The Beach In Winter Read online

  The Beach In Winter

  Leslie Pike

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Leslie Pike

  Playlist

  Spring Fling Anthology

  The Trouble With Eden

  The Curve

  Copyright 2019 Leslie Pike

  All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication, may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, brands, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Dedication

  For Don, who in death teaches me the final lessons of our love.

  Chapter 1

  Parish

  The wind’s begun to moan, interrupting my attempt at passing out. I sneer at Mother Nature’s lame shot at keeping me conscious. Although I doubt she’d be turning her attention to one man whose goal it is to be invisible.

  Besides, there’s an even chance I’m imagining the whole scene. The abandoned lighthouse under an inky sky of blurred stars. The wild sea. Even the sharp smell of salty air. They could all be figments of a pickled brain. Delusion’s become my preferred state.

  Three a.m. is for writers who can’t sleep. Their minds filled with words for someone who’s not there. Or for people hoping to drink themselves into amnesia. Or in my case, both. I’m lost in this ocean of sorrow. And I keep drowning.

  Concentrating on bringing the bottle into focus, I carefully raise it to my lips and take a long pull of whiskey. Familiar heat slides down my throat, while the rest of me shivers in the night air. The nearly empty fifth gets propped in the damp sand. Careful. Don’t knock it over. There’s still a few mouthfuls to be had before I lose myself. It would suck to have a tongue full of sand like last week. Or was it the week before?

  A pile of tangled seaweed props me up. I was too wasted to go the extra six feet to the dune. There’s a twisted piece of driftwood for my head to rest against. A hard pillow with knots in it suits the mood. The voice of the raging waves begins to carry me away. Here it comes. Hurry.

  Today was bad. My mind has become the enemy. Once a strength, now it’s relentless in its pursuit to make me remember, replay. A punishing fucking adversary who won’t be silenced.

  I’ve stopped begging God for compassion. There’s been no response. Or maybe I misjudged Him and his quality of mercy. Could be His answer was, Fuck you, get over it.

  And exactly who am I pleading with? I don’t believe in a God anymore. I’ve seen no proof of a loving deity. It’s a desperate man’s last hope when there’s nowhere else to turn. I’m past that.

  No matter what I’ve tried, I can’t stop thinking about my boy. How he could make me laugh more than anyone else. The blond curls that rested on his forehead like a cherub. Even when he was eight. And the expression he wore whenever I’d suggest a surfing trip.

  It was always just the two of us. That’s part of the pain. He had already missed out on so much in his short life. The crueler memories are too devastating to think about. I try not to hold those in my mind any longer than they demand.

  What I’d give to shut down the images that play on. But it seems to be getting worse. Is it really too much to ask for relief after all these years? Whatever sentence I was handed by destiny must be served by now.

  Maybe someday I’ll write about the struggle. How I never recovered from the loss of my child. An instant best seller noted for its piercing insight. It’ll be published posthumously, and everyone who ever knew me will say my suicide was inevitable.

  That’s no bullshit.

  My lids lower. Then slowly lift. Lower. Open. Who’s that standing on Happy Family’s deck? A woman I haven’t seen before. It’s definitely not Babe. There’s no sign of her Honey either. Sam Boy must be with them. It’s been at least a month since I’ve seen any of them.

  There’s only been those four unfamiliar men who stayed a weekend. I remember thinking how odd it was that none of them ever came down to the beach. Strange now that almost every light in the two-story house burns bright. And the rooms look different. Rearranged.

  The writer in me reads the scene. Even through my haze and a hundred yards away, the body language says the woman’s troubled. Or maybe it’s exhaustion, head hanging as she braces herself on the rail. Somehow she looks out of place. Is there crying? Can’t really tell from here. She’s not dressed appropriately for the beach. Let alone late at night. Obviously, she comes from some other place.

  I can’t hold my eyes open anymore, so I cover them with my old favorite cap and give in to the darkness.

  The seagull’s departing caw startles me awake. At the same time, its loose shit splats on my cheek and runs back into my ear. The cap gets tossed aside.

  “Crap!” I yell, ignoring the irony.

  A double hit from that asshole with wings. The weird marking on the underbelly makes him stand apart. It’s become his thing. And an existential metaphor for the state of my life. Yeah, I see you fucker. Even through this fog.

  Where’d this come from? There’s a blanket on me, feet to chin. Who did that? A whiff of my own puke crusted in the fabric reaches my nose. Disgusting. Hope whoever put this on me wasn’t around when I hurled. Actually, what do I care?

  Okay, it was a kindness, but one I wouldn’t want again. Mind your own fucking business, people. Next time I’ll move further down the beach against the cliffs.

