Sandcastles Page 2

  Denning stood up and glanced around the room for something warm to cover her. “Stay right there,” he said, gently. “I’ll be right back.”

  In the living room, he grabbed the big woolen afghan he always kept on the end of the couch. When he went back to the kitchen the woman had removed her coat and the effort had obviously tired her.

  “Are you all right Miss?” he asked, kneeling next to her chair and wrapping the afghan around her legs. “You look like….” He reached to the sink for a dishtowel and wiped some of the muddy water from her face. “What in the name of God were you doing out there on a night like this?”

  “Where is this?” she murmured. Her voice was hoarse and weak, as if even these few words were hard to get out. “We’ve been lost for a couple of days I think. I lost track of…. Oh God! Charlie! Where’s my dog? I can’t….” Her voice trailed off, and her head dropped to her chest. She began to cry.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her. “Your dog’s right here. He’s fine—just wet.”

  “Please give him something to eat,” she pleaded, “if it’s not too much trouble, that is. We haven’t eaten in two days, maybe three and poor Charlie….”

  The woman’s voice faded and suddenly she slipped from the chair and started to crumple to the floor. As she fell sideways Denning caught her, carried her to the living room and laid her gently on the couch. After quickly checking her pulse, he stripped off most of her wet clothes and tucked the woolen afghan around her. She was still shivering, so he grabbed a pillow and two additional blankets from the hall closet and draped the blankets so that she was covered from her shoulders to her bare toes. Resting his hand on the woman’s forehead, he concluded that she didn’t appear to be feverish, and her breathing seemed normal. When she was able to talk, maybe tell him her name and what had happened, he’d give the sheriff’s station a call. Meanwhile, since he couldn’t think of anything else useful to do, he decided to simply let her sleep. He went back to the kitchen to see about the woman’s dog.

  After using seven large bath towels to get “Charlie” mostly dry, he opened two large cans of the twins’ favorite meal and dumped them into one dish, watching in amazement as the emaciated animal devoured both cans of food ravenously then sat on his skinny haunches with a plaintive expression, as if to ask “That’s it?” When Denning turned to go back to the living room, the dog followed him, slinking along at his heels and keeping a wary eye on Will and Ben.

  Josh pulled an ottoman close to the couch and sat down to watch the woman as she slept. He guessed her to be in her very early thirties. Small, rather pretty with no makeup and brown hair. Her skin was pale, indicating she got little sun, and her hands were soft and white—a fairly good sign that she wasn’t accustomed to manual labor. As her shoulder-length hair began to dry, the firelight was turning it a soft brown-gold, and her eyes, from what he’d seen of them, were green. He’d removed her muddy clothing too hurriedly to take much notice, but now he could see that she was maybe a few inches over five feet. Even after a few days without food, the woman was what his former agent Jake Hentoff used to call zaftig—a terrific Yiddish word meaning voluptuous—or maybe just pleasingly plump. She had good hips and breasts slender shapely legs and a full round ass. Denning smiled to himself. What the hell. He couldn’t help looking, could he? He hadn’t had an almost-naked woman on his couch in more years than he cared to remember.

  An hour or so later, the woman murmured in her sleep and a few minutes after that she woke up—dazed and obviously still tired.

  “Please don’t be alarmed,” he said quickly. “Everything’s fine now and you’re safe here. I found you at my back door along with your dog. Do you remember?”

  She nodded and tried to sit up. “I’m sorry. We’ve probably been a lot of trouble for you. I didn’t mean to….”

  “But where did you come from?” he asked, curiously. “This house is a long way from the road.”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know actually. My car went off the road but I don’t know exactly where. That was two days ago I think. All I remember is the car crashing through a lot of trees and then … I guess I must have passed out, or something. When no one came by I started walking, thinking I could find a town or a… but we got lost and… I had a couple of doughnuts in the car and we ate those, but after that… and then the rain came and…. “

  “I’ll get you something to eat,” he said, patting her arm. “Just stay there and try to rest.”

