Whiskey Beach Read Online Free PDF Page A

four hours.
    “Hester scores again,” he murmured.
    He backed up the work, switched to e-mail. Plenty of spam, he noted—and deleted. Not much else, and nothing he felt obliged, right then, to read.
    Instead he composed a post to his parents, and another to his sister with nearly the same text. No problems on the drive, house looks great, good to be back, settling in. Nothing about recurring dreams, sneaking depression or talkative neighbors who fixed omelets.
    Then he composed another to his grandmother.
    I’m writing here, as ordered. Thank you. The water’s gone to rippling steel with fast white horses. It’s going to snow; you can taste it. The house looks good, and feels even better. I’d forgotten how it always made me feel. I’m sorry—don’t tell me not to apologize again—I’m sorry, Gran, I stopped coming. But I’m sorry now almost as much for me as for you.
    Maybe if I’d come to you, to Bluff House, I’d have seen things more clearly, accepted things, changed things. If I had, would it have all gone so horribly wrong?
    I’ll never know, and there’s no point in the what-ifs.
    What I’m sure of is it’s good to be here, and I’ll take care of the house until you come home. I’m going to take a walk on the beach, come back and start a fire so I can enjoy it once the snow starts to fall.
    I love you,
    Eli
    Oh, P.S. I met Abra Walsh. She’s interesting. I can’t remember if I thanked her for saving the love of my life. I’ll make sure I do when she comes back.
    After he sent the e-mail, it occurred to him that while he couldn’t remember if he’d thanked her, he did remember he hadn’t paid her for the groceries.
    He wrote himself a note on the pack of Post-its he found in the desk drawer, stuck it to the computer monitor. He forgot too easily these days.
    No point in putting off unpacking, he told himself. If nothing else, he needed to change the clothes he’d worn two days straight. He couldn’t let himself go down that road again.
    He used the lift writing had given him, dragged on his coat, remembered he’d yet to put on shoes, then went out for his bags.
    In the unpacking he discovered he hadn’t packed sensibly. He hardly needed a suit, much less three of them, or four pairs of dress shoes, fifteen (Jesus Christ!) ties. Just habit, he told himself. Just packing on autopilot.
    He hung, folded in drawers, stacked up books, found his phone charger, his iPod. Once some of his things worked their way into the room, he found it did make him feel more settled in.
    So he unpacked his laptop case, tucked his checkbook—had to pay the neighbor when she cleaned—in the desk drawer along with his obsessive supply of pens.
    He’d go for a walk now. Stretch his legs, get some exercise, some fresh air. Those were healthy, productive things to do. Because he didn’t want to make the effort, he forced himself as he’d promised himself he would. Get out every day, even if it’s just a walk on the beach. Don’t wallow, don’t brood.
    He pulled on his parka, shoved the keys in his pocket and went out the terrace doors before he changed his mind.
    He forced himself to cross the pavers against the maniacal bluster of wind. Fifteen minutes, he decided as he headed for the beach steps with his head down and his shoulders hunched. That qualified as getting out of the house. He’d walk down, head in one direction for seven and a half minutes, then walk back.
    Then he’d build a fire, and sit and brood in front of it with a glass of whiskey if he wanted to.
    Sand swirled up from the dunes to dance while the wind sweeping in from the sea kicked at the sea grass like a bully. The white horses he’d told his grandmother about reared and galloped over water of hard, icy gray. The air scored his throat on each breath like crushed glass.
    Winter clung to Whiskey Beach like frozen burrs, reminding him he’d forgotten gloves, a hat.
    He could walk thirty minutes tomorrow, he bargained with himself. Or