Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (168 page)

Natalie stared toward the lake, and Morgan watched the strain ease from her face, replaced by a dawning hope. “
That
. I’d rather paint that.”

“What?”

“Petey. A little boy in blue shorts and a red-and-white striped shirt, pouring water into bowls, his face so intent on his work. Children have done that for centuries, and here he is, one particular child. It would be something eternal and ephemeral at the same time.”

“Why not do it?”

“For one thing, how long is he going to keep still?” Natalie asked.

“Here’s a solution.” Morgan reached into her pocket, took out her cell phone, and snapped a few shots of her son. She handed her phone to Natalie. “The resolution isn’t great.…”

“And the lighting will change every day,” Natalie mused aloud. She stood up, pulled out her own phone, and took a few steps back, clicking shots at different angles. “Clouds, shadow, the earth’s angle to the sun, but still … Wait. I have a better camera. I’ll be right back.” She sprinted away.

Morgan held her breath. Her son could grow bored in an instant; she didn’t dare move for fear of distracting him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Natalie did a portrait of Petey!

A minute passed. A bumblebee buzzed over to check out Morgan’s hair. She didn’t even twitch. The bee flew away. Petey continued to pour sand into the bowl. The sunlight fell on his strawberry blond curls, turning them into a mystical substance, liquid fire. His dimpled hands clutched the spoon fiercely as he cautiously, trying not to spill even one grain of sand, raised the spoon from the beach to the bowl. He would be a good chemist, she realized.

But where was Natalie? Petey wouldn’t do this forever! She heard a click and turned her head. Natalie was on the deck with a camera, snapping photos. Morgan relaxed. She sipped her tea.

By the time Natalie returned to the beach, Petey had become bored with this project and was toddling around the lawn, looking for bugs and falling over.

“He’s still working on the walking thing,” Morgan told Natalie. “Did you get the shots you wanted?”

“I think so. I’ll start tomorrow morning to see what I can do, and if the weather’s good, maybe you two can come back over.”

“Great,” Morgan said. “But I do have one stipulation if you’re going to use my son as your model.”

“Oh?” Natalie was looking down at her camera, clicking through the shots.

“I want to buy the abstract. Today. We’re having Josh’s boss over for drinks this Friday, and I want to hang the painting in the living room.”

“Oh, Morgan, just borrow the damned thing!”

Morgan grinned. “Uh-uh. I’m paying you for it.” She picked up her son, whose diaper sagged against his sandy shorts. “I’ll carry him. You can carry the painting over. Now.”

First, Natalie thought, she’d do a quick sketch of Petey on the beach with a charcoal pencil on a sheet of her less expensive paper. She selected her favorite photo taken of Petey in the sand by the lake, uploaded it onto her computer, and zoomed it as big as her computer screen would take it without distorting it.

Next, she put on her music, some CDs she’d burned, a mix of upbeat and mellow, and set the volume at low. She picked up her pencil and put it down.

Standing in front of her easel, she stared at the digitalized shot of the little boy, letting her eyes blur as she took in the background: the golden sand, blue water, green trees all around him. Her pencil waggled in her hand as she loosened her wrist. She hadn’t done portraiture for years. She wasn’t sure what she was doing. This would be only a sketch. When she used oils, she could bring out the radiance of the child’s hair, the bloom of his fresh skin, the gentle spread of light around him. For now she wanted to capture only line, shape, and shadow. His profile was to her as he squatted in the sand. His hand was halfway between the ground and the bowl, the small spoon heavy, clutched tightly in his hand, his entire body tensed with the effort not to spill the sand.

Her own hand lifted. She didn’t think. She hummed to the music. She swayed slightly with the beat. She touched the charcoal pencil to the paper and swooped a line, the plump wrist, the fat fist, the straight handle and curved bowl of the spoon.

She worked swiftly, but still, two hours had passed when she finally stopped, discovering the nape of her neck and the back of her knees moist with sweat. It remained cool in the mornings so she didn’t need the air conditioner and she didn’t want to use mechanical air if she didn’t have to, but by noon the heat had intensified, and even in her shorts and tank top she was uncomfortably warm. She had to take a break. She wasn’t hungry for lunch yet. She needed to
move
. As she went through the house, opening all the windows wider, hoping a breeze would sweep through, she caught sight of the lake, glistening in an inviting span of blue.

She didn’t possess a bathing suit. It had been years since she’d gone swimming. She wasn’t a very strong swimmer, anyway, but right now every molecule in her body wanted to immerse in that cool water. She stepped out of the kitchen onto the deck and looked around. After the still closeness of her studio, the world blossomed around her, an explosion of warmth, fragrance, birdsong, and light. She took a quick peek toward Bella’s house. Bella was at the shop today, she knew, but was Louise out on the deck? No. Good. Sometimes—well, probably more than was good for her—Natalie craved solitude. When she’d been painting, she needed time to emerge from her solitary state and rejoin the normal world. Walking to the end of the deck, she peered around at the O’Keefes’ house. Both cars, Josh’s Cadillac and Morgan’s Toyota SUV, were gone.

Lovely
. The lake was empty, except for someone in a canoe in the distance. It was, after all, a weekday, when most people were at work.

So no one would see her, and she couldn’t wait any longer. She hurried down to her beach, kicked off her sandals, and waded into the lake in her shorts and tank top. The water temperature was heavenly, warm at the top from the touch of the sun, with a teasing coolness the deeper and farther out she walked. She couldn’t resist. It was so inviting, especially after two hours of intense mental concentration. She threw herself into the water and began to swim in her own pathetic uncoordinated way.

