A light went on in the upstairs window, her shadow moving across it. Even in the cold, he realized his palms were sweating. What was he doing this for? He should have somehow cajoled or forced Abe to come along. But here he was. He waited.
The light went out, then another one downstairs. He heard a door slam, then a car door open and close, and he turned on his own ignition.
With his lights off, he swung a U-turn and followed her back the way she had come on the El Camino del Mar. But she only drove for about three minutes before pulling into the darkened parking lot at Phelan Beach.
The night was eerily still after the rain. Eucalyptus leaves scratched and clacked overhead; a foghorn bellowed from far away.
Hardy had let her get into the trees before he parked by the entrance and started to jog, again, through the light forest.
She had driven to the front of the lot, turned off her engine, doused her lights. The Golden Gate Bridge loomed spectacularly overhead in the clear night air. The door opened and she got out and, without turning or hesitating, started for the beach.
A three-quarter moon reflected off the water, casting a light shadow as she walked unhurriedly across the sand. Hardy got to the edge of the beach and pulled off his shoes. She was halfway to the water when he broke into a run toward her.
She heard. As he closed the distance, she turned.
‘Celine.’
It was almost as if she had been expecting him. This was no generalized fear – she knew who he was, and seeing him she nodded as if to herself, then whirled with her right hand in the air.
Hardy lunged for her wrist, caught it and closed his other hand around hers. God, he’d forgotten how strong she was! She pulled against him, kicking at his legs, his groin.
He held her, never relaxing his grip on her hands, forcing himself to kick back, catching her at the side of the knee, sending her twisting down, falling on top of her.
Still struggling, she bit into his arm near the shoulder. Spinning around, he forced his weight down on top of her. Her legs came up, trying to knee him, throwing sand over them both, into faces and eyes.
He rolled over onto her hand, holding it clenched tight beneath him, and began to pry at the fingers. With her other hand she reached up, digging her nails into his scalp. He felt the skin tear down into his neck.
She was getting weaker. The vise grip of her hand slowly opened enough for him to feel what she held there, to grab it and roll away.
He didn’t know if that would end it so he kept rolling until he got a little distance, maybe six feet, then came to his knees facing her, panting from the exertion. Celine still lay there in her tailored charcoal suit, now torn to rags.
Gasping for breath, he didn’t take his eyes from her. He looked down at the key in his hand – attached to a little ring and a small block of wood. He knew without being able to see it that the wood would have written on it, either burned or indelibly marked, the word ‘Eloise’.
Gradually he became aware of the lapping of the water against the beach. Celine turned onto her side and curled up in a fetal position. Her sobbing ignored him… it was totally private, and chilling. A keening for all she had lost, for all she never had.
Owen Nash grinned into the wind as he brought the boom around. His cigar was out, half-consumed in his mouth. They had been out on the water for two hours and it was going to be all right. He had told Celine he was going to marry May. She would see, she’d eventually accept it. And now she could be free of him and the thing they’d begun so long ago that had bound them in guilt and lust for so long he couldn’t remember when it hadn’t been there.
They had not talked much yet but he had always been able to control her, and now it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment.
The door to the cabin opened and she came out, wind whipping that fine wet hair. He had started telling her as they were going through the Gate, together fighting the current and the wind. Afterward – okay, it shook her when she saw he meant it – she said she needed to be alone. Even with the rough seas, she wanted to go below and do some aerobics, let it all settle. Get loose. She had apparently taken a shower, and stood now in the doorway to the cabin wrapped in a turkish robe.
Barefoot, she came up another step onto the deck. The robe swung open and he caught a glimpse of the front of her, breasts and belly, her shaved pubis. She did not pull the robe closed, but came toward him unsteadily in the rocking boat, her eyes glazed, he presumed, from the exertion.
Coming around the wheel, she pressed herself up against him, opening the robe. ‘Come below, Daddy.’
He had to fight for his breath, for the control he swore he would have. ‘Honey, I’ve told you…’
Her hand went down to him, caressing. ‘I know what you’ve said. I don’t care if you have her, but you’ve got to keep me. You’ve got to keep us.’
She found him under the green jogging pants, and against his will, he began to respond. As he always did. Suddenly the boat heeled and pushed him up against her, both of them against the wheel. ‘Come below,’ she whispered, holding him.
But this could not go on – he would never let it happen again – he had promised himself and he had promised May. He had found something real for the first time since his marriage to Eloise. It was his last chance, and his selfish, beautiful daughter was not going to take it from him, as she’d taken Eloise years before, because of his weakness for her flesh.
Hating himself, and hating her for what they’d both become, he pushed back against her. ‘No! No!’ He shoved her hard. ‘I said it’s over, Celine! Goddammit, over, leave me alone.’
She went down on the slippery deck, the robe spilling open around her. And then he saw it in her eyes: the hate he knew had to be there -you didn’t live this way without hate.
Glazed but dry-eyed, she stared at him as if he were an alien force, then she gathered herself up, wrapped the robe around her and went below without a word.
He had lost the wind, goddammit. His cigar was gone, too.
The drizzle increased – visibility was about a hundred yards. He squinted through the mist, checked his compass, making sure he was on a south or southwest heading. He didn’t want to beach her. He listened for the telltale sound of breakers.
She’d be all right, he thought again. It was the kind of thing that would take some time. He ought to have factored that in instead of just laying it on her. She’d get used to the idea eventually. He was sure.
She emerged again a couple of minutes later, still in the robe, but more under control now. There – see? – he was right.
She’d work it out. You couldn’t expect a woman not to try some histrionics.
He was surprised to see her wearing her lifting gloves – she must have wanted to work off some of it. He thought it was getting to be time to head the Eloise back in.
‘Daddy.’
He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t want to hurt her. If she were ready to talk again, he’d talk. Gently. He understood her. He came around the wheel and started walking toward her.
She took the gun from the pocket of the terry robe and leveled it at him. He stopped, tried to smile, as he might with an errant child, reaching out one hand. ‘Honey…’