Beach House No. 9 Part 13

THE WOMEN WERE hovering. Griffin tried ignoring their chatter, but they weren't just talking among themselves. No, Jane, Tess and Skye were also talking to him-offering up advice on how best to sh.o.r.e up Old Man Monroe's stair railing. Pestering him with questions about what he thought had happened the night before.

Why the old coot had fallen.

"How the h.e.l.l should I know?" he muttered, but the funny thing was they didn't appear much interested in his answers anyway. With barely a pause, they moved on to some other angle. Always talking, talking, talking.

"I need water," he announced, rising to his feet. He left his tools on the wooden porch and didn't bother taking his cell phone, which he'd tossed on top of the T-s.h.i.+rt he'd left on a cus.h.i.+oned patio chair. Rex Monroe's screen door squealed as he pulled it open. It banged behind him as he headed for the small kitchen.

He was filling a gla.s.s when he heard his neighbor's voice. "Skye?"

"It's me," he called out, then stepped to the small adjacent den where Monroe was reclined in a ratty chair. The night before, when Griffin and Jane had run to the crumpled form on the porch, the man had already been rousing. Though they'd wanted to call 911, he'd refused any help beyond getting him back to his feet. As of this morning, he claimed no lingering side effects besides a knot on the head and an ache to go along with it. "You want me to get her?"

"You'll do," Monroe said. "Come here."

Griffin hadn't been in the room in ages, if ever. It was small, holding the recliner, a TV-and-cable setup and rows of bookshelves. One wall was paneled and covered with framed photographs. Some of them were clearly shots of the reporter from his foreign correspondent days. Others looked to be- His glance darted to the old man. "You have Gage's work in here."

Monroe shrugged a thin shoulder covered in a plaid s.h.i.+rt that must have been straight from the dry cleaner, it was so sharply pressed. "He sends me some from time to time."

"Huh."

"Those leather alb.u.ms? Got tear sheets of your articles in them. Only the better ones, of course, which means they're few and far between."

The insult didn't surprise Griffin, but the fact that his neighbor had collected any of his pieces gave him pause. He ran a finger over a binder and noted it was the same style as the one in Beach House No. 9 that contained his stuff from Afghanistan. "You like me," he said dryly. "You really like me."

Old Man Monroe snorted. "It's sad how your standards lower when you get to be my age."

"Well, clearly your fall didn't soften your tongue any," Griffin noted. "And not that I care, but the females are twittering like you wouldn't believe, so I have to ask. Are you sure you're okay?"

He waved a liver-spotted hand in the air. "Beyond a few minutes I can't account for and the little people with the hammers inside my head, I'm fine."

"It was a good thing that Jane saw you when she did."

"True. And that you were there to pick me up." The old man narrowed his gaze on Griffin. "She said it was lucky-you hadn't been home long. Something about visiting with a man from the platoon?"

"Yeah." He turned to inspect one of his twin's photos. It showed a s.h.i.+rtless soldier from the back, ball cap on his head, army issue on his lower half, strapping a weapon at his hips. His head was bent and across his shoulders was inked a wicked-looking tribal tattoo. A line of barbs circled one thick bicep.

Under the s.h.i.+rt collar of Brian Hernandez, the man he'd met at LAX the day before, Griffin had glimpsed the devil tattoo that crawled up the former soldier's neck. It had been bright red, new-blood red, cherry-red. "Remember when we were cherries?" the kid had asked, touching the thing and using the common term for inexperienced soldiers. "Once I made it to the outpost, I think I was cherry for like thirty seconds."

"Less," Griffin had said. Immediately upon climbing from their Chinook transports, they'd been mortared. A welcome from their adversaries across the valley.

"Griffin?" The old man was speaking again, his voice sharp. "You hear me?"

"Sure," he answered. He'd heard Monroe talking, just hadn't taken in the words.

"I was wondering why your friend came so far for such a short visit."

Griffin shot him a look over his shoulder. "Why the h.e.l.l would you care?"

"Because I'm nosy, obviously. All good reporters are. You should know that. Of course-"

"I'm not very good, I get it, I get it."

"I was going to say of course I can guess what he wanted."

"Yeah?" Griffin said. "You're a mind reader now? How could you possibly know?" He'd had no clue himself going in, but the agitated tone in the kid's voice when he'd called had taken hold of his insides and wrung them like a washcloth.

"Because it's what everyone who's been in theater asks themselves, wonders about, fixates over." The old man paused. "He wanted to know, what now? We've all asked ourselves some version of that. After the brutal thrill of war, what comes next?"

A long moment pa.s.sed, then Griffin realized he was holding his breath, waiting. Jesus Christ! Waiting for the effing Ancient Mariner to share the secret of life. Death. War.

Whatever.

"I've got to finish up outside," he said, brusque. "The ladies wouldn't forgive me if your rocky railing means you take another fall."

