martyrdom on his face. More than anything, she wanted to shake him off, but she knew that would be foolish. She needed his strength now, just as she’d needed his comfort back in the emergency room. Was there such a thing as independence?
Silently they labored up the steps. At least she labored. He never even took a deep breath. When they reached the porch, Abby forced herself to smile. “Thank you for your help. Thank you for coming to get me. You’ve been very kind. I’ll be all right now.”
He raised that skeptical eyebrow again but said nothing except, “Um.” He turned and ran nimbly down to where Fargo sat waiting. Abby watched the reunion between man and beast with amazement.
For Pete’s sake, dog, he’s only been gone an hour
. Suddenly she wanted Puppy to greet her like she had been missed.
“Hey,” she called to the cat who lay curled on the one porch chair in the full sun. “I’m home, slightly wounded but otherwise well.”
Puppy twitched an ear but didn’t move.
“Yeah, I’m glad to see you too.” She dropped onto the chaise and lay back with a groan. She closed her eyes. Sometime later she awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding wildly, though she couldn’t remember what had scared her. She sat up and looked around. Where was she?
Recognition came quickly. Seaside. Her apartment. The hit-and-run accident.
She shivered. Was the little girl really all right? They said she was, but was she? Maybe they just told Abby that so she wouldn’t have hysterics on them. She wished she had thought to see for herself before she left the hospital.
She rose, walked to the railing, and looked out over the beach. The lowering sun cast long shadows of the houses across the sand. She glanced at her watch. 7:15. With the longest day of the year less than a week away, it’d still be light for quite some time. She loved the long days of summer.
The water demanded her attention. She watched the waves roll in, breaking white with spume, mildly disgruntled to be reaching shore and the end of their journey across countless miles of open water. Their muted grumbling made her think of the man downstairs.
She looked down over her porch rail. There he sat, leaning back in a red Adirondack chair, feet on the second rung of his railing, golden hair muted in the shade cast by her porch. He had a laptop computer in his lap, and he was typing like crazy.
Not that it was any of her business, but what in the world was he writing? She realized with a start that she had no idea what he did for a living. She tried to imagine him as a salesman or an engineer or a CPA. Nothing seemed right. Maybe he was independently wealthy and played the stock market on-line all day. After all, the typical man couldn’t afford a place on the beach. The costs were prohibitive. Why, the hurricane insurance alone would more than break the bank of the average person.
Then again, maybe he had a large family and got lots of e-mail which he was answering.
Deciding that Marsh Winslow’s career path was not an issue worth wondering about, Abby went inside. She felt more alert, less dopey than when she’d come home, but still she stopped in the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face. It cleared the last of the cobwebs, though not her memory’s fog. In her bedroom she grabbed her cane with the four prongs at the base and pulled a fleece jacket over her T-shirt. The sand and surf were calling.
It was wonderful to walk directly from the pavement that ran beside the house onto the sand. She ignored Marsh sitting on hisporch, Fargo lying at his side, as she slowly made her way over the gentle dunes. The prongs at the end of her cane sank into the soft sand until the horizontal plate they were attached to rested flat on the ground. Her bad leg tended to drag as the sand pulled against it, and the uneven, shifting surface made the cane necessary for balance. She didn’t mind. Walking difficulties were simply part of her life.
She kept her
Silently they labored up the steps. At least she labored. He never even took a deep breath. When they reached the porch, Abby forced herself to smile. “Thank you for your help. Thank you for coming to get me. You’ve been very kind. I’ll be all right now.”
He raised that skeptical eyebrow again but said nothing except, “Um.” He turned and ran nimbly down to where Fargo sat waiting. Abby watched the reunion between man and beast with amazement.
For Pete’s sake, dog, he’s only been gone an hour
. Suddenly she wanted Puppy to greet her like she had been missed.
“Hey,” she called to the cat who lay curled on the one porch chair in the full sun. “I’m home, slightly wounded but otherwise well.”
Puppy twitched an ear but didn’t move.
“Yeah, I’m glad to see you too.” She dropped onto the chaise and lay back with a groan. She closed her eyes. Sometime later she awoke with a jerk, her heart pounding wildly, though she couldn’t remember what had scared her. She sat up and looked around. Where was she?
Recognition came quickly. Seaside. Her apartment. The hit-and-run accident.
She shivered. Was the little girl really all right? They said she was, but was she? Maybe they just told Abby that so she wouldn’t have hysterics on them. She wished she had thought to see for herself before she left the hospital.
She rose, walked to the railing, and looked out over the beach. The lowering sun cast long shadows of the houses across the sand. She glanced at her watch. 7:15. With the longest day of the year less than a week away, it’d still be light for quite some time. She loved the long days of summer.
The water demanded her attention. She watched the waves roll in, breaking white with spume, mildly disgruntled to be reaching shore and the end of their journey across countless miles of open water. Their muted grumbling made her think of the man downstairs.
She looked down over her porch rail. There he sat, leaning back in a red Adirondack chair, feet on the second rung of his railing, golden hair muted in the shade cast by her porch. He had a laptop computer in his lap, and he was typing like crazy.
Not that it was any of her business, but what in the world was he writing? She realized with a start that she had no idea what he did for a living. She tried to imagine him as a salesman or an engineer or a CPA. Nothing seemed right. Maybe he was independently wealthy and played the stock market on-line all day. After all, the typical man couldn’t afford a place on the beach. The costs were prohibitive. Why, the hurricane insurance alone would more than break the bank of the average person.
Then again, maybe he had a large family and got lots of e-mail which he was answering.
Deciding that Marsh Winslow’s career path was not an issue worth wondering about, Abby went inside. She felt more alert, less dopey than when she’d come home, but still she stopped in the bathroom and splashed cool water on her face. It cleared the last of the cobwebs, though not her memory’s fog. In her bedroom she grabbed her cane with the four prongs at the base and pulled a fleece jacket over her T-shirt. The sand and surf were calling.
It was wonderful to walk directly from the pavement that ran beside the house onto the sand. She ignored Marsh sitting on hisporch, Fargo lying at his side, as she slowly made her way over the gentle dunes. The prongs at the end of her cane sank into the soft sand until the horizontal plate they were attached to rested flat on the ground. Her bad leg tended to drag as the sand pulled against it, and the uneven, shifting surface made the cane necessary for balance. She didn’t mind. Walking difficulties were simply part of her life.
She kept her
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