  After a bowl of soup and a cup of hot tea, the woman seemed to feel better, and Denning was relieved to note that the color was returning to her face.

  “Do you need to call someone?” he asked. “There’s no landline in the house and the cell phone service up here tends to come and go. I afraid we’re pretty much out of touch for tonight at least. If the road’s passable, though, I can take you into town in the morning and you can call someone from there. There’s a doctor there, as well, if you think you need one. I don’t see any major injuries but.…”

  She looked down at herself and blushed, as if suddenly aware that she was virtually naked. “No, I’m fine, really, just very very tired.” The woman sighed. “Besides I don’t know anyone to call. Charlie and I are kind of the only family either one of us has. I lost my job in L.A. a couple of months ago and I’ve been just hanging on looking for something. “

  “Where do you live?” he asked. “I can arrange for you to get home at least.”

  The woman was obviously embarrassed. “I’m afraid that Charlie and I call the back of a 1989 Plymouth home, or at least we did until it went over the edge of that ravine and disappeared in the trees somewhere. Thanks, anyway, but we’ll be out of your hair tomorrow morning, if you can spare a couple of sandwiches. You’ve been great already but.…”

  Denning shook his head. “This storm’s just getting started. I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a few days. The road out usually gets impassable when it rains this hard. The accommodations aren’t much, but you’re welcome to stay until you and Charlie are feeling up to a move into town.”

  Gwen brushed away a tear. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she murmured, shyly. “And I’m not sure when I can pay you back, but I promise I’ll try.” She tried to bat her eyelashes as she had seen so many movie heroines do but failed miserably. The man probably thought she was having a seizure, but was too polite to mention it.

  She was a little surprised by his appearance. Of the few existing photographs of Joshua Denning, she’d seen none that had been taken within the last twelve years, which meant he must be around forty-two by now. The man before her was tall and lean, but muscular, well built and tanned. She knew from her Anonymous Source that Denning—or Denton—had built this house and the stone walls that surrounded it with his own two hands and she assumed that all that hard work accounted for his build. His hands were large and strong—nothing like most of the writers she’d known, and his brown shaggy hair was just beginning to go a kind of “salt and pepper” gray. His eyes were a startling clear blue, and surprisingly, he wore reading glasses perched on his nose. Somewhere in the room she heard a piano—Schumann—and the walls in every direction were lined ceiling to floor with books.

  “So you’re looking for a job?” he asked.

  “Yes” she smiled wanly. “And I have to tell you, this area seems to be experiencing a slump.”

  He chuckled. “Well, you don’t much look like a lumberjack or a truck-driver. What can you do?”

  Gwen hesitated. “I... I do whatever I can, actually. I was an art history major in college.”

  “Great choice,” he remarked, with a knowing nod.

  She rolled her eyes. “So I’ve found.”

  “Can you cook?” he asked suddenly. “Do some laundry?”

  She laughed and the laugh turned to a cough. “There’s a difference of opinion on that, but I can try, and I can definitely wash dishes.”

  He nodded. “All right then, if you’re interest
ed, I can use a part-time housekeeper. Nothing major—just keep the place up a bit and cook an occasional meal. If you want the job, it’s yours. I’m not picky—not even around the house much—and I won’t require anything fancy in the meal department. You can have the bedroom at the back of the house. It’s got its own bath and a rear entrance, so it’s almost a private suite. Give some thought to salary and I’ll pay whatever you think is fair. Stay for a few days, anyway, until you see what else you can work out. Maybe you can get work in town. Somewhere. One thing, though... the dog. Is he healthy? He looks a little... I’ve got a vet in town, so if it’s all right with you....”

  Gwen patted Charlie’s head. “I know he looks a little like Quasimodo, but Charlie’s had all his shots, and he’s healthy as an ox.” She laughed. “He may even be an ox, for all I know.” She extended her hand. “I’m sorry. I haven’t even told you my name. It’s Gwendolyn—Gwen Walden. And yours?”

