What the Waves Bring Read Free Page B

thought, she sat by his side, studying the silent features, wondering at his origin. Not a pianist, she concluded, in light of the tan that, with the lessening of the surf-splotched pallor, came increasingly to the fore. Yes, an athlete—but by profession? Her eye traced the outline of his hair, now full and vibrant. It was too long for the military, too short for the art world. And the tan—its very specific markings would be foreign to either. Perhaps he was a business tycoon, a corporate wizard, even a politician; any of these could most possibly acquire such a tan. What would she find when he finally awoke from his life-renewing sleep? There was nothing to do but wait and see.
    A sigh of resignation slipped through her lips as she gathered together the cloth, towels, and basin, and returned them to the bath. Back in the bedroom, she collected the sodden clothing that had been discarded haphazardly on the floor, loaded it into the small washing machine in the mud room off the kitchen, and wandered back into the living room to sit out the storm. With the trusty transistor propped on her lap, she rested against the cushions of the ancient sofa and closed her eyes, mindful with poignant force of the toll this unexpected rescue mission had taken on her.
    Weary fingers fumbled at the dial of the radio, finding frequency after frequency of static until one weak signal finally came through. “The storm … centered … south of Nantucket … of noon,” the broken voice informed her. “It appears … stalled in … area, lashing … last strength against the Cape … offshore islands.”
    Hmph! she grimaced. You needn’t tell me that! Her eyes shot open as a gust of wind seemed to penetrate the sturdy rafters of the house she had thought to be so secure at the time of its purchase last summer. Slowly, her eye perused the decor she had inherited with the sale, taking in early
American furniture, a myriad of crammed bookshelves, regional artwork, scattered rugs. As the lights flickered for an instant, she wondered where kerosine lamps might have been stored by the previous owner. Praying that they would not be needed, she nonetheless searched the kitchen pantry and the dank basement, finally emerging with two vintage lamps and a tin of kerosine. Filling the lamps as a precaution, she placed them on the low wood table in the center of the room before peeking in on her visitor.
    He hadn’t moved since she’d left him and seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Reassured, she returned to her perch in the living room. If they could only see me now. She laughed at the irony. From the lap of luxury to the edge of the world, in one fateful move—yet she felt not one ounce of regret. The move was one she had chosen herself. The jet set, into which she had been born, held no lure to her; the fast crowd of New York, which she had left with such firm resolve, offered no greater attraction. She had deliberately chosen this spot, ’Sconset, on the far end of Nantucket, for its inaccessibility. Wasn’t that what it had been touted for? Wasn’t that what the wealthy exiles from the seaboard cities had sought when they had fled here summer after summer? Now she was a year-round resident of this small community—on a trial basis, of course. Her avenues were all very open. If she could continue her work from this isolated spot, aided by her Apple and several understanding colleagues in New York, she would stay. She loved it so far— despite the whims of the elements!
    A stirring from the bedroom brought her quickly to her feet, stockinged now in the thick wool legacy of her skiing days. Padding across the polished oak floor, she entered the bedroom to find that her mysterious stranger had thrown back the covers and was enveloped in a sweat totally out of sync with the chill of hurricane winds that enveloped the house.

    â€œWhat have you done?” she scolded him softly,