"Help me out of this chair, then," Monroe ordered. "I like to get some real suns.h.i.+ne on me every day, just in case it's my last."

"We could only get so lucky," Griffin said, crossing to give his neighbor his arm. Then they walked together to the front porch. To free up the extra chair for the old man, he tossed his s.h.i.+rt and cell phone to his sister.

The women, predictably, gathered around Monroe, and Griffin didn't have to check to know that he ate up the attention. Skye, in particular, couldn't stop peppering the coot with questions. Was he certain he was well enough to be sitting up? Had he remembered anything more about the incident? Why had he gone onto the porch at that time of night anyway?

Rex replied in versions of yes, no and he couldn't remember. It was possible he'd heard some strange noise, perhaps a scuffling outside his front door.

Skye's voice rose. "You think someone was trying to get inside?"

Hammer in hand, Griffin looked over from his seat on the first stair only to find Jane was seated beside him. He jumped, dropping the tool. When he reached for it, so did she, and their fingers tangled.

Their gazes met.

He'd been avoiding that, looking at Jane. The only thing worse would be- "We should talk about it," she said.

-would be talking about it! His fingers convulsed on hers. "Why? I get it. Your defenses were down because you'd been drinking. My libido was up because I'm a guy."

Her fingers jerked away from his to clutch the hem of yet another of her maddening, floaty skirts. Gauzy and delicate, they made his palms itch to rip, to reveal, to ride between her slender thighs. "I don't know what you mean by me drinking."

He rolled his eyes. "Last night you tasted like tequila and lime, honey-pie." Feeling sorry for the birthday girl, he hadn't rubbed it in.

She swallowed. "I turned another year older. So..."

"You don't have to explain." What the h.e.l.l was the point of discussing it? It would only serve to bring it all up in his mind. He'd been in a h.e.l.l of a temper himself, on edge from his meeting with Brian, from the memories that were intruding more and more often.

Bright red. Cherry-red. The red of new blood.

It wasn't supposed to be this way! He was cold inside, desensitized, but n.o.body would leave him alone. All this talk, talk, talk kept rattling him.

Jane's mouth primmed.

That mouth.

He wrapped his fingers around the hammer and turned back to the task at hand. Nail pierced wood, and he sank it deep, as deep as he wanted to put all the thoughts that kept hammering at him day after day. The war. Erica. Bright red, cherry-red, the red of new blood, Brian.

"Griffin..."

And Jane. Who could have foreseen the fire under that governess guise? And why the h.e.l.l did he want to touch it so very much? Gage was the real risk taker in the family. But Jane made Griffin want to put his hand in the flame and hold it there.

The burn would make him feel so d.a.m.n alive.

But he didn't want to feel at all!

"Look," she was saying in her librarian voice. It was hushed but impossible to ignore. "I know that I... Uh, that I..."

"Came like a rocket at the flick of my finger?" He could feel her blush, even with his back turned. "Don't be ashamed, honey-pie. I suppose some men would find it gratifying."

She made a strangled sound. "Do you have to be so...so crude?"

Yes. Because it would be effective in pus.h.i.+ng her away, and he needed to do that, he'd decided. Jane was so much sweet d.a.m.n trouble under her frothy skirts and prim blouses. While he admittedly ached to get into her body, she'd use it as an excuse to get into his head. And though the explosive chemistry between them could knock her straight out of her crazy, girlie shoes, and while he was more grateful than he could say to know that he had a working c.o.c.k again, he'd learned some lessons through war.

He'd never been armed during his embed year, but weapons had surrounded him all the same. One slow afternoon the soldiers had convinced him he needed to know how to handle every weapon at the outpost. He'd actually touched them many times already-moving a grenade someone inadvertently had left on his pillow or handing a platoon member his M4. But that day he'd learned to load and shoot and had been fascinated by the power in his hands. Maybe it was a man thing, a testosterone-driven interest in a tool, a gadget, but whatever the seductive lure, touching them like that had set his heart hammering. That's when he'd thought better of what he was doing. That's when he'd set down the rifle he was holding and backed slowly away, aware that keeping it too close would change him as a man.

Jane was like that. With her in his hands, he'd be changed...he could see her cracking him open like a nut, and he couldn't risk any of what was in there leaking out.

"I should have known you wouldn't engage in a civilized conversation," she muttered now. "Not even about this."

"You want a conversation?" He swiveled on the step and pinned her with his gaze. She'd been standing out in the sun long enough for the tip of her nose to turn pink. He curled his fingers into a fist so he wouldn't touch her there. Or anywhere. "Jane, here's the bottom line. I don't want you in my bed."

She blinked those silvery eyes and he glanced away from the-what? Surprise? Hurt? h.e.l.l.

"It would be bad for me," he continued. "And a disaster for you, because I can't give you what you need...." Her helpless climax of the night before flared across his mind, but he dashed water on it, cooling the heat. "What you really need."