  Josh took her hand in his and smiled warmly. “John Denton.”

  Three days later, with the lingering storm finally over, she had the beginnings of a great story and three rolls of secretly snapped photos of the man, his beautiful house, and of the paneled den where he spent most of each day. Gwen suspected that all those hours of seclusion could mean only one thing. Joshua Denning was hard at work on the long-awaited novel of the decade. This was no time to leave.

  That afternoon when Gwen suddenly and very conveniently developed a hacking cough, Denning suggested that she stay a bit longer—for several weeks, if necessary.

  * * * * *

  A week later, the arrangement seemed to be working out well both for Joshua Denning and for his new housekeeper. Denning had suggested the housekeeping job on an impulse, something he rarely did. He didn’t need a housekeeper or a cook, and he’d gotten used to living alone, so he was mildly surprised when he didn’t find it annoying or uncomfortable having Gwen Walden around. Her culinary skills were below average, but he disliked cooking, so her presence in the kitchen made it convenient for him. By nature, he had always been neat and well organized, and it was obvious that Gwen Walden was neither. Still, she kept the house fairly well, and did the dishes and laundry to his satisfaction. Ben and Will adored her, and had even taken to sleeping on her bed as often as they did on his. She was quiet—for a woman, obviously well educated, seemingly honest and she never asked personal questions, which was a relief to him. The dog, Charlie, had adopted him as his own, was putting on needed pounds and had made himself comfortably at home.

  And after the first few days, something odd began to happen—something that he would never have expected. Denning discovered that he was beginning to enjoy having a woman around.

  * * * * *

  Denning didn’t talk much for the first few days, and Gwen didn’t try to pressure him. He was in the habit of taking the dogs, including Charlie now, for a long walk on the beach twice a day, and she spent this precious time snooping about the house, poking through drawers and closets, searching for clues. Her file of useful information was growing steadily.

  With each day that passed, Gwen saw a little more of the elusive genius. Sometimes now he seemed to make a point of coming into the kitchen to join her for morning coffee. He never said much, but sat there in the pleasant companionable quiet, stroking Charlie’s head or handing her what she needed as she worked. After the second week, he sometimes asked her along on the afternoon walks on the beach. She accepted, but even on these lengthy walks, he spoke very little and gave away very little that might interest readers of “SEEK!” magazine.

  Late one morning, while he was sequestered in the den—presumably writing—Gwen took a book and a blanket to the beach, making her way down the steep staircase that clung to the side of the bluff below the house. The wind was blowing too hard to make reading feasible, so she spread her blanket next to the remains of an old blue dinghy and settled down to enjoy the sun. She was surprised when he joined her there in an unusually affable mood.

  “It’s beautiful here,” she said, primarily for something to say. She had found that beginning a conversation with him was often difficult. “This part of the beach seems timeless, sort of. It’s like no human being has ever been here before. Do you know what I mean, or is that simply too corny?”

  He nodded. “Corny, yes but you’re right. Not many people have been here. No one since I’ve lived here anyway. You can’t see the cove at all from the road, and this stretch of beach can’t be reached on foot, except by that stairway you came down, which is on private property. “He smiled, “Mine, to be specific.”

  She hesitated before her next remark, unsure of how he would react to a private question. “You don’t get a lot of company out here, do you?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  The brevity of his answer didn’t seem to leave an opening for further discussion, so she dropped the subject and pointed to the massive rocks that stood at the entrance to the cove, just beyond the small pool he always referred to as the lagoon.

  “I’ll bet the view from the top of those rocks is fantastic,” she remarked. “Someday, when it’s warmer and the wind isn’t this strong I’m going to swim over there and try to climb all the way to the top.”

  Denning shook his head. “No, you’re not,” he said quietly.

  Gwen blinked, unsure she understood what he was saying. “I’m not?”

