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Authors: John D. MacDonald
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on.”
“I don’t understand, Aunt Myra. Is this a nursing home?”
“Licensed and everything,” she said, and looked slightly ashamed. Ever since he had entered the house he had been subconsciously disturbed by the elusive and unfamiliar odor of medication and that sick sweet undertone of illness.
“When Joe passed on, if I’d had any sense, I’d have sold out the store right away. But I tried to run it myselfand I didn’t know as much as I thought I knew. So by the time I’d put most of the other money Joe left into it, I ended up having to sell it for less than I could have got in the first place. I like to keep busy. You know that. I’ve got two full-time girls to help with the cleaning and cooking and all, and one practical nurse, but she’s off sick right now.” She sighed, lowered her voice. “I know when I look at it square they’re here to die, but sometimes it takes a lot of getting used to. Where are you staying, Alex? I can’t even offer you a room. I turned that storeroom off behind the pantry into my bedroom. You aren’t going to take off right soon again, are you?”
He told her he was out on the beach, and he was staying for a time. She kissed him and beamed upon him and patted his shoulder, her eyes shiny. “You came back, finally. I guess I knew you would all along. You’ll have to come get that box of your stuff, boy.”
Doyle drove slowly back out to the beach. Now that he had seen her, he wondered how he could have been so wrong in his thinking about her for so many years. It had been pride, perhaps, that corrosive disease, which had prevented him from seeing the truth his heart was trying to tell him.
He changed to trunks and assembled the rod and walked out onto the beach. Something was feeding noisily about two hundred feet out. He waded until the water was above his waist and, after a half dozen attempts, he was able to put the lure where he wanted it. It was a pearly day with a look of mystery, and he could feel the heat of the hidden sun. It was a school of four-pound jacks, wolfing the demoralized minnows. He beached four and released them before the school broke off feeding. The physical contest eased his emotional turmoil, his deep sense of guilt. It was nearly noon when, after a hundred glances north along the beach, he saw someone on the beach in front of the Proctor cottage. And,in what he hoped was a casual way, he began to move up the beach, casting aimlessly.
The woman squatted on the wet sand, right at the surf line. She had an aluminum pot and she seemed to be grubbing in the sand with her hands. He realized that she was digging up coquinas, those tiny brightly patterned clams that can be found an inch or so beneath the surface of the wet sand on nearly all the Gulf beaches.
She was very sun-browned, a trim-bodied, good-sized woman in a blue two-piece swim suit in batik pattern. She had hair that had grayed almost to white, cropped short. The muscles moved smoothly in her arms and shoulders as she searched for the coquinas, and she sat on her heels without strain.
She seemed to be unaware of him. He moved to within ten feet of her while retrieving a cast, and then said, “Pardon me, ma’am.”
She looked up at him with obvious irritation. Her brows were heavy and jet black, her face angular, handsome. “Yes?” The voice was deep and rather husky.
“If you want to get those easy, you get you a piece of screen like they use sifting aggregate for concrete. You get a frame and props for it, and a shovel. And then you shovel that soupy sand against it and you’ll get all the coquinas you can use.”
“Thank you so much for your advice. I am not terribly interested in efficiency or speed. I prefer doing it this way.”
“Okay, ma’am. Sorry. They sure make a wonderful broth, you just simmer ’em long enough. Me, I like it best real cold with a little Worcestershire and tabasco.”
She returned to her task and did not answer. He cast again and retrieved
“I don’t understand, Aunt Myra. Is this a nursing home?”
“Licensed and everything,” she said, and looked slightly ashamed. Ever since he had entered the house he had been subconsciously disturbed by the elusive and unfamiliar odor of medication and that sick sweet undertone of illness.
“When Joe passed on, if I’d had any sense, I’d have sold out the store right away. But I tried to run it myselfand I didn’t know as much as I thought I knew. So by the time I’d put most of the other money Joe left into it, I ended up having to sell it for less than I could have got in the first place. I like to keep busy. You know that. I’ve got two full-time girls to help with the cleaning and cooking and all, and one practical nurse, but she’s off sick right now.” She sighed, lowered her voice. “I know when I look at it square they’re here to die, but sometimes it takes a lot of getting used to. Where are you staying, Alex? I can’t even offer you a room. I turned that storeroom off behind the pantry into my bedroom. You aren’t going to take off right soon again, are you?”
He told her he was out on the beach, and he was staying for a time. She kissed him and beamed upon him and patted his shoulder, her eyes shiny. “You came back, finally. I guess I knew you would all along. You’ll have to come get that box of your stuff, boy.”
Doyle drove slowly back out to the beach. Now that he had seen her, he wondered how he could have been so wrong in his thinking about her for so many years. It had been pride, perhaps, that corrosive disease, which had prevented him from seeing the truth his heart was trying to tell him.
He changed to trunks and assembled the rod and walked out onto the beach. Something was feeding noisily about two hundred feet out. He waded until the water was above his waist and, after a half dozen attempts, he was able to put the lure where he wanted it. It was a pearly day with a look of mystery, and he could feel the heat of the hidden sun. It was a school of four-pound jacks, wolfing the demoralized minnows. He beached four and released them before the school broke off feeding. The physical contest eased his emotional turmoil, his deep sense of guilt. It was nearly noon when, after a hundred glances north along the beach, he saw someone on the beach in front of the Proctor cottage. And,in what he hoped was a casual way, he began to move up the beach, casting aimlessly.
The woman squatted on the wet sand, right at the surf line. She had an aluminum pot and she seemed to be grubbing in the sand with her hands. He realized that she was digging up coquinas, those tiny brightly patterned clams that can be found an inch or so beneath the surface of the wet sand on nearly all the Gulf beaches.
She was very sun-browned, a trim-bodied, good-sized woman in a blue two-piece swim suit in batik pattern. She had hair that had grayed almost to white, cropped short. The muscles moved smoothly in her arms and shoulders as she searched for the coquinas, and she sat on her heels without strain.
She seemed to be unaware of him. He moved to within ten feet of her while retrieving a cast, and then said, “Pardon me, ma’am.”
She looked up at him with obvious irritation. Her brows were heavy and jet black, her face angular, handsome. “Yes?” The voice was deep and rather husky.
“If you want to get those easy, you get you a piece of screen like they use sifting aggregate for concrete. You get a frame and props for it, and a shovel. And then you shovel that soupy sand against it and you’ll get all the coquinas you can use.”
“Thank you so much for your advice. I am not terribly interested in efficiency or speed. I prefer doing it this way.”
“Okay, ma’am. Sorry. They sure make a wonderful broth, you just simmer ’em long enough. Me, I like it best real cold with a little Worcestershire and tabasco.”
She returned to her task and did not answer. He cast again and retrieved
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