his pockets, then he strolled down the side aisle. He stopped at each stained glass window and seemed to study it.
Was he reading the images or peering through them. Ivy wondered; was he seeing the present or catching glimpses of the past? More than ever, her past with Tristan seemed to intrude into her everyday life.
Focus on the present , she told herself, and glanced toward Guy. Focus on someone who needs your help now . Maybe the music would relax his mind and allow him to recall bits of what he was repressing.
She finished Brahms, and continued with music she knew by heart: the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata, Number 14. By the final measures Guy was standing behind her.
"You're playing from memory," he said as the last note faded. Ivy nodded.
"I can't remember my own name," he observed, "but you can play an entire song from memory."
Ivy swallowed hard. Better to have the pain in her heart forever than to lose her memory of Tristan—Guy had taught her that much. "It's a song you love, or maybe one he loved." Guy guessed.
Ivy closed the piano and gathered up her pieces of music. "Yes."
'"Moonlight Sonata." Guy said. "The first part of Beethoven's Sonata Fourteen."
Ivy turned to him, surprised. Guy took a step back. "Whoa! How'd I know that?"
They gazed at each other, mirroring amazement, then Ivy smiled. "And you thought you weren't a classy guy!"
IVY AND GUY STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS BY Chatham Light, the same place Ivy and Will had stood eight days earlier. In the afternoon sun, the wide stretch of sand, more than a quarter mile deep, burned hot and white. The ocean swept past, curving to the south as far as the eye could see, its color like the blue sea glass that Ivy loved.
They had picked up sandwiches and soda at a cafe near the church, and Ivy had given Guy the beach towel she had brought along. "Would you like me to come back in an hour? It's a long walk to Nickerson," she added, "and I'll be driving home in that direction."
Guy kept his eyes on the beach, and after a moment asked, "Would you come with me?" She was careful not to gush Of course—I was hoping—whatever I can do to help. "Sure. I like the beach," she replied, and started down the steps.
Reaching the sand, she stepped aside to let Guy lead the way, not wanting to do anything that might extinguish a spark of memory. She followed him across the beach, removing her shoes as he did when they reached the damp sand, then walking next to him, heading south. Toddlers played at the sea's frothy edge, running back and forth with plastic pails. A father played Frisbee with his kids.
A middle aged woman with wet, spiky hair smiled to herself as she carried her raft from the waves. Beneath a striped umbrella a younger boy played checkers with an older one and let out a shout of victory. Thinking about the way Philip had loved to play the game with Tristan, Ivy turned for another look and saw that Guy had stopped to watch the pair. "You were frowning," Ivy said when they moved on. "I thought—for a moment I thought I knew that kid, the little one."
They strolled on in silence and passed a sign that prohibited swimming from that point south. "The officer who interviewed me said that they found me about fifty yards beyond the no swimming sign."
They walked that distance and Guy stopped to survey the area. "Not very smart of me," he remarked dryly, "to swim at midnight in an area with dangerous currents."
"Are you sure you were swimming?" she asked.
"The doctors said there was enough seawater in me to drown an army."
"Okay, but it's obvious from your injuries you were in some kind of fight. Maybe you were knocked unconscious at the edge of the ocean and the tide came in. Do you know how to swim?" she asked.
He was standing back from the water as if he didn't like the feel of it washing over his feet.
"Doesn't everybody?" he replied.
"No, not everybody." He dropped his eyes.
"The water ... it bothers me. I don't want to get
Was he reading the images or peering through them. Ivy wondered; was he seeing the present or catching glimpses of the past? More than ever, her past with Tristan seemed to intrude into her everyday life.
Focus on the present , she told herself, and glanced toward Guy. Focus on someone who needs your help now . Maybe the music would relax his mind and allow him to recall bits of what he was repressing.
She finished Brahms, and continued with music she knew by heart: the first movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata, Number 14. By the final measures Guy was standing behind her.
"You're playing from memory," he said as the last note faded. Ivy nodded.
"I can't remember my own name," he observed, "but you can play an entire song from memory."
Ivy swallowed hard. Better to have the pain in her heart forever than to lose her memory of Tristan—Guy had taught her that much. "It's a song you love, or maybe one he loved." Guy guessed.
Ivy closed the piano and gathered up her pieces of music. "Yes."
'"Moonlight Sonata." Guy said. "The first part of Beethoven's Sonata Fourteen."
Ivy turned to him, surprised. Guy took a step back. "Whoa! How'd I know that?"
They gazed at each other, mirroring amazement, then Ivy smiled. "And you thought you weren't a classy guy!"
IVY AND GUY STOOD AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS BY Chatham Light, the same place Ivy and Will had stood eight days earlier. In the afternoon sun, the wide stretch of sand, more than a quarter mile deep, burned hot and white. The ocean swept past, curving to the south as far as the eye could see, its color like the blue sea glass that Ivy loved.
They had picked up sandwiches and soda at a cafe near the church, and Ivy had given Guy the beach towel she had brought along. "Would you like me to come back in an hour? It's a long walk to Nickerson," she added, "and I'll be driving home in that direction."
Guy kept his eyes on the beach, and after a moment asked, "Would you come with me?" She was careful not to gush Of course—I was hoping—whatever I can do to help. "Sure. I like the beach," she replied, and started down the steps.
Reaching the sand, she stepped aside to let Guy lead the way, not wanting to do anything that might extinguish a spark of memory. She followed him across the beach, removing her shoes as he did when they reached the damp sand, then walking next to him, heading south. Toddlers played at the sea's frothy edge, running back and forth with plastic pails. A father played Frisbee with his kids.
A middle aged woman with wet, spiky hair smiled to herself as she carried her raft from the waves. Beneath a striped umbrella a younger boy played checkers with an older one and let out a shout of victory. Thinking about the way Philip had loved to play the game with Tristan, Ivy turned for another look and saw that Guy had stopped to watch the pair. "You were frowning," Ivy said when they moved on. "I thought—for a moment I thought I knew that kid, the little one."
They strolled on in silence and passed a sign that prohibited swimming from that point south. "The officer who interviewed me said that they found me about fifty yards beyond the no swimming sign."
They walked that distance and Guy stopped to survey the area. "Not very smart of me," he remarked dryly, "to swim at midnight in an area with dangerous currents."
"Are you sure you were swimming?" she asked.
"The doctors said there was enough seawater in me to drown an army."
"Okay, but it's obvious from your injuries you were in some kind of fight. Maybe you were knocked unconscious at the edge of the ocean and the tide came in. Do you know how to swim?" she asked.
He was standing back from the water as if he didn't like the feel of it washing over his feet.
"Doesn't everybody?" he replied.
"No, not everybody." He dropped his eyes.
"The water ... it bothers me. I don't want to get
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