes. That’s how often the tide changes. It was my first tattoo.”
“Your first?” Still Celia traces the six, the twelve.
“Yeah. I was seventeen and just started lobstering with Noah. One of the boys on the boat had a tattoo kit and that was my initiation into the crew,” Shane says, nodding to the numbers. “I was such a punk, thought I was badder than the Atlantic Ocean back then. And couldn’t have been more wrong.”
“The ocean showedyou, did it?” she asks with a playful smile.
“Did it ever.”
Then? Nothing. Just the two of them facing each other in those kitchen chairs in the shadowy room.
