salt air deep into her lungs. Across the bay she could see the lights of some small boat heading out on the tide. A waning moon was looking for gaps among the clouds, and when it found one, lit a path across the water. Buzz ran ahead, stopping now and then to pee or sniff the line of fresh debris that the tide had left.
When Joel was around, they had taken this walk every night before turning in. And early on, in the days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for five minutes, they would stop and find a hollow in the dunes and make love, while Buzz went off on his own, foraging for crabs in the marsh grass or chasing birds he’d sprung, then coming back sodden and making them shriek by shaking himself all over them.
About half a mile along the shore was the hull of an old yawl that someone had once perhaps intended to rebuild but that had now rotted beyond salvation. It had been hauled onto the shingle above the reach of all but the highest tides and lay tethered uselessly by moss-bearded ropes to two old trees. It was like the skeleton of some less ambitious Noah’s ark, abandoned by all but rats, to whom Buzz paid nightly visits. He was in there now, growling and scuffling in the dark. Helen sat on a driftwood log and lit a cigarette.
She and Buzz had first come to the Cape on vacation in early June the summer before last. Her sister had rented a house for the whole season, one of the million-dollar places set high above the water, with a stunning view over to Great Island and its own steep, wooden staircase down to the beach. She had invited Helen to stay.
Celia had married her college sweetheart, bright but boring Bryan, whose software company had just been bought out by a California computer giant for a mind-boggling amount of money. Even before that, they had been predictably happy and had produced, with no trouble at all, two perfect, blond children: a boy and a girl, Kyle and Carey. They lived in Boston, in a waterside development that, naturally, had won several design awards.
Helen had spent most of the previous five years roughing it in the wilds of Minnesota and it took her awhile to get used to the luxury. The ‘guest suite’ at Celia’s Cape Cod rental even had its own jacuzzi. She had planned to stay for a week, then go back to Minneapolis to work on her thesis, for which her supervisor was already nagging. But the week became a fortnight, then the fortnight a month.
Bryan would drive down each weekend from Boston to join them and once, for a few days, their mother and Ralphie came to stay, managing to break one of the beds. The rest of the time it was just Helen, Celia and the children. They got on well and it was good to have time to get to know the kids, though her sister remained the enigma she always had been.
Nothing seemed to faze Celia. Not even Buzz eating her best straw hat. Her clothes were always clean and pressed, her figure trim, her hair washed and neatly bobbed. On those rare occasions when Kyle or Carey howled or threw a tantrum, she would just smile and soothe and hug them until they felt better. She did charity work, played elegant tennis and cooked like a dream. She could lay on an impromptu banquet for ten at half an hour’s notice. She never had headaches or sleepless nights or got grouchy with her period and even in the privacy of her own bathroom, Helen surmised, seldom, if ever, broke wind.
Helen had long ago discovered there was little fun to be had in trying to shock her sister. It was impossible and anyway they were grown-ups now and you didn’t do that to someone who washed your underwear and brought you a cup of coffee in bed every morning. They talked to each other a lot, mainly about nothing, though just occasionally Helen would try to find out what Celia felt about the important things in life, or at least what she herself considered important.
One night after supper, when Bryan wasn’t there and the kids were in bed, Helen asked her about
When Joel was around, they had taken this walk every night before turning in. And early on, in the days when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other for five minutes, they would stop and find a hollow in the dunes and make love, while Buzz went off on his own, foraging for crabs in the marsh grass or chasing birds he’d sprung, then coming back sodden and making them shriek by shaking himself all over them.
About half a mile along the shore was the hull of an old yawl that someone had once perhaps intended to rebuild but that had now rotted beyond salvation. It had been hauled onto the shingle above the reach of all but the highest tides and lay tethered uselessly by moss-bearded ropes to two old trees. It was like the skeleton of some less ambitious Noah’s ark, abandoned by all but rats, to whom Buzz paid nightly visits. He was in there now, growling and scuffling in the dark. Helen sat on a driftwood log and lit a cigarette.
She and Buzz had first come to the Cape on vacation in early June the summer before last. Her sister had rented a house for the whole season, one of the million-dollar places set high above the water, with a stunning view over to Great Island and its own steep, wooden staircase down to the beach. She had invited Helen to stay.
Celia had married her college sweetheart, bright but boring Bryan, whose software company had just been bought out by a California computer giant for a mind-boggling amount of money. Even before that, they had been predictably happy and had produced, with no trouble at all, two perfect, blond children: a boy and a girl, Kyle and Carey. They lived in Boston, in a waterside development that, naturally, had won several design awards.
Helen had spent most of the previous five years roughing it in the wilds of Minnesota and it took her awhile to get used to the luxury. The ‘guest suite’ at Celia’s Cape Cod rental even had its own jacuzzi. She had planned to stay for a week, then go back to Minneapolis to work on her thesis, for which her supervisor was already nagging. But the week became a fortnight, then the fortnight a month.
Bryan would drive down each weekend from Boston to join them and once, for a few days, their mother and Ralphie came to stay, managing to break one of the beds. The rest of the time it was just Helen, Celia and the children. They got on well and it was good to have time to get to know the kids, though her sister remained the enigma she always had been.
Nothing seemed to faze Celia. Not even Buzz eating her best straw hat. Her clothes were always clean and pressed, her figure trim, her hair washed and neatly bobbed. On those rare occasions when Kyle or Carey howled or threw a tantrum, she would just smile and soothe and hug them until they felt better. She did charity work, played elegant tennis and cooked like a dream. She could lay on an impromptu banquet for ten at half an hour’s notice. She never had headaches or sleepless nights or got grouchy with her period and even in the privacy of her own bathroom, Helen surmised, seldom, if ever, broke wind.
Helen had long ago discovered there was little fun to be had in trying to shock her sister. It was impossible and anyway they were grown-ups now and you didn’t do that to someone who washed your underwear and brought you a cup of coffee in bed every morning. They talked to each other a lot, mainly about nothing, though just occasionally Helen would try to find out what Celia felt about the important things in life, or at least what she herself considered important.
One night after supper, when Bryan wasn’t there and the kids were in bed, Helen asked her about
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