What is wrong with me?
Stop. The voice belongs to my sponsor, a woman with a heavy cigarette smoker’s voice. How is this helping?
I lift my head, take in a deep breath, pull my shoulder blades down my back to straighten my spine. Stay where your feet are. I’m here now, walking on the beach. Looking at seagulls. A plover pokes her beak into the wet sand. Overhead, a heron swoops by with powerful wings. I can smell ocean and seaweed. My lips taste of salt.
Here. Now. In this small space of nowness, I can breathe. I don’t have to be anything to anyone.
Take a step. Take a breath. Look.
At an outcropping of rocks, I start to go around the front on the tiniest sliver of sand. It’s always dicey, this bit, and it’s not really navigable except at low tide. Judging by the foam line, it’s on its way back up, and I won’t make it on the sand. I have to make the passage over the boulders fallen from the cliff above. Using a hand to brace myself, I lean on a gritty rock and slip along the sand, feeling the suck of air pockets beneath my heels.
I see the cresting swell before it hits me, but there’s no time to get out of the way. I leap to the top of the nearest rock, raising an arm to protect my face. The rock below takes the full brunt of energy, but the spray leaps into the air and onto me with a great splat. It’s cold and salty and takes my breath for a second, and by the time it retreats, I’m soaked.
And laughing.
“Are you all right?” a voice asks from my right. A man is coming from the cove, and he’s taken a side hit, but only his shoulder and one pants leg are wet.
I look down, shaking my hands, wiping my face. “It’s only water. You?”
“Fine.”
We’re at a bit of an impasse, him coming my way, me going his, and both of us trapped by the sudden swell. The rocks are biting into my feet and I sit down, pulling my knees close to my chest. “Do you have enough room to pass?”
He shakes his head. He gestures toward a flat rock nearby. “Do you mind?” His accent is British, mixed with something I can’t quite place. “It will recede in a moment.”
“Go ahead. It’s not my rock.”
“Nor mine,” he says, settling. His hands are long fingered, the skin a warm brown. His feet are much lighter, bare, beneath khaki trousers rolled up to above his ankles. His hair, like mine, is curly and black, and it tosses around his face. It makes him seem friendly. “Are you visiting? I haven’t seen you before.”
I take a breath, wondering how much to say, but there are not really many ways to phrase it. “Not exactly. My father died and I inherited his house.”
“Ah. Your father was Mr. Beauvais.”
The “mister” makes me smile inwardly. “Yes, that’s right. Did you know him?”
A one-shouldered shrug. “Not well. Only as neighbors.” He points down the beach. “I’m four houses to the north.”
“The glass house. That’s a beauty.”
He nods, but there’s an aura of sadness about him. “Yes. My wife quite loved it.”
The past tense is stark. I don’t know how to respond, and the sound of the sea rises between us. Finally, I say, “Do you? Love it?”
His fingers are laced together, forearms resting on his knees. He looks out to the sea, shakes his head. “No.”
“I love my dad’s house,” I volunteer. “I grew up there.”
“But?”
I watch four pelicans ride air currents high above us. “I hadn’t spoken to him in years. It feels wrong to take the house.”
“I see.” He looks at me. His face is long, dominated by large dark eyes, and I think he must be a decade or more older than me. “Do you suppose he’d want you to have it anyway?”
The question pushes some button, and I have to look toward the distance to let the emotion recede. It hasn’t left my voice when I answer. “I don’t know,” I say, and let that hang in the air.
Then I tell the truth. It’s a muscle that’s hard to use when you haven’t bothered for so many years. “Yes.”
He nods.
A wave splatters us lightly and I shiver. “I wonder if I should just go back.”
“I am considering the same thing.” He inclines his head. “Did I see you at the coffee shop yesterday? Are you going to work there?”
I look at him, but he doesn’t look familiar. “Were you there?” He looks off to the sea, and his nose in profile reminds me—the Irrfan Khan look-alike. Up close, the resemblance is not so pronounced, but he does have the same large dark eyes, the sad mouth. “Wait. I do remember. You were sitting by the window, not working on your open computer.”