Whiskey Beach Read Online Free PDF Page B

intended, and stayed longer, but now as he started back he thought of the whiskey by the fire as a pleasure, a kind of reward rather than an escape or an excuse for a brood.
    He should probably make something to eat as he hadn’t given a thought to lunch. He hadn’t, he realized, eaten anything since breakfast. Which meant he’d reneged on another promise to himself to regain the weight he’d lost, to start working on a healthier lifestyle.
    So he’d make a decent meal for dinner, and get started on that healthier lifestyle. There had to be something he could put together. The neighbor had stocked the kitchen, so . . .
    As he thought of her, he glanced up and saw Laughing Gull nestled with its neighbors beyond the dunes. The bold summer-sky blue of its clapboard stood out among the pastels and creamy whites. He remembered it as a soft gray at one time. But the quirky shape of the place with its single peaked roof gable, its wide roof deck and the glass hump of a solarium made it unmistakable.
    He saw lights twinkling behind that glass to stave off the gloom.
    He’d go up and pay her now, he decided, with cash. Then he could stop thinking about it. He’d walk home from there, renewing his memory of the other houses, who lived there—or who had.
    Part of his brain calculated that now he’d have something cheerful—and true—to report home. Went for a walk on the beach (describe), stopped by to see Abra Walsh on the way home. Blah, blah, new paint on Laughing Gull looks good.
    See, not isolating myself, concerned family. Getting out, making contacts. Situation normal.
    Amused at himself, he composed the e-mail as he climbed. He turned down a smooth cobble path between a short yard laid out with shrubs and statuary—a fanciful mermaid curled on her tail, a frog strumming a banjo, and a little stone bench on legs of winged fairies. He was so struck by the new—to him—landscaping and how perfectly it suited the individuality of the cottage, he didn’t notice the movement behind the solarium until he had a foot on the door stoop.
    Several women on yoga mats rose up—with varying degrees of fluidity and skill, to the inverted V position he identified as the Downward-Facing Dog.
    Most of them wore the yoga gear—colorful tops, slim pants—he’d often seen in the gym. When he’d belonged to a gym. Some opted for sweats, others for shorts.
    All of them, with some wobbles, brought one foot forward into a lunge, then rose up—with a couple of teeters—front leg bent, back leg straight, arms spread front and back.
    Mildly embarrassed, he started to step back, to back away, when he realized the group was following Abra’s lead.
    She held her position, her mass of hair pulled back in a tail. The deep purple top showed off long, sculpted arms; the stone-gray pants clung to narrow hips, slid down long legs to long, narrow feet with toenails painted the same purple as the top.
    It fascinated him, tugged at him as she—then the others—bowed back, front arm curved over her head, torso turning, head lifting.
    Then she straightened her front leg, cocked forward, leaning down, down until her hand rested on the floor by her front foot, and her other arm reached for the ceiling. Again her torso turned. Before he could step back, her head turned as well. As her gaze swept up, her eyes met his.
    She smiled. As if he’d been expected, as if he hadn’t been—inadvertently—playing Peeping Tom.
    He stepped back now, making a gesture he hoped communicated apology, but she was already straightening up. He saw her motion to one of the women as she wove through the mats and bodies.
    What should he do now?
    The front door opened, and she smiled at him again. “Eli, hi.”
    “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . . until I did.”
    “God, it’s freezing! Come on inside.”
    “No, you’re busy. I was just walking, then I—”
    “Well, walk in here before I freeze to death.” She stepped out on those long bare feet, took