windows installed soon enough. Besides, every home needs a proper, working lock. But where to hide the key, that’s the question.”
I followed him outside the hut, and we looked around near the front step. “How about here?” I suggested, pointing to a spot in the sand. “We could bury it.”
Westry shook his head. “It’s the first place someone would look. It’s like the welcome mat—every crook knows to go there first.” He paused as an idea struck. “Wait,” he continued, running back inside and returning with a book he’d pulled from his bag. “We’ll use this.”
“A book?”
“Yeah,” he replied, pulling out the ribbon attached to the spine. Its purpose might have been to mark the page for a reader, but Westry had other plans. He tied the ribbon securely around the lip of the key, tucking it into the book. “There,” he said, sliding the book below the step. “Our secret spot.”
The waves were crashing loudly now. “The tide’s coming in,” he said. “Want to watch it with me?”
I hesitated. “I probably should be thinking about walking back.” I hadn’t left a note for Kitty, and I worried that she could be concerned.
“C’mon,” Westry said. “You can stay a few more minutes.”
“All right,” I said, caving. “Just a few.”
“There,” he said, pointing to a piece of driftwood a few paces ahead on the beach. “Our perch.”
He grabbed the wine bottle he’d found in the bungalow the day before and a tin cup from his knapsack and sat down next to me in the sand, our heads resting comfortably on the driftwood that had been smoothed into submission by the pulverizing surf. “A toast,” he said, pouring the ancient wine into the cup. “To the lady of the bungalow.”
He extended the cup to me, and I took a cautious sip, my face involuntarily contorting. “To sour hundred-year-old wine.”
A bird sang in the distance as we sat together, mesmerized by the waves.
“I don’t know anything about you,” I said, turning to him a little abruptly.
“And I don’t know anything about you,” he retorted.
“You start.”
Westry nodded and sat up. “I was born in Ohio,” he began. “Didn’t stay there long. Mother died of scarlet fever, and I moved west with my father, to San Francisco. He was an engineer, worked on the railroads. I tagged along with him, attending a different school every month.”
“Far from a proper education,” I said.
Westry shrugged. “I got a better one than most. I saw the country. I learned the way of the railways.”
“And now what? After all of this, you said you wanted to come back here, to the island, but surely you have other aspirations, other things to attend to first?”
Westry’s eyes were big and full of life, full of possibility.
“I’m not sure, exactly,” he said. “I may go back to school, become an engineer, like Pop. Or maybe go to France, and learn to paint like the great impressionists. Or maybe I’ll just stay here,” he said, motioning with his head toward the bungalow.
“Oh, you can’t do that,” I said. “What a lonely life that would be!”
“Why would you call it lonely?” he countered. “I’d have everything I could possibly want. A roof over my head. A bed. The most beautiful scenery in the world. Some might call that paradise.”
I thought about what he’d said about settling down and raising a family right there on the stretch of beach before us. “But what about companionship?” I said a little shyly. “What about . . . love?”
Westry grinned. “Easy for you to say. You already have that.”
I looked at my feet, burrowing the tip of my shoe into the sand, which was so hot I could feel it radiating beneath the leather.
“Well,” he continued, “I suppose I’ll find her. Out there somewhere.”
“What if you don’t?” I asked.
“I will,” he said, smiling at me confidently.
I turned away quickly.
“Now,” he said, “let’s hear about you .”
I tugged at a
I followed him outside the hut, and we looked around near the front step. “How about here?” I suggested, pointing to a spot in the sand. “We could bury it.”
Westry shook his head. “It’s the first place someone would look. It’s like the welcome mat—every crook knows to go there first.” He paused as an idea struck. “Wait,” he continued, running back inside and returning with a book he’d pulled from his bag. “We’ll use this.”
“A book?”
“Yeah,” he replied, pulling out the ribbon attached to the spine. Its purpose might have been to mark the page for a reader, but Westry had other plans. He tied the ribbon securely around the lip of the key, tucking it into the book. “There,” he said, sliding the book below the step. “Our secret spot.”
The waves were crashing loudly now. “The tide’s coming in,” he said. “Want to watch it with me?”
I hesitated. “I probably should be thinking about walking back.” I hadn’t left a note for Kitty, and I worried that she could be concerned.
“C’mon,” Westry said. “You can stay a few more minutes.”
“All right,” I said, caving. “Just a few.”
“There,” he said, pointing to a piece of driftwood a few paces ahead on the beach. “Our perch.”
He grabbed the wine bottle he’d found in the bungalow the day before and a tin cup from his knapsack and sat down next to me in the sand, our heads resting comfortably on the driftwood that had been smoothed into submission by the pulverizing surf. “A toast,” he said, pouring the ancient wine into the cup. “To the lady of the bungalow.”
He extended the cup to me, and I took a cautious sip, my face involuntarily contorting. “To sour hundred-year-old wine.”
A bird sang in the distance as we sat together, mesmerized by the waves.
“I don’t know anything about you,” I said, turning to him a little abruptly.
“And I don’t know anything about you,” he retorted.
“You start.”
Westry nodded and sat up. “I was born in Ohio,” he began. “Didn’t stay there long. Mother died of scarlet fever, and I moved west with my father, to San Francisco. He was an engineer, worked on the railroads. I tagged along with him, attending a different school every month.”
“Far from a proper education,” I said.
Westry shrugged. “I got a better one than most. I saw the country. I learned the way of the railways.”
“And now what? After all of this, you said you wanted to come back here, to the island, but surely you have other aspirations, other things to attend to first?”
Westry’s eyes were big and full of life, full of possibility.
“I’m not sure, exactly,” he said. “I may go back to school, become an engineer, like Pop. Or maybe go to France, and learn to paint like the great impressionists. Or maybe I’ll just stay here,” he said, motioning with his head toward the bungalow.
“Oh, you can’t do that,” I said. “What a lonely life that would be!”
“Why would you call it lonely?” he countered. “I’d have everything I could possibly want. A roof over my head. A bed. The most beautiful scenery in the world. Some might call that paradise.”
I thought about what he’d said about settling down and raising a family right there on the stretch of beach before us. “But what about companionship?” I said a little shyly. “What about . . . love?”
Westry grinned. “Easy for you to say. You already have that.”
I looked at my feet, burrowing the tip of my shoe into the sand, which was so hot I could feel it radiating beneath the leather.
“Well,” he continued, “I suppose I’ll find her. Out there somewhere.”
“What if you don’t?” I asked.
“I will,” he said, smiling at me confidently.
I turned away quickly.
“Now,” he said, “let’s hear about you .”
I tugged at a
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