"Oh." Her voice was small. Or perhaps insulted. "Thank you for being clear about that. Now I don't need to apologize for leaving you...unsatisfied."

He swallowed his groan. "Jane-"

"Griff!" Tess called his name, and she held up his phone, waving it to indicate there was someone on the line.

"Can you take a message?" he called back. Then he put his hand on Jane's knee. "Look..."

She did, and their eyes caught again. It was like gazing across the water toward the horizon just as the sun left the sky. No obstacles ahead. A silvery slide to forever.

"Griff." The strange note in his sister's voice caused him to jerk. He looked up. She was coming across the porch, a tense expression on her face.

His heart jolted. "Gage?" He jumped to his feet. "Something's happened to Gage?"

"No, no." Tess put both hands out. "Not that. It's your friend. That young man you met yesterday."

"Huh? Brian?"

"That was his mother. She thought you'd want to know...."

Griffin froze. His tongue felt thick. "Just tell me," he ordered his sister. "Say it quick." Like ripping off a Band-Aid.

"He's going to be all right, but..."

"Say it quick."

"After landing yesterday, on the way home, he crashed. He crashed his car into a tree one block from his parents' house. It was raining," she added. "A big storm."

A one-car crash, one block from home. Yeah, it was raining. A big storm. Inside Brian too.

"His mom wanted to make sure that you knew and to thank you for talking with him," Tess added.

Griffin stared at her. "Why the h.e.l.l would his mother say that?" What had the talking accomplished? Nothing. Not a thing. Dropping the hammer again, he ran down the steps, not wanting to discuss the subject-any subject-anymore.

Talking did nothing-as evidenced by that look on Jane's face and by Brian's latest disaster. Because the fact was, Griffin didn't have the right words to help, to heal, to explain any G.o.dd.a.m.n thing in the world to anyone, least of all himself.

IT WAS PAST DARK, and David had a simple plan to a.s.suage the loneliness that a.s.sailed him every evening in the sprawling ranch house in Cheviot Hills. It was Friday night, and with the weekend ahead, he couldn't face the quiet workless days without a little fix of his family. He was going to watch over them, just until morning. No one had to know about it but him.

He trudged through the soft sand of Crescent Cove, once again in the wrong kind of shoes. Instead of flip-flops or those leather things in his closet that his daughter teased him were "mandals," he was in his running shoes. Grains poured into the sides until he felt as if he was wearing lifts. Sloppy lifts that made him stumble a little. He almost dropped the pop-up tent he'd borrowed from his neighbor. The sleeping bags he'd found in the boys' closet bobbled in his grasp.

It would serve him right to fall flat on his face.

Since it was exactly what he'd done with his life.

Between Beach Houses No. 8 and No. 9 was a clear swath of sand. He intended to set up camp there, close enough to his family to ease his spirit, far enough away that they wouldn't be aware of his presence. Though they all needed to become accustomed to Daddy keeping his distance.

It took three tries to set up his makes.h.i.+ft camp. Two times the tent popped up all right but then sprang out of his hold. On the third attempt, he tamed it into submission, but when he crawled inside he kneed over a sharp object that made him roll to his back and cradle his bruised skin. Upon scooting back out and clawing the sand beneath the tent floor, he uncovered a hard plastic shovel. It looked very much like the one that came with the set of sand tools they'd put in the boys' Easter baskets last spring.

"Thanks, Easter Bun," he muttered. Then he tossed it aside and dragged the sleeping bags in behind him.

They didn't have any adult-sized ones at the house. Neither he nor Tess had grown up camping, and the first baby had come too quickly in their marriage to explore it as a recreational possibility. So he'd grabbed the two that the boys brought to slumber parties. SpongeBob SquarePants and Buzz Lightyear. He unzipped them flat, intending to sleep sandwiched between their layers. Good thing. They were so short and narrow that one wouldn't have contained half of him.

As it was, his feet and shoulders stuck out of each end. But it was enough. He was warmed by being able to gaze on the small cottage that housed his four children and his wife. Flat on his belly, he toed off his shoes and stacked his hands to support his chin as he watched No. 8 through the tent flap.

The low lights coming from the windows wavered in his vision. He was exhausted. Early to work, late to work out, followed by the grinding quiet of the empty house meant he'd slept little since Tess and his children had left him.

In his dream, he was swimming in the ocean. Two seals floated close, their bodies pressing against his. He put an arm around each, riding alongside them toward sh.o.r.e, as happy as he'd ever been in his life. As happy as he'd been from the day he'd met his wife until the morning he'd turned forty years old.

Then something kicked him in the nuts. He awoke with a jerk and a curse. What the...?

"Knock knock," his brother-in-law's voice said from outside the tent.

"Griffin?" David craned his neck to peer out the flap. There he saw the other man, flat on his back on the sand, staring up at the sky. "What's going on?"

"Just a little stargazing."