beginning to show blotches of yellow—the gardeners had been spraying weed killer. Nearest the shore, roots firmly planted in the dry thin ground, jack pines crowded the road, the shadows of their grove the blackish green of the ocean bottom.
The road lifted over a low hill. The red jeep popped, like a cork from a bottle, into the glare of the beach.
The ocean, blue in its distance and deep green inshore, was rumpled and creased by wind squalls. A fleet of small boats raced toward a distant orange marker, tacking back and forth, white sails bisecting the ruffled shadows. The beach itself was smooth and curved, backed by tall dunes spotted with tall sparse grasses. At the center was the clubhouse, gleaming with fresh white paint and newly washed windows, American flag and club ensign flying over the roof. On each side of the building, like outstretched wings, were dozens of brilliantly colored beach umbrellas. The breeze, onshore this time of day, was heavy with the sound of people: the hum of voices and the cries of children, high and thin like the calls of distant seabirds.
I do not want to go there, Myra thought, I do not want to go into that jumble of sound and color. I don’t want to enter the giant bubble of their breathing, these summer friends whom I have not seen for ten months.
Then she felt, as she sometimes did, a pressure in the small of her back, pushing her forward. And she heard a laugh—a cackle of profound derision—deep inside her skull.
She shifted the jeep into four-wheel drive, swung hard to the right, and accelerated directly across the dunes, dodging between signs that forbade such passage as ecologically damaging, bouncing at last into the parking lot, into the space neatly marked MRS. ROWLAND SR. (Hugh’s name had vanished even from there, she thought, even that small piece of wood had been corrected to reflect the new fact.)
She climbed out slowly, massaging an arthritic ache in her left hip. There was a tangle of wild beach pea vine caught in the car bumper—she snapped off four small pink flowers and tucked them into the band of her large pink beach hat. She picked up a canvas bag filled with sun lotions and walked briskly down the sloping flower-lined path to the club.
Harry Marshall was sitting at his favorite table, the one in the far corner of the deck, the one with the best view of the entrance. He’d come early, as he always did, and settled down in the greenish reflected shade of the overhead umbrella. He liked to be the first to greet his friends on the opening day of the summer season.
“Well now,” he said. “Myra’s here.”
“Who?” Bill Landrieux, his brother-in-law and law partner in the days before they both retired, was admiring his tequila sunrise, turning it around slowly. “They weren’t this color last summer,” he said. “They taste the same but they aren’t the same color.”
“Myra’s here,” Harry Marshall repeated.
Slowly, reluctantly, Bill Landrieux put down his glass. “Myra Rowland?”
“She just arrived.”
Bill peered vaguely toward the path through the dunes. “Is that her in the bright pink dress?”
“Contacts not working, Bill?”
“You know I can’t wear contacts with the damn sand.”
“Get prescription sunglasses, you vain old goat.”
“These are prescription. I got to get a new doctor.” He pulled off the glasses and squinted into the glare. “I see better without the damn things. Sure, that’s Myra Rowland. Always wears pink. Hugh isn’t with her.”
“Hugh died last winter. I clipped the obituary and sent it to you.”
“You did? I guess Jane forgot to give it to me. You know, Harry, I think that woman must have Alzheimer’s. She can’t remember anything.”
“Jane always was that way.” Harry waved to Myra Rowland, who had stopped to admire the flowering begonias.
Bill popped back his sunglasses. “The glare gives me a headache without them.”
The combination of heat and alcohol was getting to
The road lifted over a low hill. The red jeep popped, like a cork from a bottle, into the glare of the beach.
The ocean, blue in its distance and deep green inshore, was rumpled and creased by wind squalls. A fleet of small boats raced toward a distant orange marker, tacking back and forth, white sails bisecting the ruffled shadows. The beach itself was smooth and curved, backed by tall dunes spotted with tall sparse grasses. At the center was the clubhouse, gleaming with fresh white paint and newly washed windows, American flag and club ensign flying over the roof. On each side of the building, like outstretched wings, were dozens of brilliantly colored beach umbrellas. The breeze, onshore this time of day, was heavy with the sound of people: the hum of voices and the cries of children, high and thin like the calls of distant seabirds.
I do not want to go there, Myra thought, I do not want to go into that jumble of sound and color. I don’t want to enter the giant bubble of their breathing, these summer friends whom I have not seen for ten months.
Then she felt, as she sometimes did, a pressure in the small of her back, pushing her forward. And she heard a laugh—a cackle of profound derision—deep inside her skull.
She shifted the jeep into four-wheel drive, swung hard to the right, and accelerated directly across the dunes, dodging between signs that forbade such passage as ecologically damaging, bouncing at last into the parking lot, into the space neatly marked MRS. ROWLAND SR. (Hugh’s name had vanished even from there, she thought, even that small piece of wood had been corrected to reflect the new fact.)
She climbed out slowly, massaging an arthritic ache in her left hip. There was a tangle of wild beach pea vine caught in the car bumper—she snapped off four small pink flowers and tucked them into the band of her large pink beach hat. She picked up a canvas bag filled with sun lotions and walked briskly down the sloping flower-lined path to the club.
Harry Marshall was sitting at his favorite table, the one in the far corner of the deck, the one with the best view of the entrance. He’d come early, as he always did, and settled down in the greenish reflected shade of the overhead umbrella. He liked to be the first to greet his friends on the opening day of the summer season.
“Well now,” he said. “Myra’s here.”
“Who?” Bill Landrieux, his brother-in-law and law partner in the days before they both retired, was admiring his tequila sunrise, turning it around slowly. “They weren’t this color last summer,” he said. “They taste the same but they aren’t the same color.”
“Myra’s here,” Harry Marshall repeated.
Slowly, reluctantly, Bill Landrieux put down his glass. “Myra Rowland?”
“She just arrived.”
Bill peered vaguely toward the path through the dunes. “Is that her in the bright pink dress?”
“Contacts not working, Bill?”
“You know I can’t wear contacts with the damn sand.”
“Get prescription sunglasses, you vain old goat.”
“These are prescription. I got to get a new doctor.” He pulled off the glasses and squinted into the glare. “I see better without the damn things. Sure, that’s Myra Rowland. Always wears pink. Hugh isn’t with her.”
“Hugh died last winter. I clipped the obituary and sent it to you.”
“You did? I guess Jane forgot to give it to me. You know, Harry, I think that woman must have Alzheimer’s. She can’t remember anything.”
“Jane always was that way.” Harry waved to Myra Rowland, who had stopped to admire the flowering begonias.
Bill popped back his sunglasses. “The glare gives me a headache without them.”
The combination of heat and alcohol was getting to
Similar Books
