Secrets At the Cove. Honey Perkel

or jogger. She could see couples holding hands, young parents pushing baby strollers, and other people walking their dogs.

      During the past two years, Tilly sometimes found herself hating babies, children in general.

      She caught herself watching families when she was out at the movies, at the mall, at restaurants. Talking, sharing, bursting with laughter. A family. Healthy. Happy.

      The length of the south prom from Broadway to Avenue U was exactly one mile. From Broadway north to the end of Twelfth Street, a bit shorter. Before her, loomed the giant landmass called Tillamook Head jutting out into the ocean. Taking the narrow road around the bend of the cove, she could see newly built million dollar homes. How she would love to get a listing for a few of those; she could retire in luxury, and perhaps live on her own, independent of Richard. Would that finally make her happy? No, Tilly knew it wouldn’t.

      She shifted the shopping bags, and continued to let her mind wander as she passed one summer home after another. How many nights had she cried herself to sleep? How many lonely nights had she lain beside her husband longing for his touch, for the feel of his arms around her, for him to make love to her? And there were other nights when she couldn’t stand the sight of him. It had been nearly two years since this all began. Since Mark died. Two years of her life gone.

      * * *

      With her hand rake, Iris completed the task of spreading the extra bit of bark mulch around her flowerbeds. Between the soft green lamb’s ears and whitecandy tufts and snap dragons. As was her habit, she sat back on her haunches to admire her afternoon’s work, adjusting the large straw sun hat on her head.

      Iris smiled with satisfaction, and the riot of colored blooms seemed to smile in return.

      “The Seaside Garden Club would be proud,” Iris spoke. “My, that was so many years ago; I wonder what prompted those thoughts.” Thirty-five years ago to be exact. The spring Scott ... well, she hadn’t thought about those women for years, always talking about their boring little houses, their perfect little children, and their responsible husbands. Daughters. Sons. Not a woman she could relate to. She’d been a member of the Seaside Garden Club for many years until she ... well, until she’d had to leave town for a few months.

      Iris collected her garden tools and stored them in their rightful places in her storage shed at the back of the house. Then she removed her straw hat and smoothed her gray hair in place.

      She slowly climbed her front steps. The house, heavy drapes blocking out the sun, seemed sad this afternoon. She seemed sad, remembering things she hadn’t thought about for so long. Well, she would fix that, she decided, as she entered the kitchen where her dirty breakfast dishes were still piled in the sink. Sadie, Essie, and Ruby followed her into the kitchen, and sprang up on chairs to watch her. Iris poured stale morning coffee into a mug. She’d just sit down and think about Scott coming to town on Friday. Count the hours and minutes until he arrived. And just maybe, Samuel would tell her what to do next. Iris rubbed her aching knees. They were particularly painful today.

      * * *

      Molly and Augie Bradford lived in the larger cottage behind The Gull Cottage Motel. Theirs had a more spacious kitchen, and two bedrooms: one for Molly and Augie, and one for Hope Amelia.

      Sitting in a wicker rocking chair in the nursery, Molly held her infant daughter. She was trying to recall what Iris had said at lunch. Was it something about every child having the right to know his father? Even though Augie committed a crime and was in prison, was he still entitled to know about his child? What kept her from telling him about his baby? Every time she thought about writing or phoning him, an unexplained feeling of trepidation gripped her. She just couldn’t do it.

      Resting her head on the back of the chair, Molly continued to rock her baby. She thought about what it would be like to have a real husband — to be truly loved. The truth was, she was married to a man who was trying to save his own neck. He’d borrowed a huge amount of money with undoubtedly no prospect of paying it back, and was promising someone that she was good to repay his loan.

      Molly looked down at Hope Amelia. Her daughter. Her heart. She swelled with the love she had for this child. She would keep her safe, would raise her alone. As the afternoon sun streamed across the room, Molly sat, tears running down her young face.

      * * *

      Molly didn’t know I was standing there in the corner of the room, watching, crying with her. I was always there whenever my own needed me, and I was always crying with them. It was the least I could do.

      * * *

      In the quiet of the cottage, the telephone rang. Molly looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms and frowned. The baby snuggled into her soft arms, her tiny thumb in her mouth. Sweet. Tender. Molly didn’t want her to wake up. Gingerly, she rose, and with steady arms, carried the baby to her crib, laying her down on the pink-sheeted mattress. Then she hurried down the hall to the kitchen where she answered the call.

      “Hello,” she said quietly.

      There was no answer.

      “Hello,” she repeated a little louder this time. “Is there someone there?” Just about to replace the telephone receiver, Molly thought she heard someone on the other end of the line. “May I help you?”

      “Yeah, you can help me,” a gruff male voice replied. “You can give me the money you owe me.”

      Leno Stevens! Molly would never forget that voice. Her heart pounded as fear rose within her. He’d called before, and she had stalled him, saying she was short on cash and couldn’t pay what Augie owed. It had been the truth. Leno seemed to have been appeased, but apparently not for long.

      “That’s between you and my husband,” she told Leno now. “I can’t pay you, nor am I obligated to.” Molly wasn’t quite sure about that. There might be some legal loophole or other, she worried, but she doubted whether this man would know.

      The man snorted. “That’s not the way I remember it, Mrs. Bradford. Your husband borrowed money from me fair and square, and I’m going to collect! Augie said I should get the money from you.” With that, the angry man slammed down the telephone receiver, leaving Molly stunned.

      Figure On The Beach

      Elizabeth wasn’t able to concentrate on her painting. Now the canvas she’d been working on left her cold and empty as she picked up her paintbrush, loaded it with the watercolor, and swished it in the jar of water again and again. Her heart and mind were no longer on her work. Sorry, Valerie Meyers, Elizabeth thought, the timing just wasn’t so great right now. She had other things to do.

      All she could think about was the young man at the cove. While she showered, while she dressed, while she drank her orange juice and nibbled at her slice of buttered toast. It was as though she were hypnotized, possessed. She felt frightened and exhilarated all at once. Elizabeth longed to know who he was, to meet him. To peer into his cobalt eyes.

      Following what had become their daily routine, Elizabeth and Sammy walked along the beach searching for the handsome young surfer. But the weather had changed during the night, unusual for this time of year. It had turned chilly and a thick fog had rolled in off the sea, all but obscuring the pounding ocean. The sky was a fuzzy gray as Elizabeth and Sammy made their way along the shoreline. She could feel the fine mist on her face and hands. The chilly dampness bit her as it seeped through her white jeans and navy hooded-sweatshirt. Sammy remained close, his thick golden coat, weighty with mist.

      There were no surfers out at the cove this morning — it was much too foggy for that. Walking as though in a snowy winter whiteout, Elizabeth tried to keep an eye on the shoreline which ran in and out just beyond her feet. She heard the ocean pound and roar around her, though it remained hidden from view.

      Her brunette hair was becoming damp, her sunburned toes cold as she moved barefoot along the shore. Then, from somewhere behind, Elizabeth heard something scratching at the wet packed sand.

      She