“This is paradise,” she said. “It really is. God, Michael, how could you ever leave?” She broke from him, not waiting for an answer, and swam with swift strong strokes towards the horizon.
He remained where he was, his eyes scanning the heavens, picking out the great constellation of Orion with its belt of jewels. If he had ever been this happy before in his life, he couldn’t remember it. He absolutely couldn’t. No one had ever created in him the happiness that she did. Nothing ever created in him the happiness of this moment-this freshness and beauty and motherly warmth.
Yes, back where I belong, and I have her with me, and I don’t care about all the. rest. Not now …, he thought.
Saturday they spent looking at the available property. Much of the beachfront from Ft. Walton to Seaside was taken up by the large resorts and high-rise condominiums. The individual houses were few and at a great price.
At about three o’clock, they walked into “the house”-a Spartan modern affair with low ceilings and severe white walls. The rectangular windows made the Gulf view into a series of paintings in simple frames. The horizon cut the paintings exactly in half. Down below the high front decks were the dunes, which must be preserved, it was explained to them, as they were the protection against the high waves when the hurricanes came.
By means of a long pier they walked out over the dunes and then went down weathered wooden steps to the beach itself. In the dazzle of the sun the whiteness was again unbelievable. The water was a perfect foaming green.
Far, far down the beach to either side the high rises broke the vista with their white towers, seemingly as clean and geometric as this little house itself. The cliffs and crags and trees of California were utterly absent. It was a wholly different environment-suggestive of the Greek islands, in spite of its flatness, a cubist landscape of blinding light and sharp lines.
He liked it. He told her that immediately, yes, he really did like it, and this house would be just fine.
Above all he liked the contrast to the lushness of New Orleans. The house was well built, with its coral-colored tile floors and thick carpets, and its gleaming stainless steel kitchen. Yes, cubist, and stark. And inexplicably beautiful in its own way.
The one disappointment for Rowan was that a boat couldn’t be docked here, that she would have to drive a couple of miles to the marina on the bay side of the highway, and take the boat out through Destin harbor into the Gulf. But that was not so terribly inconvenient when one measured it against the luxury of this long stretch of unspoiled beach.
As Rowan and the agent wrote up the offer to purchase, Michael walked out on the weathered deck. He shaded his eyes as he studied the water. He tried to analyze the sense of serenity it produced in him, which surely had to do with the warmth and the deep brilliance of the colors. In retrospect it seemed that the hues and tints of San Francisco had always been mixed with ashes, and that the sky had always been half invisible beyond a fog, or a deep mist, or a fleece of unremarkable clouds.
He could not connect this brilliant seascape to the cold gray Pacific, or to his scant awful memories of the rescue helicopter, of lying there chilled and aching on the stretcher, his clothes drenched. This was his beach and his water, and it wouldn’t hurt him. What the hell, maybe he could even, get to like being on the Sweet Christine down here. But he had to confess, the thought of that made him slightly sick.
Late in the afternoon, they dined in a little fish restaurant near the marina in Destin, very rough and noisy with the beer in plastic cups. The fresh fish was better than very good. At sunset they were on the motel beach again, sprawled in the weathered wooden chairs. Michael was making notes on things back at First Street. Rowan slept, her tanned skin quite noticeably darkened from the last week of time outdoors, and this one hour perhaps on the burning beach. Her hair was streaked with yellow. It made a pain in him to look at her, to realize how very young she was still.
He woke her gently as the sun began to sink. Enormous and blood red, it made its spectacular path across the glittering emerald sea.
He shut his eyes finally because it was too much. He had to veer away from it, and come back again, slowly, as the hot breeze ruffled his hair.
At nine o’clock that evening, after they had enjoyed a tolerable meal at a bayside restaurant, the call came from the real estate agent. Rowan’s offer on the house had been accepted. No complications. The wicker and painted wood furniture was included. Fireplace fittings, dishes, everything would remain. They would move to clear title and close escrow as soon as possible. She could probably claim the keys in two weeks.
On Sunday afternoon, they visited the Destin Marina. The choice of boats was fabulous. But Rowan was still toying with the idea of sending for the Sweet Christine. She wanted something seaworthy. And there was really nothing here that surpassed the luxury and solidity of the old Sweet Christine.
It was late afternoon when they started back. With the radio playing Vivaldi, they saw the sunset as they sped along Mobile Bay. The sky seemed limitless, gleaming with magical light beyond an endless terrain of darkening clouds. The scent of rain mingled with the heat.
Home. Where I belong. Where the sky looks as I remember it. Where the low country spreads out forever. And the air is my friend.
Fast and silent the traffic flowed on the interstate highway; the low cushy Mercedes-Benz cruised easily at eighty-five. The music ripped the air with its high pure violin glissandos. Finally the sun died to a wash of blinding gold. The dark swampy woodlands closed around them as they sped into Mississippi, the eighteen-wheelers rumbling by, the lights of the little towns flickering for an instant, then vanishing, as the last of the tarnished light died away.
Did she miss the drama of California? he asked her. Miss the cliffs and the yellow hills?
She was looking at the sky just as he was. You never saw such a sky out there. No, she said softly. She missed nothing. She was going to be sailing different waters, warm waters.
After a long while, when it was truly dark, and the only view now was the view of the glowing red tail lamps before them, she said:
“This is our honeymoon, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.”
“I mean, it’s the easy part. Before you realize what kind of a person I really am.”
“And what kind is that?”
“You want to ruin our honeymoon?”
“It won’t ruin it.” He glanced at her. “Rowan, what are you talking about?” No answer. “You know you’re the only person in this world I really know right now. You’re the only one I don’t handle literally with kid gloves. I know more about you than you realize, Rowan.”
“What would I do without you?” she whispered, snuggling back against the seat, stretching out her long legs.
“Meaning?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve figured something out.”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“He’s not going to show himself till he gets ready.”
“I know.”
“He wants you here right now. He’s standing back out of the way for you. He showed himself to you that first night just to entice you.”
“This is giving me the creeps. Why is he so willing to share you?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve given him opportunities, and he’s not really showing himself. Strange things happen, crazy things, but I’m never sure … ”
“Like what things?”
“Oh, not worth dwelling on. Look, you’re tired. You want me to drive for a while?”
“Good Lord, no. And I’m not tired. I just don’t want him here with us right now, in this conversation. I have a feeling he’ll come soon enough.”