  “The current in the cove is too strong for swimming and too unpredictable. If you want to swim, well, go farther down the beach beyond the dunes. The water’s calmer there. But even there I don’t want you swimming alone.”

  “I’m a pretty good swimmer,” she said. “Why can’t.…”

  “Because I just told you not to,” he said, bluntly.

  Surprised by the anger in his voice, Gwen’s instinct for caution told her to drop the subject and back off, but the words had sounded to her uncomfortably like an edict, and Gwen had never liked edicts.

  “You don’t have to worry about, me I promise,” she assured him, trying to sound cheerful and not argumentative. “If I swim here in the cove, I’ll be really careful.”

  His tone was even firmer when he replied. “I’m not going to worry, because you’re not going to swim here.”

  Gwen gave a small brittle laugh but she wasn’t amused.

  “I’ve already told you that I’m an excellent swimmer,” she persisted, “and it’s not all that far to the rocks. Can you give me one good reason and not just....”

  “Because I’ll take a belt to your damned ass if you try it,” Denning said coldly. “Will that do for a reason?”

  With that he stood up and started back up the beach toward the house. Their first pleasant normal conversation had ended as quickly as it had begun.

  The tone of his edict echoed in Gwen’s mind for the remainder of the afternoon, along with his crude threat. She remembered the rumors she’d heard about Denning’s volatile temper, but nothing in his treatment of her up until now had suggested he might be physically abusive. Finally, she dismissed the scene on the beach as male bravado or temperament. Even literary geniuses probably had their bad days.

  That night they ate on the deck by the light of a small lantern she’d found in the storage shed—by candlelight—in a way. They had shared several meals by now, and oddly, she found herself passing up the opportunities she’d had to slip in innocuous questions. She couldn’t have explained her hesitation but prying into his private life and thoughts was turning out to be more uncomfortable for her than she’d expected.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked finally. “Alone?”

  He smile seemed a bit sad. “Too long, probably. I suppose you’ve noticed that I’m not the best of company.”

  “Oh I’m not complaining,” she said quickly. “There’s plenty to do and I have a lot of time to read. I’ve never known any one house with so many books. You used to be a teacher, didn’t you?” When he seemed startled by the question, she added quickly, “Or am I
just guessing?”

  Denning seemed to relax. “No, you’re right. I taught at a small college in the east for a few years after I first arrived … when I was younger, I mean. English and American literature, mainly. But that was years ago. I retired early.” There was no mention of his ever having been a writer.

  After dinner he went back to the den and she didn’t see him again for two days.

  A week later, the day dawned clear and unusually warm, and when she’d finished her chores in the house, Gwen changed into a bathing suit she’d found in her closet and hurried down to the beach before the sunshine disappeared—as it so often did—into afternoon fog and clouds. By the time she got to the beach, the wind had already begun to rise. On the horizon another storm was building.

  Despite the gathering clouds, the giant boulders that framed the opening of the cove were still in full sunlight and the surf that broke against them was throwing up glorious rainbow-hued clouds of spray in the crisp air. Carefully, Gwen walked into the shallow lagoon and began to make her way through the waist-deep water toward the distant rocks, cautious of the unpredictable current he’d warned her about. The water in the lagoon was relatively shallow and seemed tranquil, but it was unbelievably cold; she looked forward to basking on the top of the sun-warmed rocks.

  Gwen hadn’t forgotten Denning’s warning about swimming here, or his threat, and she had persuaded herself that she wasn’t being stubborn or confrontational in choosing to disregard both. Gwen simply didn’t like being told what to do when she knew she was right about something. She remembered the scene from one of her favorite old movies, “Friendly Persuasion,” in which mild-mannered Quaker farmer Jess Birdwell responds to his loving but strong-minded wife—after she has forbidden him to do something: “When thee suggests, Eliza or when thee asks, I am like putty in thy hands. But when thee forbids … thee is barking up the wrong tree.”