have his nightmare. The same nightmare over and over—that was all he’d ever say about it. Whatever it was, it must be terrifying. He’d wake himself and her up with moans, little whimpers, then outcries that were close to screams. And he’d be soaked in sweat, shaky, his pulse rate so accelerated he had trouble catching his breath. She hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight. The pain sounds he made and the sudden wrenching from sleep were bad enough, but the way his heart beat so rapidly for so long afterward was cause for alarm. So was the little hitch every few beats even when he was at rest.
Shelby could hear the hitch now as he slept. It was probably nothing but simple arrhythmia, as his shortness of breath was probably nothing but the result of being out of shape. But they and the too-rapid pulse rate could also be symptoms of angina or some other form of heart disease.
The first time she’d noticed the hitch, she’d suggested he see his doctor for a checkup and an EKG. He’d said he would, but as far as she knew he hadn’t done it. She’d have to prod him again. Abnormalities were nothing to slough off, even in a man of thirty-five. She’d seen and treated too many coronary victims; watched three die on the way to the hospital ER, one of them a man in his late twenties.
One more thing to worry about …
F I V E
THE STORM BLEW ITSELF out sometime during the night. The wind was still yammering but there was no rain when Macklin got up and looked out through the bedroom window blinds. Heavy overcast, and a light fog swirling in among the pines and other trees that separated the cottage from the big estate to the south. Shelby was still asleep. He put on his new robe—her Christmas present to him this year—and went into the bathroom to use the toilet and splash his face with cold water. He hadn’t slept well; he felt logy and tight all over, as if his skin had somehow shrunk during the night. At least what sleep he’d had had been dreamless.
He padded into the kitchen to see if the power had come back on. It had—a relief. He found coffee, set the pot brewing, then turned on the baseboard heater and raised the blinds over the mullioned windows that faced seaward. The ocean’s surface was strewn with deer-tail whitecaps and huge fans of kelp. Below the unkempt lawn that sloped down to the bluff edge, part of the cove below was visible—spume geysering over a collection of offshore rocks each time one of the incoming waves broke. Ben had told him there was a rock-and-sand beach that ran the full length of the inlet, flanked by rocky headlands, accessible only to the three cliffside homes. Maybe later, if the weather held, he and Shelby would go down there and check it out. One thing they had in common was the beachcomber gene.
In the kitchen again, he took out the breakfast fixings they’d brought with them, put together a Florentine omelette, readied six strips of bacon for broiling in the oven, sliced English muffins. Cooking was a source of pleasure for him, always had been, and he was good at it. For a time, after college, he’d thought about enrolling in one of the better culinary academies, learning how to be a quality chef, but he’d never followed through. Maybe if he had …
No, hell, he’d known back then that he wasn’t cut out to be a chef. Restaurant owner was more suited to his abilities, or so he’d believed. He understood well-prepared food, he had managerial skills, all he’d lacked was the capital. Five years of dull work in the restaurant supply business, with every extra penny of his and Shelby’s incomes saved, plus the cash from an affordable mortgage on the house Shel had inherited from her mother, and they’d taken the plunge.
Macklin’s Grotto. Fine Seafood Specialties. A prime location in Morgan Hill, small but with an intimate atmosphere; a well-regarded chef trained in one of the better Manhattan restaurants, a menu that featured fresh fish and shellfish dishes, and the best cioppino he’d ever tasted. How could it miss being successful?
Except that it had. Oh, not in the beginning; business had been good the first year, with plenty of repeat customers and new ones brought in by word-of-mouth recommendation. But then the economy had begun to sag and people were less inclined to spend their money eating out. Arturo, the chef, had quit to take a better-paying job in San Francisco, and the best replacement Macklin could find for him hadn’t been nearly as accomplished or creative. Empty tables even on the weekends, cash reserves running out and bills piling up. And then the death kiss—the woman customer who’d slipped on a piece of salmon in cream sauce dropped by a careless waiter and cracked a bone in her wrist. Their insurance company had paid the medical and settlement bills, dropped them cold immediately afterward. And there was no way he could get another policy without paying an unaffordable high-risk premium.
Three years of living his dream, only one of them really good. Then back into the restaurant supply business as a glorified office manager at Conray Foods—a mediocre job, but one that paid reasonably well. And then after a year and a half, with no warning, out on his ass and into line at the unemployment office.
And once the unemployment insurance maxed out at seventy-nine weeks, or more likely, was suspended sometime after the first of the year? It wouldn’t make much difference in the short haul. But in the long haul … then what? Wasn’t likely to be any kind of decent job for a man his age, with his limited skills and experience and health issues. He’d be lucky to get minimum-wage dregs: busboy at Burger King, grocery bagger at Safeway, newspaper deliveryman if there were still newspapers to be delivered. Some future. Some hope to offer Shelby.
What was that line from
Feeling sorry for himself again. Knock it off, Macklin. Your life is what it is—period. Nobody to blame but the gods or whoever runs the universe, if anybody or anything does. Accept it. Be a man.
Pop’s voice, echoing in his memory. Harold P. Macklin—always Harold, never Harry or Hal. Sporting goods salesman and habitual gambler who’d lost far more than he won at poker, horse races, blackjack, and the sports books in Tahoe and Reno. Cold, distant, domineering. Lousy husband, lousy father. Ruled Ma and his two sons with an iron fist and an acid tongue.
He remembered the October day when he was fifteen, the school principal taking him out of his English class to tell him that both his parents were dead in a highway accident. On their way home from one of their frequent trips to Reno, Tom and him left in the care of Aunt Carolyn or to fend for themselves as they grew older; Pop driving too fast and losing control on an icy stretch near Donner Summit, both of them killed outright. He’d cried for Ma, but not for the old man. Never shed a tear for him, never missed him. Seldom even thought of him, except for a teenage vow to be a damn sight better man. And yet here he was, his father’s son in the only way that really counted.
Harold P. Macklin, Jayson L. Macklin—a couple of losers.
The coffee was ready. He could hear Shelby stirring around in the bedroom, awakened by the aroma. He turned on the broiler, started an omelette large enough for two. He wasn’t hungry, but maybe she was.
Her mood this morning seemed better than yesterday’s: She had a smile for him when she came out. Quiet at the table, but when she did say something it had an upbeat ring. At least she was making an effort.
“I should go into Seacrest,” he said after they finished eating, “pick up a few things at the grocery, fill the gas tank. Want to come along?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Won’t take long.”
“I’ll find something to do here,” she said. Meaning she preferred her own company to his. “See if you can get a new wiper blade while you’re there. The one on the passenger side started sticking last night.”
“Yeah, I noticed. I’ll take care of it.”
Macklin waited until ten thirty before leaving, figuring that the grocery store and garage would be open by then—if they were open at all this time of year. He didn’t relish the prospect of having to hunt down groceries and a new wiper blade somewhere other than Seacrest; the nearest town in either direction was fifteen miles.
He was backing out of the carport onto the lane when the angry blare of a horn sounded close behind him. He
