The Book of Daniel by Z. A. Maxfield Page B

what seemed like a dozen different dreams: of New York, of Bree, of getting another—this time unwanted—tattoo. When at last I woke fully it was because the realization came to me that the car was no longer moving and hadn’t been for some time.
    I opened my eyes to discover Cam had parked in a lot at the top of a cliff with a startling view of the vast foamy gray-green sea. I could see him walking all by himself a hundred feet below, balanced on the rocky shore, bent over to peer at something in the tidal pools.
    Cam’s short hair, usually stiff with whatever styling product he used to make it stand up, was overpowered by the wind and ruffled gently across his forehead. Muscles bunched under his light clothing as he squatted farther down and leaned over. That youthful, boyish face of his was a study in earnest concentration on whatever he was watching as he put a gentle finger out to poke at it.
    I’d seen some amazing things in my life because I was blessed: palaces, museums, great art, theater, dance, pricey cars, expensive men and women, but the sight of Cam carefully lifting up a rock to study what he found underneath was by far the most beautiful. My heart clenched around the knowledge that he was wholesome . He was honest and capable of kindness and a depth of compassion I would never have expected from someone as huge and pretty. He was simply good in all the ways that things can be good—good to look at, good to touch and taste and smell. And he was arguably good for others like me, who maybe had a little problem sorting out the whole good/bad thing at times.
    I admired his beauty, I loved his heart, and I knew I would have to live up to his expectations. Which made the walk down a hundred feet of rickety wooden stairs to join him on the shore seem like the green mile—a treacherous path into the unknown without even a handhold for comfort.
    When he saw me coming, his face lit with a happy smile. “Hey.”
    “Hey.” I couldn’t help smiling back. “Whatcha looking at?”
    “Anemone.” He pointed to a spiny creature in the shallow pools created by low tide. “They have little cells like spear guns that anesthetize their prey. You never touch them though, because they’re holding their breath, and touching them would be like punching them in the stomach.”
    “I guess it’s not a good idea then, huh?”
    “You’re not supposed to touch anything around here, really. It’s okay to feel a starfish with a damp finger or something, but it’s better to observe without handling the wildlife.”
    “I see.”
    He put his hands behind his back. “You can cut the ends off a coffee can and wrap one side with heavy duty plastic wrap—you know. You can secure it with rubber bands. Then you submerge the can and look through the plastic to see what’s under the water. It’s worth looking at; there’s some pretty cool stuff down there. It’s hard to get the wrap as tight as you’d like though.”
    “Is that something you learned when you were a kid?”
    “Nah, I grew up in Northern New Mexico. I went to the Monterrey Aquarium when I first got here, and they talked about tide pool etiquette. California is amazing. I’ve been whale watching and hiked in the Channel Islands. We’re damned lucky to have all this here, and it’s essential to figure out the best way to take care of it.”
    I glanced around. Gulls wheeled overhead, and there were other seabirds. I might have recognized a cormorant or a sandpiper, but there were also species I’d never seen before. Glancing down at Cam, my inattention to details like that seemed to me—for the first time—like a senseless waste. As if I’d spent my time in idleness or on frivolous pursuits when I could have been observing everything he was effortlessly sharing with me.
    “We are lucky.” My voice seemed hoarse to my ears.
    He turned to look at me and frowned. “Is something wrong?”
    “No. I just don’t think I’ve ever looked that closely at all