Secrets At the Cove. Honey Perkel

fog. Resuming her walk, she once again heard the scratching behind her. Perhaps it was another dog following them or a band of birds pecking at dead sea life in the dampness. Sammy began to whimper. Elizabeth felt for his head, and gave it a reassuring pat as they moved ahead. But, with each step she became more unnerved herself.

      The sound of scratching grew louder as it advanced. She could hear it above the roaring of the surf. From somewhere in the distance, a foghorn blared from an offshore fishing boat. A lonely, piercing shriek. Elizabeth began to feel the fear grow within her. What was following her?

      The fog was closing in all around, so dense now she could barely make out the foamy waterline at her feet. She couldn’t run. It would be like running blind into nothing but a wall of white. A snow blizzard in the midst of summer. Should she turn and head for home?

      Sammy kept his large form pressed against hers, their bodies stepping silently together as though one. He continued to whimper as they made their way.

      Elizabeth’s heart began to pound faster. Panic was engulfing her as she wondered what she should do. She and the dog were trapped in the thick, colorless fog on the lonely stretch of sand. They were isolated, alone.

      She stopped. She turned around. There in the mist stood a man in black. He was wearing a long trench coat and a brimmed fedora. His facial features were hidden inside the clothing and fog. No face. No hands. Elizabeth gasped. She stood frozen. Sammy began to bark again and again.

      The man, appearing as a shadow, merely stood there. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. The thick, gray fog swirled around his form. Then it swallowed him, and the figure in black vanished.

      Elizabeth knew this was not her young surfer. The form she saw was ominous, exuding darkness and forbidden dangers. The young surfer would never have scared her so. Elizabeth was certain of that.

      For minutes, all Elizabeth could do was stand there. Then, suddenly, she broke into a run. She had to get to the safety of her home.

      She and Sammy continued to run. In a clearing up ahead, she could see the rocks surrounding the perimeter of Surfer’s Cove. Just a little further. A few more feet and she would be safe. She climbed them precariously, her feet slipping on their smooth, slick surfaces as she made her way. Finally, they raced to the narrow stretch of grass, then pavement. Elizabeth and the dog rushed up the broad front stairs past the pots of brightly planted red geraniums, and into her Loft House. She slammed the front door behind them.

      She was safe, secure. She hadn’t noticed the second set of wet footprints on the steps beside hers.

      * * *

      “You can’t have Elizabeth,” I screamed at the man in black. “I know who you are, and you can’t have her yet!” I shuddered with fear and rage. Death. Life. The heavenly battle was on.

      Eggs And Recollections

      Tilly stood at the stove scrambling eggs. She was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and matching sweater, more for fall than summer she had to admit, but she was chilled this morning, the sun having abandoned them.

      “Where did the sun go?” Richard asked, sipping his coffee at the table. It was like he’d read her mind. He set down his cup, and rubbed his hands together as though stirring up some warmth.

      “It deserted us,” Tilly told him, “as so many other things have.” She sounded bitter, and she knew it. But then, she was often bitter with Richard these days.

      She plated the eggs and began to butter whole wheat toast while it was still warm. Tilly set Richard’s breakfast on the table before him, and sat in the chair opposite — her mind somewhere far away. Then she poured a cup of steaming black coffee for herself, and absently rubbed the butter on her toast with her finger. She licked it clean, and rubbed again.

      “That is so unlady-like,” Tilly could hear her mother say.

      She thought back. Jessica Sumner had always been a proper woman. She’d been thrilled when Tilly married Richard and gave her a grandchild. Her mother died the year Mark turned five. She never saw him grow into the man he might have been, but then neither did Tilly and Richard.

      However, they’d seen the hint of it, a man in the making so many times. Her mother would have been proud. She had spoiled him as only a grandmother could.

      Tilly recalled the many times her mother had invited Mark to spend the night with her in her small apartment. She enjoyed the boy and lavished him with love. They played games and sang songs. Mark crawled into his grandmother’s big bed, where they watched movies on her portable black and white television set. They usually slept until nine the next morning when she made him waffles with real strawberry jam, and let him artfully squirt canned whipping cream on top.

      Tilly also recalled the hysteria her mother felt on one of those Sunday mornings when she went to pick him up. Her mother was beside herself with fear.

      “Where did he get them? I don’t know where he got them! she had cried.

      Her mother was referring to matches. Jessica had never kept matches in her house. She had a phobia about fire, and had passed that fear to her daughter. Jessica never explained how the fear had begun, but it must have stemmed from something terrible in her own childhood, Tilly suspected. Whatever had happened had been too horrific to reveal.

      As far back as Tilly could remember, there had never been candles in her mother’s house.

      Tilly didn’t even remember candles on her birthday cakes. There were no campsite bonfires. No crackling fireplace on cold, frosty winter evenings. Fire was a thing to be avoided at all costs in the Sumner household. It was no surprise that Jessica panicked when she found her four-year-old grandson with a box of matches. Tilly panicked, too. She was as afraid of fire as her mother — a learned paranoia.

      Tilly looked across the table at her husband. He was finishing his eggs and polishing off the last of his buttered toast. During the past two years, Richard had acquired a nervous tick on the side of his left eye. It twitched now as he drank his remaining coffee. His hair appeared grayer, she noticed, and his eyes seemed worn by pain. A pain they both shared, and didn’t know how to put in its rightful place.

      What had happened to their life together? They used to tell each other they could weather any storm, survive any tragedy. That was until they actually had to face one. When the going got tough, Richard bailed out. Perhaps, she had, too. Now she felt as though she lived with a stranger, both of their lives destroyed.

      Her heart ached for her son. All Tilly wanted was to look into Mark’s shining young face once more, to have him put his arms around her in one of his big bear hugs and say “Hey, Mom,” in what had become his deep, man voice. Mark was tall at the age of seventeen. His hair was a soft brown like Richard’s, his eyes deep green like hers. The boy had a wonderful sense of humor, was athletic and a great student. He was a parent’s dream. He hadn’t been perfect by any means, but Tilly didn’t want to remember those times. In the end, those things didn’t really matter anyway. He’d been her life, and she missed him.

      Tilly wondered if the aching would ever stop. Would she ever be able to look at Richard again as she had before the accident? Could she ever forgive him and find peace inside her heart?

      “What’s on your agenda today?” Richard asked.

      “I’m having someone come to look at the bedroom windows this morning,” Tilly responded with as little interest as her husband’s question had held. “After that I’ll be in the office all afternoon.”

      It didn’t really matter what she did today. Each day was the same, filled with emptiness.

      Brad Bailey

      Tilly stood watching Brad Bailey as he examined the bedroom windows. He was a man in his mid-thirties, muscular, strong, but not in an ugly kind of way like some muscle-engorged body builder. But rather in a nice, polished, masculine way. His brown hair was kept fairly short, except for a hank in the front that swept casually across his broad forehead.