recorder.
He put on a good topcoat, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
“Who are
you
?” he wondered.
He didn’t look the way he used to, but neither did he look quite the way he’d grown accustomed to. No longer a lawyer, he thought, but not yet proven as a writer. Not guilty, but not yet proven innocent.
Still in limbo, but maybe, maybe finally ready to begin climbing out.
He left Abra’s money on his desk on his way downstairs, then headed straight out with her cleaning music—vintage Springsteen today—rolling after him.
He got into the car, realizing it was the first time he’d been behind the wheel since he’d parked it on arrival three weeks before.
It did feel good, he decided. Taking control, taking steps. He turned on his own radio, let out a surprised laugh when The Boss jammed out at him.
And thinking it was almost like having Abra for company, he drove away from Whiskey Beach.
He didn’t notice the car slide in behind him.
Since the day was relatively mild, Abra opened doors and windows to let the air wash through. She stripped Eli’s bed, spread on fresh sheets, fluffed the duvet. And after a few minutes’ thought, fashioned a fish from a hand towel. After digging through what she thought of as her emergency bag of silliness she came up with a little green plastic pipe for its mouth.
Once the bedroom met her standards, the first load of laundry chugged in the washer, she turned her attention to the office.
She’d have loved to fuss around the desk—in case he’d left any notes or clues about his work in progress. But a deal was a deal. Instead she dusted, vacuumed, restocked his bottled water and Mountain Dew. Wrote the next message Hester had dictated on a Post-it, stuck it to a bottle. After wiping down the leather desk chair, she stood awhile studying his view.
A good one, she thought. Wind and sun had all but vanished the snow. Today the sea spread in a good, strong blue, and the sea grass swayed in the breeze. She watched a fishing boat—dull red against deep blue—lumber over the water.
Did he think of it as home now? she wondered. That view, that air, the sounds and scents? How long had it taken her to feel at home?
She couldn’t recall, not specifically. Maybe the first time Maureen knocked on her door holding a plate of brownies and a bottle of wine. Or maybe the first time she walked that beach and felt truly quiet in her mind.
Like Eli, she’d escaped here. But she’d had a choice, and Whiskey Beach had been a deliberate one.
The right one, she thought now.
Absently, she traced a finger along her left ribs, and the thin scar that rode them. She rarely thought of it now, rarely thought of what she’d escaped from.
But Eli reminded her, and perhaps that was just one of the reasons she felt compelled to help him.
She had plenty of others. And, she thought, she could add a new one to the mix. The smile she’d watched bloom over his face when he recognized Maureen.
New goal, she determined. Giving Eli Landon reasons to smile more often.
But right now, she needed to put his underwear in the dryer.
Eli had barely settled in Neal Simpson’s waiting area, declined the offer of coffee, water or anything else made by one of the three receptionists, when Neal himself strode out to greet him.
“Eli.” Neal, fit in his excellent suit, shot out a hand, took Eli’s in a firm grip. “It’s good to see you. Let’s go on back to my office.”
He moved athletically through the slickly decorated maze of the Gardner, Kopek, Wright and Simpson offices. A confident man, an exceptional attorney who at thirty-nine had grabbed full partner and put his name on the letterhead of one of the top firms in the city.
Eli trusted him, had to. Though they’d worked in different firms, often competing for the same clients, they’d moved in similar circles, had mutual friends.
Or had, Eli thought, as most of his had slipped away under the constant media battering.
In his
He put on a good topcoat, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
“Who are
you
?” he wondered.
He didn’t look the way he used to, but neither did he look quite the way he’d grown accustomed to. No longer a lawyer, he thought, but not yet proven as a writer. Not guilty, but not yet proven innocent.
Still in limbo, but maybe, maybe finally ready to begin climbing out.
He left Abra’s money on his desk on his way downstairs, then headed straight out with her cleaning music—vintage Springsteen today—rolling after him.
He got into the car, realizing it was the first time he’d been behind the wheel since he’d parked it on arrival three weeks before.
It did feel good, he decided. Taking control, taking steps. He turned on his own radio, let out a surprised laugh when The Boss jammed out at him.
And thinking it was almost like having Abra for company, he drove away from Whiskey Beach.
He didn’t notice the car slide in behind him.
Since the day was relatively mild, Abra opened doors and windows to let the air wash through. She stripped Eli’s bed, spread on fresh sheets, fluffed the duvet. And after a few minutes’ thought, fashioned a fish from a hand towel. After digging through what she thought of as her emergency bag of silliness she came up with a little green plastic pipe for its mouth.
Once the bedroom met her standards, the first load of laundry chugged in the washer, she turned her attention to the office.
She’d have loved to fuss around the desk—in case he’d left any notes or clues about his work in progress. But a deal was a deal. Instead she dusted, vacuumed, restocked his bottled water and Mountain Dew. Wrote the next message Hester had dictated on a Post-it, stuck it to a bottle. After wiping down the leather desk chair, she stood awhile studying his view.
A good one, she thought. Wind and sun had all but vanished the snow. Today the sea spread in a good, strong blue, and the sea grass swayed in the breeze. She watched a fishing boat—dull red against deep blue—lumber over the water.
Did he think of it as home now? she wondered. That view, that air, the sounds and scents? How long had it taken her to feel at home?
She couldn’t recall, not specifically. Maybe the first time Maureen knocked on her door holding a plate of brownies and a bottle of wine. Or maybe the first time she walked that beach and felt truly quiet in her mind.
Like Eli, she’d escaped here. But she’d had a choice, and Whiskey Beach had been a deliberate one.
The right one, she thought now.
Absently, she traced a finger along her left ribs, and the thin scar that rode them. She rarely thought of it now, rarely thought of what she’d escaped from.
But Eli reminded her, and perhaps that was just one of the reasons she felt compelled to help him.
She had plenty of others. And, she thought, she could add a new one to the mix. The smile she’d watched bloom over his face when he recognized Maureen.
New goal, she determined. Giving Eli Landon reasons to smile more often.
But right now, she needed to put his underwear in the dryer.
Eli had barely settled in Neal Simpson’s waiting area, declined the offer of coffee, water or anything else made by one of the three receptionists, when Neal himself strode out to greet him.
“Eli.” Neal, fit in his excellent suit, shot out a hand, took Eli’s in a firm grip. “It’s good to see you. Let’s go on back to my office.”
He moved athletically through the slickly decorated maze of the Gardner, Kopek, Wright and Simpson offices. A confident man, an exceptional attorney who at thirty-nine had grabbed full partner and put his name on the letterhead of one of the top firms in the city.
Eli trusted him, had to. Though they’d worked in different firms, often competing for the same clients, they’d moved in similar circles, had mutual friends.
Or had, Eli thought, as most of his had slipped away under the constant media battering.
In his
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