I glanced back at the computer, then the thick pad of paper beside it. My fingers itched to pick up the pen, sit on the sofa, and allow myself to write the way I liked to. Except after what happened, I wasn’t sure I could ever do that again. Unless I copied every page immediately, locked all of it up into a vault, and never spoke of it to another person. A small huff of frustration left my lips. I didn’t know if anyone would ever read anything I wrote, even if I was able to do so again, not after this fiasco, anyway.
The headache started to build, and my fingers rubbed at my temples, trying to effect some relief. Caffeine hadn’t helped and neither had my spur of the moment idea. Drawing in a deep breath, I grimaced at the lingering odor of nail polish hanging in the air. When I had seen the electric blue bottle of polish in the drawer, I hadn’t been able to resist painting my toenails with it. I was, after all, at the beach. It seemed almost wrong not to. Now, though, I needed to go for a walk and get some fresh air. My toes were still drying, but Karen had flip flops I could borrow to protect them.
Looking over at the chair, I smiled. Dixie was sitting on the cushion, looking at me, her little body almost trembling in excitement. She loved it here with all the open spaces to run and investigate. The beach below us held endless exploration for her, and I didn’t even need to keep her on her lead in the daytime. She stayed close as we walked, running up and down the packed sand together, often playing fetch. If we went for a walk later in the evening, I snapped on her lead, just in case something spooked her. The large retriever hadn’t come for another visit, but I could only assume Zachary was keeping his dog away from the beach, in order to not interact with me. I imagined him to be the quintessential artist: aloof and brooding, eating only when necessary, holed up in his studio, creating and gnashing his teeth as he swirled paint on his canvas, shunning the world around him.
I chuckled at my imagination. Then a quiet sigh broke through my lips. I could understand shunning the world. That was the same as what I was doing. Maybe he could give me some pointers.* * *As I descended the few stairs to the beach, I was surprised to see the large golden retriever as well as the mysterious Zachary. I stood for a minute, observing him in private. He was standing, barefoot in the surf, staring out over the water as his dog frolicked close by. Zachary was a tall, dark silhouette against the sand and stormy, strange-colored sky of the late afternoon. Wearing dark jeans and the same overcoat that showed off his broad shoulders, a beanie once again pulled low on his head, he stood with his hands in his pockets, motionless, as the water swept across his bare feet. The rolled-up edges of his pants were dark with the ocean spray clinging to the material. I shivered just watching him. The water had to be freezing.
Seeing her new friend, Dixie let out a happy, little yelp, which had the retriever bounding over to her, once again licking her head and huffing as he greeted her. The two of them took off, heading right toward Zachary. He leaned down, greeting Dixie, allowing her a sniff, then patted her head and straightened up. He didn’t turn around or acknowledge my presence. With a roll of my eyes, I walked forward, stopping when I was close enough to be heard, but not have my feet in the frigid water. I waited, but he said nothing, ignoring me completely.
Unfriendly indeed.
“That’s Dixie—my dog.”
His chin dipped with a brief nod. “Elliott.”
I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “You or the dog?”
His lips quirked at the edges. “My dog.”
“I’m staying at the Harpers’ house.”
He nodded.
“I’m not Karen—I’m a friend of hers.”
His sarcasm was thick. “I realize. I have met her—more than once. There is a slight resemblance, perhaps, but I can see you aren’t her. Your hair rather gives that away.”
“I’m sure it was a thrill for her,” I murmured, surprised to hear the trace of a British accent in his voice. I chose to ignore the remark about my hair.
Nothing.
“They’re letting me stay here for a while.”
“How kind.”
I shook my head. Was he for real?
“I’m Megan. Megan Greene.”
Silence.
I searched my brain for something to say. “Looks like a storm’s coming in.”
“Observant.”
I frowned at him—definitely rude. His voice, however, despite its unwelcoming tone, was low and rich sounding, his subtle accent curling around the words when he spoke. I wanted to hear more than a few monosyllables from him, and to hear him say my name.