Secrets At the Cove. Honey Perkel
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this young man like a spiritual joining of one soul to another. Entrancing. Magnetic.
She continued to watch from her upstairs window as the handsome stranger stepped into his slick rubber suit. One leg, then another, pulling it over his firm lean thighs and buttocks. The muscles in his back and arms stretched tautly. Then he slid his torso and arms inside and zipped up his suit. Elizabeth’s heart seemed to stop.
She imagined how it would feel to press the length of her body against his. Rock hard, strong, young. What was the matter with her? she scolded herself. She guessed he was perhaps eighteen or twenty — nearly half her age. Could this strange connection she felt with the young man be a by-product of her illness? Admittedly Elizabeth was needy, afraid to be alone, but the last thing she needed was a man. The very last thing.
The young man grabbed his surfboard, paused, and looked up at her. His eyes were startlingly blue. As deep a blue as the ocean. Eyes which could see forever — hypnotic cobalt eyes. They appeared to reflect the pain and joy of every birth, the tragedy of every war, the hopes and dreams of mankind throughout the world. Elizabeth had learned in painting class that eyes were the heart of the soul. And never had she believed it to be truer than now. Beautiful. Blue. Piercing.
She held her breath as she ducked behind the white curtain. Her heart was racing. She pressed a finger to her lips and let out a small giggle of delight, but when she bravely looked again, the young man had disappeared.
Her eyes darted in and out of the parked cars and along the rocky shoreline of the cove. Where was he? she wondered. He couldn’t have gotten far in just a few moments. Through her telescope, Elizabeth searched the tide for the surfer, but she didn’t see him. Nor did she see him on the grassy knoll, where spectators came to watch the sea. He had, indeed, vanished. It was probably just as well, she realized.
She moved back to her canvas. Once again with tapered fingers, she loaded her brush with ruddy color. What had she been thinking of, mooning over a handsome surfer years her junior? A mere child. She’d be better off keeping her mind on her work.
Elizabeth uttered a sigh. It was Tuesday. With a quick glance at the clock, she realized it would soon be time to meet the women at Annie Rose’s. She wished she didn’t have to go.
Tilly
The beach grass waved in the morning breeze like wheat on farmland. Tilly Jacobs made her way over the fertile dunes walking where others had trod and worn narrow paths in the thick growth. It was the same route she took every morning, sandals in hand, thoughtful, the ocean pounding in her head. She came to walk the beach, to gather strength for the day, to try to make sense of her life.
The sun felt good on her back this morning. It was comforting, like little else in her life. The sand and sea — it was why she’d come to the Oregon Coast. Tilly had been naive to believe her relationship with Richard would be different here than it had been in Montana. She’d yearned for a place to escape, to start fresh, but instead, she was spending her days as a local realtor selling houses — making other people’s dreams come true. Within weeks of arriving, she had found herself already drifting back into the same pattern of grief. And why wouldn’t she? My God, she had lost her son.
At the age of fifty-two, Tilly saw little point to her life. There were days she wanted to die. To be put out of her misery; they did that to horses, didn’t they? Most days she questioned whether she had the strength to see it through, and still others, when she saw a sliver of hope that she just might. She wondered what kind of a day this would be.
Recognizing the familiar rise of anger within her, Tilly prayed for a chance to feel happiness again. But somehow, she’d lost sight of how to get there. Her senses had dulled, had all but died in the past two years — since that icy morning in late December of 2009. Richard had given Mark the keys to the family car. And their lives changed forever. She was no longer interested in life or the living. Mechanically, she moved about her days — not seeing, not tasting, not hearing. Tilly was alone. And not even Richard could reach her. He had tried, as had the grief counselor they’d gone to; however, she wouldn’t let anyone into that dark place in her heart. It was just too personal, a hard knot in her chest which grew larger and heavier every day.
Having made her way to the shore, Tilly let the water splash on her ankles. It was chilly. Cold, compared to the warmth she’d felt from the sun. Cold enough to take one’s breath away. She gave a slight shiver, and began to walk up the beach.
Turning her thoughts to her day, she remembered it was Tuesday. The weekly lunch at Annie Rose’s. It was a time in which she should rejoice, share camaraderie with women she knew and cared about, but for the past few months, Tilly had grown to dread their hours together. Putting on a face, an act for these women who called one another friend.
They laughed and joked like they didn’t have a care in the world. Well, she did and she wasn’t about to share her problems with anyone. They weren’t friends, contrary to what they might believe. They were strangers. If only they’d admit it.
Iris
The rich, dark soil felt moist between her fingers. Iris Grayson never liked to wear heavy garden gloves when she worked in her garden; she wanted, needed, to feel the “life” in the earth. And life was everything. With a trowel, she dug a small hole and planted the Chinese pink dianthus along the border of the driveway and up the front walk, pressing the dirt carefully and compactly around each plant in turn.
With the back of her hand, she brushed a fallen strand of frizzy gray hair and tucked it up under her large-brimmed sun hat. Then Iris settled back on her heels to admire the profusion of color before her. From behind, she could hear the crashing of the ocean. Sea and earth. Mind and body. Life.
The petunias and golden calendulas had all been planted. Designed to grow as a bright display of color beside the scarlet red geraniums and sunny marigolds. Delicate white candytuft nudged coarse green junipers, adding heavy contrast against the light. The blooms’ bright faces looked straight up into the morning sun, filling the cool air with pungent, sweet perfume. A big fat bumble bee settled on the center of a white oleander bloom. Its low hum was comforting.
Iris’ features puckered with delight as she admired her work thus far. The splendor of her garden gave her such pleasure. Year after year, Iris replanted the same purple and pink petunias, yellow marigolds, and tall, proud magenta snapdragons. It gave her peace to know her garden remained in perfect order. A part of her world that would never cause her pain or dessert her. Iris’ flowers had become her constant companions. Her friends. Her family. They didn’t disappoint her. They didn’t abandon her. They were always there to comfort her without question or doubt.
It was not something she had to do. That was the strange thing about living in this enchanting little beach town. No matter if she worked in her yard or not, watered the roots of her flowering blooms or not, the beautiful blossoms never died. Oh, an occasional weed or deadhead snuck in from time to time, but somehow Seaside gardens just seemed to take care of themselves. No, it was not something she had to do. Working in her garden was something Iris needed to do.
From early morning until sunset she potted, sprayed, moved plants, and tilled the soil. Though the garden would remain magnificent without her love and attention, it was therapy for her soul.
As her trowel plunged into the sandy black soil once again, Iris heard the shrill ring of the telephone inside her house. Standing, she stretched her long, arthritic legs and wiped the loose dirt from her hands.
She entered the front door and made her way through the dark and dusty clutter of her house. Felines eyed her sleepily from their perches atop deep-cushioned hassocks, the backs of sofas, the tops of bookshelves, and dining room chairs. Toms. Queens. Kittens. All eleven of them.
“Good morning, boys and girls,” she greeted them. Sadie and Bessie mewed. Or was it Tommy and Boris? Or Kit?
“Who’s calling us, Samuel?” Iris didn’t really expect Samuel, her husband, to give her an answer as he’d been dead for ten years. However, it was nice to think she wasn’t alone.
“Aunt