all he’d ever say about it. Whatever it was, it must be terrifying. He’d wake himself and her up with moans, little whimpers, then outcries that were close to screams. And he’d be soaked in sweat, shaky, his pulse rate so accelerated he had trouble catching his breath. She hoped it wouldn’t happen tonight. The pain sounds he made and the sudden wrenching from sleep were bad enough, but the way his heart beat so rapidly for so long afterward was cause for alarm. So was the little hitch every few beats even when he was at rest.
Shelby could hear the hitch now as he slept. It was probably nothing but simple arrhythmia, as his shortness of breath was probably nothing but the result of being out of shape. But they and the too-rapid pulse rate could also be symptoms of angina or some other form of heart disease.
The first time she’d noticed the hitch, she’d suggested he see his doctor for a checkup and an EKG. He’d said he would, but as far as she knew he hadn’t done it. She’d have to prod him again. Abnormalities were nothing to slough off, even in a man of thirty-five. She’d seen and treated too many coronary victims; watched three die on the way to the hospital ER, one of them a man in his late twenties.
One more thing to worry about …
F I V E
T HE STORM BLEW ITSELF out sometime during the night. The wind was still yammering but there was no rain when Macklin got up and looked out through the bedroom window blinds. Heavy overcast, and a light fog swirling in among the pines and other trees that separated the cottage from the big estate to the south. Shelby was still asleep. He put on his new robe—her Christmas present to him this year—and went into the bathroom to use the toilet and splash his face with cold water. He hadn’t slept well; he felt logy and tight all over, as if his skin had somehow shrunk during the night. At least what sleep he’d had had been dreamless.
He padded into the kitchen to see if the power had come back on. It had—a relief. He found coffee, set the pot brewing, then turned on the baseboard heater and raised the blinds over the mullioned windows that faced seaward. The ocean’s surface was strewn with deer-tail whitecaps and huge fans of kelp. Below the unkempt lawn that sloped down to the bluff edge, part of the cove below was visible—spume geysering over a collection of offshore rocks each time one of the incoming waves broke. Ben had told him there was a rock-and-sand beach that ran the full length of the inlet, flanked by rocky headlands, accessible only to the three cliffside homes. Maybe later, if the weather held, he and Shelby would go down there and check it out. One thing they had in common was the beachcomber gene.
In the kitchen again, he took out the breakfast fixings they’d brought with them, put together a Florentine omelette, readied six strips of bacon for broiling in the oven, sliced English muffins. Cooking was a source of pleasure for him, always had been, and he was good at it. For a time, after college, he’d thought about enrolling in one of the better culinary academies, learning how to be a quality chef, but he’d never followed through. Maybe if he had …
No, hell, he’d known back then that he wasn’t cut out to be a chef. Restaurant owner was more suited to his abilities, or so he’d believed. He understood well-prepared food, he had managerial skills, all he’d lacked was the capital. Five years of dull work in the restaurant supply business, with every extra penny of his and Shelby’s incomes saved, plus the cash from an affordable mortgage on the house Shel had inherited from her mother, and they’d taken the plunge.
Macklin’s Grotto. Fine Seafood Specialties. A prime location in Morgan Hill, small but with an intimate atmosphere; a well-regarded chef trained in one of the better Manhattan restaurants, a menu that featured fresh fish and shellfish dishes, and the best cioppino he’d ever tasted. How could it miss being
Shelby could hear the hitch now as he slept. It was probably nothing but simple arrhythmia, as his shortness of breath was probably nothing but the result of being out of shape. But they and the too-rapid pulse rate could also be symptoms of angina or some other form of heart disease.
The first time she’d noticed the hitch, she’d suggested he see his doctor for a checkup and an EKG. He’d said he would, but as far as she knew he hadn’t done it. She’d have to prod him again. Abnormalities were nothing to slough off, even in a man of thirty-five. She’d seen and treated too many coronary victims; watched three die on the way to the hospital ER, one of them a man in his late twenties.
One more thing to worry about …
F I V E
T HE STORM BLEW ITSELF out sometime during the night. The wind was still yammering but there was no rain when Macklin got up and looked out through the bedroom window blinds. Heavy overcast, and a light fog swirling in among the pines and other trees that separated the cottage from the big estate to the south. Shelby was still asleep. He put on his new robe—her Christmas present to him this year—and went into the bathroom to use the toilet and splash his face with cold water. He hadn’t slept well; he felt logy and tight all over, as if his skin had somehow shrunk during the night. At least what sleep he’d had had been dreamless.
He padded into the kitchen to see if the power had come back on. It had—a relief. He found coffee, set the pot brewing, then turned on the baseboard heater and raised the blinds over the mullioned windows that faced seaward. The ocean’s surface was strewn with deer-tail whitecaps and huge fans of kelp. Below the unkempt lawn that sloped down to the bluff edge, part of the cove below was visible—spume geysering over a collection of offshore rocks each time one of the incoming waves broke. Ben had told him there was a rock-and-sand beach that ran the full length of the inlet, flanked by rocky headlands, accessible only to the three cliffside homes. Maybe later, if the weather held, he and Shelby would go down there and check it out. One thing they had in common was the beachcomber gene.
In the kitchen again, he took out the breakfast fixings they’d brought with them, put together a Florentine omelette, readied six strips of bacon for broiling in the oven, sliced English muffins. Cooking was a source of pleasure for him, always had been, and he was good at it. For a time, after college, he’d thought about enrolling in one of the better culinary academies, learning how to be a quality chef, but he’d never followed through. Maybe if he had …
No, hell, he’d known back then that he wasn’t cut out to be a chef. Restaurant owner was more suited to his abilities, or so he’d believed. He understood well-prepared food, he had managerial skills, all he’d lacked was the capital. Five years of dull work in the restaurant supply business, with every extra penny of his and Shelby’s incomes saved, plus the cash from an affordable mortgage on the house Shel had inherited from her mother, and they’d taken the plunge.
Macklin’s Grotto. Fine Seafood Specialties. A prime location in Morgan Hill, small but with an intimate atmosphere; a well-regarded chef trained in one of the better Manhattan restaurants, a menu that featured fresh fish and shellfish dishes, and the best cioppino he’d ever tasted. How could it miss being
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