  I wipe my face with the only other thing available, a sleeve. The cap goes back onto my head. Standing, I feel like an old man. Back, knees, reminding me they used to feel a lot differently. When I was running and swimming in the ocean every day, things were remarkably otherwise. Forty-three feels older than I knew it could. Truthfully, every part of me hurts. Maybe it’s punishment. But from whom?

  Turning toward the house, the familiar march back to my staircase begins. Every day. Every fucking day. My head’s pounding and my mouth feels like the Sahara if it was covered in dog shit. I pick up the empty whiskey bottle as I pass. It’s a laughable habit, drawing the line at littering.

  I drag the blanket behind as my bare feet dig into the coarse sand of the Maine coastline. It’s hard not to think of another beach, a softer sand. Above all, a kinder world.

  When I look up, Sam Boy’s watching. He stands on the deck, staring. You’d think he’d look away, but no. Neither of us smile. It’s not like we’re friends, but whenever we’d pass on the beach we almost always gave a nod.

  He
doesn’t want to talk to the weird neighbor, and I have no interest in making meaningless conversation with a sour-faced kid. Hopefully the parents have told him to steer clear of the drunk. They should have. The very minimum required works for us both.

  It feels like we’re daring the other to look away. I’m not the only stubborn guy here. Someone must be calling from the house. His shoulders fall. He lifts his chin and listens for a few moments then turns and slowly goes inside. Interesting. This isn’t like him at all.

  The kid’s led a charmed life. I saw how his parents enjoyed the sandcastles stage. Actually, I watched a few times then stopped. Too painful. That was when he was much younger and reminded me of Justin. Now I’ve taken to looking again. He’s a teenager, or about to be. Thankfully he bears no resemblance to my child.

  For him it’s skimmer days. Childhood toys have been abandoned. He and his friend like to surf the sand dunes with boogie boards. In another life I would have liked doing that myself. These waters are too wild for actual surfing. Hell, you can’t even swim here. That was something that drew me.

  Didn’t want this beach to remind me of our California one. Redondo Beach, California and Martin’s Beach, Maine are diametrical opposites. It isn’t just the texture of the sand that’s different. There was bright sunshine three hundred days of the year in the old life. Here, just as many cold.

  It’s obvious that Sam prefers his friend’s company to his parents now. There’s always that one kid hanging with him. They inhabit the world between boy and man. I remember that age well. It was great. Carefree. Thoughts of my boyhood friends crowd my mind. I abandoned them too.

  Wonder what’s going on with this kid, though? The dark expression isn’t normal. There seems to have been a sea change. Maybe I’m reading too much into the whole thing. He probably didn’t get the new skateboard he wants. Or maybe it’s a phone now. He’s about that age.

  Taking my stairs slowly, I give the kid one last look and a nod. It goes unreturned. Don’t know why I did that. Except for the small part of me that thinks he really needed it.

  I use the hose to wash the sand off my feet, then swing the unlocked door open and step back into my inner sanctum. I survived another night. A sigh escapes my lips like a relief valve followed by a putrid burp.

  People who only know me as the unconscious man on the beach would be surprised to see how I live. Ordered shelves of books from floor to ceiling, the organized wooden desk with the Mac and my last novel sitting next to it. They’re waiting for me, as if conscious of my routine.

  What a turn in my professional life. Two best sellers as P.J. Adams at the beginning of my career. Before the tragedy stole everything. Even my name. I had to abandon it once every interviewer prodded me for details of how I was feeling. There was blood in the water, and it would always be that way.

  As far as the public goes, that man has fallen off the face of the earth. No one ever called me Parish because I was P.J. from the time I was a kid. And Adams is such a common name. Early on, my publisher realized I’d go somewhere else in a hot minute if she didn’t agree to go along with my plan. I’d write using the name Parish. One name only. I figured if Cher and Sting could do it, so could I. And interviews would never be granted.

  My books made and continue to make too much money for her or anyone to argue the point.

  Readers and critics haven’t connected the dots because the genre has changed and with it the tone of my writing. Anonymity was the goal. Now P.J. Adams only exists within these walls, hidden on the shelves of neatly stacked books, far away from Parish detective stories.

  Everything in its place. So opposite my inner life. An analyst would love to dissect that one. But I don’t need any doctor explaining my behavior. These surroundings are the only things I’m capable of controlling in a world where random chaos happens. It’s as simple and complex as that. There. Saved myself a couple of hundred dollars a session.

  The blanket gets tossed on the washing machine as I pass the laundry closet in the hall. A shower’s going to wash away the stink rising from my body. And maybe it’ll clear the heaviness that’s been hard to shake lately. No mystery what’s prompting it. Every year in the lead up to the holidays, followed by his birthday, I go darker. This time it started earlier and it’s more intense.

