that it was solidly constructed.
Part of the cove was visible from there, south to where the land curved outward to the waterline, north to where tall jumbles of rock hid the inlet below the Lomax property; a piece of the perimeter headland was visible, but not the house itself. The beach, what Shelby could see of it, was about a hundred yards long and fifty yards wide at its widest point—mostly a jumble of small broken rocks strewn with driftwood and brown, bulbous kelp; tidepools, leftovers from last night’s high waves, glistened here and there. She could smell the kelp, a faintly rank, briny odor on the light wind.
A V-line of pelicans came into view from the south, skimming the ocean’s surface on their way to whatever fishing grounds they frequented. When they were gone, she found herself gazing straight out to sea—and remembering an exchange she’d had with Jay some years back, on a beach down near Pescadero. They’d been looking out to sea as she was doing now, and she’d said that what the vast expanse of water made her think of was what lay on the other side, all the different faraway lands and cultures that were touched and surrounded by it. And he’d responded that what it made him think of was how massive and empty it was, and how tiny you’d feel if you were out in the middle of it all alone in a small boat.
There in a nutshell was the fundamental difference between them, the disparity in how they thought and felt and looked at the world—the broad view versus the narrow view, the positive versus the negative.
Steps had been cut into the cliffside to the left of the platform, some carved out of bare rock and some made of wood, with a sectioned handrail following them down to the cove below—a winding, gradual descent through a natural declivity, a distance of maybe 150 feet. Rain puddles had collected on some of the steps, but the descent didn’t look too precarious … as long as that handrail was stable. Shelby went to the wooden landing at the top of the steps for a closer look. The railing seemed as solidly anchored as the platform.
She went down a few steps, experimentally. The footing wasn’t bad at all in her thick-soled running shoes. She kept on going.
At the bottom she picked her way over the rocky shingle to the south. Once she paused to peer into a tidepool, but there was a murkiness to the water and she couldn’t see much through it. The wind was little more than a medium-cool breeze down here, the beach sheltered by the high curving bluffs, the threads of fog drifting high overhead. The tide had started to ebb and as she neared the waterline she could see out to where exposed shelves of rock sloped off into deeper water. There’d be abalone out there, and in the early morning hours, divers off boats anchored offshore—legitimate abalone fishermen in season, poachers year-round.
The sea’s salt-heavy breath sharpened her thoughts, the same old ones replaying on a stuttery loop but now with even greater clarity. She felt a sense of … what? Not exactly urgency, but a prodding restlessness, a growing need to stop waffling and start making decisions.
Jay and the marriage.
Yes, and Douglas, too.
So far she had resisted sleeping with him. A casual affair was the last thing she wanted or needed. But the temptation was strong. He was an attractive man, easy to talk to, a good listener, and he seemed to understand her in ways Jay never had. She hadn’t had to tell him her marriage was in trouble; he’d picked up on all the signs— the bitterness, the loneliness, the faint undercurrent of tension that came from a love fading, maybe dying. He’d broached the subject himself the last time she’d seen him, over coffee after they’d both pulled all-nighters just before Christmas.
“Are you happy, Shelby?”
“What makes you ask that?”
“I think you know. You’re not, are you?”
“Does it matter that much to you?”
“Yes, it does. I care about you. If there’s anything I can do …”
“Such as what? Advice?”
“I’m not Dear Abby. Or an advice nurse.”
“What, then? Lend a sympathetic ear, offer a shoulder to cry on?”
“If that’s what you need.”
“Or a different bed to lie on, in case that’s what I need?”
“Don’t be cynical, okay? I’m not going to hit on you—I don’t operate that way. If all I wanted was a casual affair, I’d’ve made a pass long before this.”
“What do you want, Douglas?”
“For you not to be unhappy.”
He’d meant it. Meant everything he’d said, including not hitting on her. He hadn’t pressured her in any way, at least not overtly.
But quiet persistence was a kind of pressure. So was the way he’d looked at her that morning, with low- burning heat showing beneath his empathy. There was no question that he felt the same sexual attraction for her that she felt for him. He really wouldn’t be satisfied with a casual affair any more than she would; he wasn’t that type of man. If she slept with him, he’d want a commitment to a relationship that was at least semipermanent. Was she ready for that, after all the years with Jay? And with a man she’d only known for a few months?
Evidently not, or she’d already have done something about it.
What was it she did want? To be not unhappy, yes—but what would make her happy again? For the marriage to work the way it had in the beginning? Or to be free, not just of Jay but of Dr. Douglas Booth as well? No complications, no pressures, just time alone to rebuild a life on her own terms?
Maybe.
Maybe the solution was to make a quick, clean break. Walk away from Jay, and from Douglas, too. Walk away from the known into the unknown. Could she do that? Six months ago, even three months ago, the answer would have been no. Now … it wouldn’t be easy, but she was pretty sure she could.
The rocks close to the water’s edge were coated with lichen that looked slippery; she avoided them, poking among the storm detritus farther up. Shells, all broken by the pounding action of the surf. The remains of a dead seagull. A crushed beer can. Two plastic water bottles. A chunk of white Styrofoam that might have come from the lid of an ice chest. Large and small logs, splintered tree limbs, bits and pieces of driftwood sculpted by the elements into different shapes, some of which seemed almost artistically designed.
Just ahead was the land barrier that separated this section of beach from the part below the big estate. At low tide you could make your way around the outthrust of granite, but the footing looked precarious now. Better not risk it.
She went back past the cliffside steps and on up the beach to the north. The shoreline was sandy in places here, but there were also the large jumbled rocks she’d seen from the platform and a series of smooth, upswept limestone shelves. She climbed over one of the larger shelves, where a runnel from an underground freshwater stream poured out of an opening in the cliff wall. When she hopped down on the other side, she was facing a pair of high, rounded boulders like nippleless breasts with a narrow cleavage between them. She squeezed through the passage—and came to an abrupt standstill.
A woman was sitting hunched on another shelf a short distance ahead, staring out to sea.
Even in profile, Shelby recognized her immediately: Claire Lomax.
Either she made a noise or the woman sensed her presence. Claire turned, saw her, and twisted around onto one hip, her body hunched and one hand flat on the rock, like a startled cat about to run. Past her, in the distance, Shelby could see the seaward quarter of the Lomax house against the backdrop of the headland above. The beach in between was mostly open; there was nobody else in sight.
Claire held her startled-cat pose for three or four seconds, then she seemed to sag a little, as if with resignation. She slid her body around so that she was facing Shelby.
No choice then but to go ahead and approach her. Claire wore a sheepskin jacket with the collar pulled up and a tie-dyed scarf tied around her blonde hair, so that her face was a pale oval in between. Only not completely pale: there were discolored marks on it today—marks that took on definition as Shelby neared and that explained the woman’s apparent impulse to run away. Split upper lip. Inch-long abrasion on her right cheek, and above that a yellowing bruise that would soon darken and spread and blacken the eye.
S E V E N
