several payments. His work as a photographer, and the articles he wrote for outdoor and travel magazines brought in a steady, if erratic income.
The sand was warm, and the paving stones that formed their walk were just plain hot. Kat danced to the side and felt the warmth of the sand press up between her toes. She loved this place. The solitude, the ocean, and Abraham had begun to return to her what ten years of abusive marriage had all but beaten out. Even the simplicity of sensation provided by walking barefoot in the sand helped to magnify the pleasure of it.
Her own background was in counseling, and from the isolation of the beach house, and the warmth of Abraham's love, she often looked back over the years in stupefied horror. How could she have gone on helping others, or thinking that she was helping others, when every part of her own mind, body and soul had been so broken and scarred?
She opened the old metal mailbox, smiling at the large happy face Abe had painted on the side. She was tempted, as always, to take a pen and draw in a bullet hole, but she satisfied herself with pulling out a small pile of envelopes and shaking her head.
She walked back toward the house, shuffling through the mail slowly. There were two that were obviously either requests for articles, or payments. There was one from the lady in New Jersey that Abe continued to stubbornly refer to as his "agent," though the woman had done nothing for his career, as far as Katrina could see, except to provide him with rejections for the one novel he'd written more quickly than he'd been able to collect them without her.
The last envelope was small, dingy, and yellow. The printing was neat and bold, and there was no return address. She stopped to examine it, and a sudden gust of wind kicked sand up in a quick swirl around her ankles. Her hair lifted, tickling her arm and shoulder, but she paid no attention. Something about the envelope filled her with an apprehension she couldn't explain, and she was tempted to take it back to the mailbox, or to chase down the mail truck and slip it into a crack in the back where it could be lost. The envelope was sealed with wax—something she'd not seen more than once or twice in her life, and the wax bore an odd symbol.
She was still standing hesitantly at the end of the walk when Abe's voice cut cheerfully through the morning air.
"What's that you've got, pretty lady?" he asked, stopping a few feet away and leaning on the porch rail in mock fatigue.
Katrina glanced up, knowing she looked like a child with her hand caught in a candy jar. That knowledge only served to magnify her sudden embarrassment, and the nagging fear brought on by the envelope in her hand. She started to hide it from him, caught herself, and stared down at her hand. What was wrong with her?
"Just the mail," she said at last. Her voice sounded very small and quiet in the odd moment of silence.
Abe was at her side in seconds. He took the papers from her hand without even glancing at them and tossed them over the porch rail onto the wicker table.
"What's wrong?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he tilted her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes and repeated the question softly.
"Nothing," she said. "I don't know. Nothing. There's a letter…" she waved at where he'd tossed the mail, and Abe glanced over at it as if seeing it for the first time.
She fell into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, where he couldn't see her eyes.
Abe held her for a while, letting the sun bake them both. She smelled his sweat and felt the strength of his arms and the sudden fear melted away. Finally she squirmed free.
Abe stepped onto the porch without a word and flipped through the mail. As usual, he tossed the payments aside first, unopened. He held the other two in his hand. Any other day, whatever else had arrived would take a back seat to the ever-important correspondence from New Jersey, but the sight of the small,
The sand was warm, and the paving stones that formed their walk were just plain hot. Kat danced to the side and felt the warmth of the sand press up between her toes. She loved this place. The solitude, the ocean, and Abraham had begun to return to her what ten years of abusive marriage had all but beaten out. Even the simplicity of sensation provided by walking barefoot in the sand helped to magnify the pleasure of it.
Her own background was in counseling, and from the isolation of the beach house, and the warmth of Abraham's love, she often looked back over the years in stupefied horror. How could she have gone on helping others, or thinking that she was helping others, when every part of her own mind, body and soul had been so broken and scarred?
She opened the old metal mailbox, smiling at the large happy face Abe had painted on the side. She was tempted, as always, to take a pen and draw in a bullet hole, but she satisfied herself with pulling out a small pile of envelopes and shaking her head.
She walked back toward the house, shuffling through the mail slowly. There were two that were obviously either requests for articles, or payments. There was one from the lady in New Jersey that Abe continued to stubbornly refer to as his "agent," though the woman had done nothing for his career, as far as Katrina could see, except to provide him with rejections for the one novel he'd written more quickly than he'd been able to collect them without her.
The last envelope was small, dingy, and yellow. The printing was neat and bold, and there was no return address. She stopped to examine it, and a sudden gust of wind kicked sand up in a quick swirl around her ankles. Her hair lifted, tickling her arm and shoulder, but she paid no attention. Something about the envelope filled her with an apprehension she couldn't explain, and she was tempted to take it back to the mailbox, or to chase down the mail truck and slip it into a crack in the back where it could be lost. The envelope was sealed with wax—something she'd not seen more than once or twice in her life, and the wax bore an odd symbol.
She was still standing hesitantly at the end of the walk when Abe's voice cut cheerfully through the morning air.
"What's that you've got, pretty lady?" he asked, stopping a few feet away and leaning on the porch rail in mock fatigue.
Katrina glanced up, knowing she looked like a child with her hand caught in a candy jar. That knowledge only served to magnify her sudden embarrassment, and the nagging fear brought on by the envelope in her hand. She started to hide it from him, caught herself, and stared down at her hand. What was wrong with her?
"Just the mail," she said at last. Her voice sounded very small and quiet in the odd moment of silence.
Abe was at her side in seconds. He took the papers from her hand without even glancing at them and tossed them over the porch rail onto the wicker table.
"What's wrong?" he asked. When she didn't answer, he tilted her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes and repeated the question softly.
"Nothing," she said. "I don't know. Nothing. There's a letter…" she waved at where he'd tossed the mail, and Abe glanced over at it as if seeing it for the first time.
She fell into his arms and laid her head on his shoulder, where he couldn't see her eyes.
Abe held her for a while, letting the sun bake them both. She smelled his sweat and felt the strength of his arms and the sudden fear melted away. Finally she squirmed free.
Abe stepped onto the porch without a word and flipped through the mail. As usual, he tossed the payments aside first, unopened. He held the other two in his hand. Any other day, whatever else had arrived would take a back seat to the ever-important correspondence from New Jersey, but the sight of the small,
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