After a while, she flipped over on her back and floated, letting her arms drift out to the side, kicking her feet a bit, soaking in the
healing power of the warm sun on her face and the cool water supporting her back. Each finger drooped downward as the water caressed it, and her neck, stiff from working, loosened as her head fell back, her chin lifting toward the sky. Ripples of water combed the curls of her hair with delicate swirls. Oh, this was bliss.

She didn’t think. She couldn’t think. Finally, after all the months of worrying about the move to the lake, and packing up the New York apartment and saying good-bye and making the trip, after wondering if she were just a phony with no talent who would find at the end of the year all she’d done was nothing worthwhile, after worrying that she’d meet only people who carried rifles and ate deer, rabbits, or bears (which was pretty much like the neighborhood she’d grown up in), after all that, and after deciding to do the still life and setting up the silver with apples and working on it,
working
on it and getting twisted in the gut with the instinctive suspicion that it wasn’t
right
and nothing she could do could fix it, after waking up in the middle of the night and stalking into her studio and inspecting the still life and realizing it really was awful, after seeing Petey on the beach and getting that massive hit of urgency, that need to paint him as he was at that moment—after all that, suddenly she was relaxing.

Because she knew her sketch was good. It was going to be extraordinary.

Flipping her feet lightly, she let herself be carried by the water. By the universe. She was eased to the point of sleep, eyes closed, heart slowed, tension melting out of her muscles into the lake. She drifted.

She didn’t know what made her finally wake from her spell. Flipping over onto her stomach, she treaded water and gazed around, looking for her aunt’s beach.

She didn’t see it.

She dog-paddled a slow circle in the water.

She saw her aunt’s house—and it was a million miles away.

A thrill of fear ran down her spine, chilling her, and her feet, now hanging down into the depths, went cold. How had she drifted
so far? What had she been thinking? Well, of course, she
hadn’t
been thinking!
Okay
, she told herself.
Okay
. First of all, she didn’t have to swim to her aunt’s house. She could swim to the closest shore and walk home.

The closest shore was a million miles away.

Another surge of fear shot through her.
Calm down
, she told herself. The shore is not a million miles away. It’s not even a million
feet
away. It only looked like it. And, true, she had never been a strong or efficient swimmer, but she wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t have to get back
soon
. She just had to get back. She could do that. She would take her time, head for her aunt’s beach, and calmly swim back to shore.

She set out. Left arm, right arm. Kicking her legs. Left arm, right arm. She tried to turn her head and breathe like professional swimmers but she kept getting water up her nose, and then she had to quit swimming and tread water while she blew her nose and caught her breath. Left arm, right arm. She splashed water in her face with each stroke. The water no longer supported her. It sucked at her, pulling her down. She forced herself not to look at the shore because keeping her head up slowed her down, so she turned her head to the side as she swam. But when she did look up, she saw that she’d gotten off course and was almost swimming in a circle.

Well, damn!

She straightened her course and began swimming again. She was tiring. She’d never been much of an athlete, and she could feel her body running out of gas. Still, she continued to plow through the water, sloppily sweeping arm after arm. Her breath tore her lungs. She was wheezing, puffing. She stopped to check: it seemed she was making some headway. The house was closer. She could see the pot of pink geraniums on her deck. She swam.

Left arm, right arm, and then, she didn’t know how it happened, she stupidly took a breath and filled her mouth and throat with water. Choking, she paddled frantically in the water, gasping for air. Her body, of its own accord, suddenly just sank. Once again she swallowed a huge gulp of lake. All around her, the water bubbled and frothed as she thrashed.

Fighting now, arms and legs out of sync, she kicked and flailed back to the surface, spitting and gasping and gagging. Gravity dragged relentlessly on her entire body, which had hardened as heavy as stone.

“Help!” she cried, a feeble attempt that made her sink again, water surging into her mouth. Her throat burned. Her lungs were on fire. Her heart was hammering against her chest. All strength evaporated from her limbs as she slapped at the water, struggling to get her nose and mouth up into the air.

Something touched her arm. She screamed, or tried to. Panic flooded her veins, shooting fear on a dazzling course through her body before she understood that it was a hand on her arm, a strong hand hauling her upward. With a monumental effort of will, she forced her body to stop thrashing and blindly turned toward the hand, her eyes flooded with water. Another hand groped at her chin, her shoulder, and finally grasped her under her arm. Her head banged against wood.

She was held like that, her head above water, gasping for air. Someone said something, perhaps “Hang on,” and the hand on her wrist moved to her other underarm.

“Just catch your breath,” a man said. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.”

She steadied herself in the water, allowing her legs to sink down, her body to straighten into an I, as her shoulders and head remained in the blissful air. After a moment, the man said, “Okay. I’m going to pull you up.”

Her senses focused. It was a rowboat. Her cheek scraped along the wood. She was steadily pulled upward until she could grasp the side of the boat with her hands, but she had no power in her arms to get herself over into the boat. The man moved his own hands to her waist, clutched tight, and hauled her up, her butt and legs unceremoniously plunking down into the bottom of the boat.

She lay there for a moment, breathing hard. She was lying on a couple of fishing rods and a coil of rope, curled in fetal position around a pair of large feet in old deck shoes. The sun beat down on her, but she shivered.

“Can you sit up if I help you?” the man asked.

“I think so.” She grabbed the plank of wood serving as a seat and dragged herself up. That took every ounce of energy she had left. She just sat there, head falling forward, chest heaving.

“Take off your top,” the man said.

She lifted her head. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Then she recognized the man. It was Bella’s brother Ben, wearing a swimming suit and a cotton polo shirt.

“Your teeth are chattering,” Ben told her quietly. “You’re covered in gooseflesh. You’re probably in shock.” In one smooth movement, he peeled off his shirt and handed it to her. “Put this on. It will warm you up.” When she just gawked at him, he said, “It’s clean. Out of the drawer this morning.”