day. Ifumble two pills from their little brown bottle and swallow them without water—I’m a practiced pill-taker, you see—then crawl back beneath the safety of my covers. I will not go to the dunes today. My wounds are suddenly too fresh, my heart too raw. Let the sea keep its secrets while I tend to my bruises.
Chapter 9
Lane
T wo days later, Lane opened her eyes with the sun streaming across the sheets, and the immediate sense that something was different. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked around, eventually spotting the slow, steady turn of the fan blades over her bed. It was all she could do not to hoot out loud. No more cold showers.
God bless Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Edison, and anyone else who had to do with the modern conveniences of electricity. She all but skipped to the bathroom, where she flipped on the shower, waiting until the water grew warm, and then hot. She was out of her T-shirt and boxers in under a minute, thinking as she stepped into the steamy glass enclosure that hot water was undoubtedly the most unappreciated commodity on the planet.
She lingered, letting the scalding water needle her skin until it was tingly pink and just starting to prune. Two days of ice-cold showers had left her with a new appreciation for small daily rituals like hair conditioning and leg shaving, not to mention the luxury of actually being able to see what you were doing.
“Coffee!” she bellowed cheerfully as she passed Michael’s door on her way to the kitchen.
The last few days had been a challenge to say the least—cold soup, peanut butter sandwiches, iced tea without the ice. Now, for the first time in more than seventy-two hours, she was able to cook an honest-to-God meal on an honest-to-God stove, to enjoy hot food on plates not made from paper. To his credit, her guest had remained true to his word about being low maintenance. He had eaten the makeshift meals without complaint. In fact, he’d eaten them without much conversation at all. Afterward, he would disappear with a handful of candles, presumably up to his ears in the cartons of books he’d unloaded from the SUV and carried up to his room.
Lane caught herself humming as she moved about the kitchen. There was an almost Zen-like feel to the tasks of chopping and whisking as she started the breakfast, simple pleasures she hadn’t bothered to notice for a very long time, and would probably forget again in twenty-four hours. For now, though, the routine things felt very good indeed. By the time Michael wandered in, the table was set and the potatoes were already in the pan.
“What smells so amazing?”
“Home fries with onions.” She held up a mug. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He wore a navy sweater with a crest on the pocket and well-creased khakis—a pricey version of academic casual. Lane tried to imagine him hunched over the tiny ironing board she supplied in the closet of every room, studiously pressing that crease into his pants, but she couldn’t, perhaps because she suddenly realized he was staring at her. Understandable, she supposed, since this was the first time he’d seen her look anything like respectable.
She was used to having guests in her kitchen, asking questions about the island and chatting about their plans for the day. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. But this silent audience of one made her self-conscious as she served up two plates and carried them to the table.
“Now, that’s a breakfast,” Michael said, offering a rare smile as he stirred a dash of sugar into his coffee.
“Certainly better than bread and jam,” she said, returning the smile as she slid into the chair across from him. She’d had to toss out just about everything from the fridge, but the eggs and some of the veggies had survived, allowing her to create a pair of fairly impressive omelets. “Sorry, there wasn’t any cheese. Tomorrow I’ll go to the village and see what I can scare up. It’ll probably be several days before
Chapter 9
Lane
T wo days later, Lane opened her eyes with the sun streaming across the sheets, and the immediate sense that something was different. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked around, eventually spotting the slow, steady turn of the fan blades over her bed. It was all she could do not to hoot out loud. No more cold showers.
God bless Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Edison, and anyone else who had to do with the modern conveniences of electricity. She all but skipped to the bathroom, where she flipped on the shower, waiting until the water grew warm, and then hot. She was out of her T-shirt and boxers in under a minute, thinking as she stepped into the steamy glass enclosure that hot water was undoubtedly the most unappreciated commodity on the planet.
She lingered, letting the scalding water needle her skin until it was tingly pink and just starting to prune. Two days of ice-cold showers had left her with a new appreciation for small daily rituals like hair conditioning and leg shaving, not to mention the luxury of actually being able to see what you were doing.
“Coffee!” she bellowed cheerfully as she passed Michael’s door on her way to the kitchen.
The last few days had been a challenge to say the least—cold soup, peanut butter sandwiches, iced tea without the ice. Now, for the first time in more than seventy-two hours, she was able to cook an honest-to-God meal on an honest-to-God stove, to enjoy hot food on plates not made from paper. To his credit, her guest had remained true to his word about being low maintenance. He had eaten the makeshift meals without complaint. In fact, he’d eaten them without much conversation at all. Afterward, he would disappear with a handful of candles, presumably up to his ears in the cartons of books he’d unloaded from the SUV and carried up to his room.
Lane caught herself humming as she moved about the kitchen. There was an almost Zen-like feel to the tasks of chopping and whisking as she started the breakfast, simple pleasures she hadn’t bothered to notice for a very long time, and would probably forget again in twenty-four hours. For now, though, the routine things felt very good indeed. By the time Michael wandered in, the table was set and the potatoes were already in the pan.
“What smells so amazing?”
“Home fries with onions.” She held up a mug. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He wore a navy sweater with a crest on the pocket and well-creased khakis—a pricey version of academic casual. Lane tried to imagine him hunched over the tiny ironing board she supplied in the closet of every room, studiously pressing that crease into his pants, but she couldn’t, perhaps because she suddenly realized he was staring at her. Understandable, she supposed, since this was the first time he’d seen her look anything like respectable.
She was used to having guests in her kitchen, asking questions about the island and chatting about their plans for the day. In fact, she rather enjoyed it. But this silent audience of one made her self-conscious as she served up two plates and carried them to the table.
“Now, that’s a breakfast,” Michael said, offering a rare smile as he stirred a dash of sugar into his coffee.
“Certainly better than bread and jam,” she said, returning the smile as she slid into the chair across from him. She’d had to toss out just about everything from the fridge, but the eggs and some of the veggies had survived, allowing her to create a pair of fairly impressive omelets. “Sorry, there wasn’t any cheese. Tomorrow I’ll go to the village and see what I can scare up. It’ll probably be several days before
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