Her eyes popped open suddenly, startling in their greenness, seeming to capture a deeper green from the ocean.
“I caught you,” she said, and then the eyes crinkled at the edges, crinkled in sheer pleasure, and he wanted to kiss her eyes, and he did not know why. “Look!” she said suddenly, her eyes opening, a spark of pure excitement in them. She turned partly toward him, her eyes not leaving the ocean, her fingers clutching his arm. “Buddy, look!”
He turned from her face reluctantly, scanning the ocean. He saw the fish then. It leaped out of the water in a graceful arc and then was gone.
“A dolphin,” he said.
“A porpoise,” she corrected. Her eyes snapped at him, and he felt the challenge in them. They sparked for an instant, daring him to pick up the gauntlet.
“A dolphin,” he repeated.
“Look! Again!” The fish leaped from the water, and her eyes were a little wider as she watched, excitement in them again. “A porpoise, Buddy! Buddy, you know it’s a porpoise.” She turned toward him. The excitement had left her eyes. They looked up at him questioningly now, almost pleadingly, and he forgot what question they were asking as he discovered her eyes and the expressiveness of them.
“Isn’t he?” she said.
“Yes, he’s a porpoise.” He could not tear his gaze from her eyes.
“Buddy, he’s having so much fun!” She watched the lunging fish, watched the arc of its body as it leaped from the water and then submerged again to reappear a moment later. Her head moved only slightly. Her eyes were alive in her face, darting anxiously, watching the movement of the porpoise.
She moved out of his protective embrace suddenly, ran to the water’s edge and impulsively threw back her head, stretching her arms out to the sea. She leaned down and caught at the water as it pressed onto the beach, the bubbles hissing lightly as they submerged her hand.
“It’s warm, Buddy!” she shrieked, and when she turned to him, her eyes were wide in childish wonder. “Let’s go in!”
She was sitting almost instantly, pulling back her skirt, kicking off her shoes, rolling down her stockings. He watched her, seeing the clean line of her legs as the protective tint of the nylons disappeared to expose their warm ivory coloring. She stood, pulled up her skirt, and went into the water, and she shrieked again as the bubbles lashed her feet.
“Come in, Buddy! It’s won-derful!”
He watched her, smiling, unaware of the smile. She romped girlishly at the water’s edge, chasing the retreating foam, rushing back onto the sand whenever a new breaker roared its thunder and split into a crashing cascade of dissolving white and green. She laughed aloud, unaware of his presence now, losing herself in the game of chasing the bubbles and being in turn chased by their big brothers. Down the beach the sandpiper stopped its conscientious patrol, its head erect, staring at the intruder.
He felt a peaceful unity of sand and sky and water and Helen. They were alone on the beach, and her laughs fought the thunder of the waves, and she turned to him and waved limply, her eyes smiling. And then there was sudden shock in her eyes, painful almost, and she said, “Oh!” and then pressed her body toward him, and then another “Oh!” and he saw her backing into the ocean against her will, the strong undertow catching at her ankles. She struggled for balance, bent over now, the peasant blouse moving away from her body. He began running toward her, aware of the gathering power of a new breaker.
“Helen!” he shouted.
Her arms were flailing. Behind her the ocean gathered its might, building into a solid wall of green that steam-rollered toward the beach. The wave broke over her, and she vanished in the green and white foam. He kicked off his shoes at the water’s edge, desperately looking for a sign of her. Her head popped to the surface, and he plunged in, feeling the cold sting of the water, diving almost instantly, a shallow dive close to the surface, his arms slicing the water in a powerful crawl. She was under again, and he looked for her anxiously, and then her head appeared, and he saw her eyes first, and the eyes were a brilliant green, and the eyes were laughing. Her mouth was open, he realized, and he heard her pleased laughter above the sound of the waves, and he smiled in relief and then laughed with her. He came close to her, and she dived under again, and he went after her, catching her leg. She kicked at him, and his hand slipped, and he tried for another grip, and his fingers closed on her thigh, and his other hand captured her narrow waist. Her lips were suddenly on his, and they surfaced together, locked in the kiss, and then a new breaker caught them, and they clung to each other as it hurled them shoreward, threw them onto the sand, and then burst its glistening, foaming bubbles around them.
She was on her feet instantly, her eyes challenging him, daring him to go on with the game. He lay on the sand, sodden, exhausted, breathing heavily. He looked up at her then. Her clothes were wet through, clinging to her body, molding every line of her. His eyes moved to her face. She was still laughing, and then the laugh left her eyes, and they turned knowledgeable and aware, aware of her near-nudity.
She shivered suddenly, and he felt the cold at the same moment — a sharp, knifing wind that blew in off the Atlantic.
“We’d better get inside,” he said. He picked up his shoes and then the picnic basket, and she stood watching his back for only a moment, her eyes puzzled and uncertain, and then she followed him.
The cottage was small and white, green-shuttered windows carrying out the theme of ocean. They pushed open the door and stamped into the living room, trying to dislodge the caked sand from their feet. Helen was shivering now. He took off his jacket and shirt and went quickly to the stone fireplace in the center of the room.
“This is nice,” he said.
Helen’s teeth were chattering. She embraced herself, running her hands over her bare arms.
“You’d better change while I get a fire going,” he said. She nodded and went into the bedroom. There was a wood box alongside the open mouth of the fireplace, and he dug into it, grateful for the old newspapers and heavy pieces of timber. He laid the fire carefully, and then he went to his jacket, beginning to shiver himself now, amazed by the deceptive, comparative warmth of the water, disappointed when he found his matches were wet. He went to the kitchen end of the cottage and rummaged around on the stove. He found a box of wooden matches, brought them back to the fireplace, and started the fire.
“I’m freezing,” he said.
From behind the closed door of the bedroom Helen called, “There’s only one robe. Do you want it?”
“Do I look like a cad?”
“I can’t End the sash,” she said.
“I’m still freezing.”
He heard her looking through the drawers in the bedroom. “Here’s a pair of my brother’s khakis,” she said. “He’s fatter than you, but any port.” She came out of the bedroom wearing a white chenille robe. She held the robe closed at the front. “There’s no sash or belt or anything,” she said. Then, apologetically, “We hardly use the place, except in the summer.” She handed him the khaki trousers and shirt, and he walked past her into the bedroom.