  How sad to imagine Justin older when that’s never going to be. In my fantasies we’re always great friends. I’m the cool dad and all his friends want to come to our house. Strange how detailed an illusion can be.

  This place is my only respite from the mess that’s my life. At least I’m hidden here from prying eyes and concerned people who mean well. Keeping my acquaintances to a bare minimum helps. Random hookups are in hotel rooms. Marty at the bar is about the only person I talk to at any length, and it’s only a few times a year and mostly sports related. But even he isn’t welcome here.

  It’s not a home in the standard definition. That requires lots more than one occasionally warm body. At the very least you should be interested in making it your own. Putting your stamp on things. But here only the top drawer of the desk tells my story.

  Eight hundred seventy-five feet and no second bedroom discourages visitors. Not that anyone knows where I am. But in the age of the Internet, you can be found. My brother and sister must have tried, even though they don’t admit to it when we talk. Over the years I’ve steered them away from any conversations that involve the past, my state of mind, Justin or the possibility of a visit.

  I think they’re afraid our once-a-year phone call will stop. But I can’t do more. I just can’t. I’d be afraid my sadness would pull them down with me. If it came to it, I’d put up a No Trespassers sign and enforce it.

  At least I smell better. The bar that measures a good day for me is set remarkably low. Every morning I try to reboot. Leave the night behind and begin again. Let go of the dark thoughts and the indulgences while there’s daylight. It’s the only way I’m surviving, searching for small signs I’m making progress. But so far they haven’t showed up. I keep hoping one day will be better.

  The morning light helps get me in the right frame of mind to write. Four weeks till my deadline. Then I’ll start outlining the next one. I still remember the break between books I took a few years ago. That was a fucking mistake. Filling my days with another man’s plot twists is the only way to temporarily escape my own.

  Good thing the imagination’s as vivid as ever, because I’ve got to rely on it exclusively. My world has shrunk, and with it my ability to keep as current as I should. I don’t watch much television or take the newspaper. There’s too many opportunities for me to be reminded of that day. Too many new survivors of fresh terrors whose eyes look like mine. The world has become even crueler.

  Instead, I Google what I need to know or want to learn. It’s specific and I can avoid the things I need to turn from. I used to love discovering the new. Cultures, people, food. Philosophies. Not anymore. Routine is the only way forward. Come up from the beach, masturbate in the shower, put on a fresh pair of boxer briefs and one of my oversized sweaters. Wet hair, spent dick, coffee and whatever’s left over from the week’s grocery shopping. Today it’s an overripe banana and a hard piece of salami.

  In another life I liked cooking. I was good at it, in fact. Justin loved what I’d make for him, and when he was a toddler he’d hold out his hands and open and close his fingers till I’d bring him more. He went through a stage where he’d cry when it was gone.

  It used to drive me crazy thinking that whenever his mother had him his diet consisted of fast food crap. She couldn’t even care for him properly for forty-eight hours at a time. That was before I got full custody. Shit. Now I’m thinking of Marsha, which only leads to more negative thoughts. And not just of her. I carry as much blame because I was old enough to know better. Screwing a random woman in a club while foregoing a condom isn’t a great idea.

  Setting the coffee on the desk, I take my seat and look out at the dark jewel-colored sea. That’s
why I bought this place. The wall of glass and the scene before it. The endless expanse of an ever-changing ocean.

  Most days I spend time standing on the beach staring at the waves rising and slamming with such force they actually make the ground shake. There’s always an undercurrent of rage in the Atlantic, even on its mildest day. I like that.

  I haven’t been in the ocean for five years. Never would have believed it. Now I’m just an armchair surfer imagining epic rides.

  I can’t see any neighbors from this vantage point. No one can see me through the darkened glass. I’d have to go on the deck and peek around the corner of the house to be able to spot Happy Family’s home and the one further down the beach closest to it.

  On the opposite end, the house closest to mine is much further away. Almost to the lighthouse. It’s dark and kind of spooky, with iron lanterns that glow at night. Looks like a fortress for Dracula.

  In reality, a nice older man lives there. The lighthouse keeper. That’s what he said to call him the one time we had an actual conversation. I’ve shortened it to LK. Marty told me the guy owns half the beach property. Bought fifty years ago when no one wanted to live on a secluded beach, not made for swimming.

  Okay, get it over with. Quit looking out the window. It’s not going anywhere, and I need to finish the epilogue. First, a sip of steaming coffee from my Stanford University mug. I pull the drawer open, and my eyes dart to the letters first. Two sealed envelopes with the names of my sister and brother, Gayle and John. I leave them facing up, names showing, so they won’t be overlooked if the worst happens.