Swim Deep - Page 27

“I’ve made you a lunch. I thought you might be hungry. It’s only peanut butter and jelly, an apple, and a granola bar, but the bread is fresh baked,” I rambled as I stared at her retreating back. She disappeared behind the cover of thick pine tree trunks and manzanita bushes, the white of her shirt slowly dissipating into invisibility. You lost her.

But then, as I stood there, I experienced that uncanny feeling of being observed. I had an idea she’d paused twenty or so feet into the forest and looked back at me from the shadows as I stood in the bright sunlight.

“I’ll just leave it here for you,” I yelled, holding up the basket for her to see and then setting it down carefully on a stone.

I slowly backed away.

The next morning when I went up to the overlook, I found the basket placed in front of the storage unit. I smiled to myself when I saw it was empty.

My offering had been accepted.

The basket wasn’t entirely empty, though. A maple leaf rested at the bottom. I would have thought it had just fallen there, but then I saw the edges of the leaf had carefully been placed into the weave of the basket, in order to keep it in place. I gently removed it, and saw the leaf was perfectly shaped and proportioned.

It was her thanks, I realized.

So I started leaving her a packed basket of food every day in the same location, in front of the storage unit. Every morning when I returned to the overlook, I found the basket with a leaf carefully placed into the bottom, and all the food missing. Maple, aspen, dogwood, alder: the leaf type varied, but the similarity was that each was perfect and obviously discerningly chosen by the woman. If it hadn’t been for the deliberately chosen and placed leaves, I might have suspected that a wild animal was gobbling up my offering every afternoon.

For some reason, I felt no compulsion to tell Evan about these exchanges. It was a private little affair, between myself and the old woman. I pressed each of the leaves, side by side, in a thick sketchpad I kept in the storage unit.

I had no actual glimpse of the old woman again for quite some time. But at least I was fairly certain she was getting one square a day.

One afternoon, I left the overlook earlier than I usually did and went in search of Evan.

Usually when I approached his office I could hear him talking or the quick tapping of his fingers on his computer. That afternoon, however, everything was silent except for the distant, muted sound of the waves hitting the rocks that could be heard through the opened French doors. I crept farther into the room, calling his name and glancing around for clues as to his whereabouts.

The half empty cup of coffee on his desk and the fact that his computer monitor was still lit argued for the fact that he’d recently stepped away. Either he was taking a quick break, and would be back any moment, or he’d gone to the workout facility. I knew that he exercised daily, but he varied the times depending on his work schedule. He might return in a few seconds, or not for an hour.

My gaze landed on the pair of car keys lying on the coffee table in the sitting area. These were precisely the reason I’d come.

The same nightmare had continued to haunt me for a week and a half now. I’d grown desperate for a good night’s sleep, frantic enough to decide to drive into the closest nearby town, Tahoe Shores, and get an over the counter sleep medication. I’d been like a zombie on the overlook trying to paint earlier. My work suffered, all because of that horror that came to stand over me every night.

And that was something for which I wouldn’t stand. My work was too important to me.

“Evan?” I called again, but this time, in a quieter, muted tone, almost like I was afraid he would answer, which was ridiculous. When I got no reply, I went into quick action. I found a piece of paper and pen, scrawled a note, and left it on his computer keyboard, then snatched the car keys and rushed toward the door.

I wouldn’t let myself think about why I was hurrying.

Ten minutes later, the answer blared in my brain as I maneuvered the car on the twisting mountain road, my hands aching from my vise-like grip on the steering wheel. Evan wouldn’t have wanted me to drive this road until I’d gone out a few times with him in the passenger seat. In my head, his imagined response to my request to drive into town had sounded overprotective and cautious. That’s why I’d been so keen to avoid it.

Now that I was here, terrified to let my foot leave the brake, a parade of cars and irritated drivers piling up behind me, Evan’s caution didn’t seem so unreasonable.

The nine or ten miles into town took me an eternity.

I’d just started to get into the groove of taking the tight mountain curves (although I’m sure the pissed-off drivers behind me disagreed) when I finally pulled into Tahoe Shores. I looked around, relieved for a straight stretch of road, but also curious.

This is where Evan had grown up.

The little town struck me as too sleepy and rustic to seem pretentious. But it was clearly affluent, nonetheless, with its sophisticated restaurants and boutique stores that catered both to ski and beach enthusiasts alongside Harrows, a mom and pop grocery store. Looking to my left and down the mountain, I could see the roofs of sprawling homes and the sapphire lake in the distance. Having gone a mile on what appeared to be the town “strip” and not seen a pharmacy, I backtracked to Harrows Grocery and parked the car in the busy lot.

The teenage bagger at the checkout was quick and graceful with his hands, dark-haired, and sporting an amazing tan. When I asked about directions to the pharmacy, he gave me a quick once-over that somehow wasn’t offensive. Maybe it was because of his smile. I thought of a teenage Evan, so fresh, charismatic, and beautiful growing up in this idyllic town, his future unquestioned and golden. For some reason, a pain went through me. I guess it was that familiar longing, that wish… that hunger to know my husband better than I did.

“You’re at the right place,” the kid said, waving toward the back of the store and giving me a quick wink. “The only place. Mr. Harrow is also the town pharmacist.”

I’d never had a problem sleeping, so I wasn’t sure which sleep aids were the best. I waited for the gray-haired pharmacist—Mr. Harrow, presumably—to finish consulting with a customer, and then approached the counter to get his advice.

“Just a minute,” he muttered distractedly, writing something in a log in a long, sloppy scrawl. He tossed down his pen, smoothed his pharmacist smock over a protruding belly, and glanced up at me. My first impression after observing him with the former customer had been that he was amiable and easy-going, even a little haphazard, given the stereotypical idea of the meticulous pharmacist. But from beneath shaggy eyebrows, his gaze was piercing and intelligent.

“I’ve been h

Tags: Beth Kery Romance
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