She laid her hand over the volumes, closing them with a silent spell. She rose, handing them to him. Their eyes met, sharing their secret.
Chapter 56
The coast was ragged and wild. Waves crashed against the dark, wet cliffs. Occasional cypress trees thrust out of the stone, trees as gnarled and bent as if giant hands had twisted them. Seaspray leaped on the wind, beading Melissa’s blowing hair, dampening Braden’s shirt. They stood together looking straight down the rocks at the sea where the water heaved and fell. Dark kelp beds soughed up and down, and surface breakers crashed thundering against the pitted stone. The smell of salt and iodine made Melissa tip her tongue out to taste the sharp scent. Braden watched her, powerfully immersed in her animal pleasure at the wildness of sea and wind. She seemed as totally engrossed as if she had never seen the sea. Each time gulls wheeled over them her hands moved involuntarily, as if she wanted to fly with them—or snatch them from the wind and hold them.
Driving down from San Francisco they had stopped at Half Moon Bay for lunch, had sat at a window table facing the beach, eating clam chowder and French bread. Outside the glass, the deserted white sand stretched to an empty sea, and even that flat expanse had held her. She had seemed fascinated with the wheeling gulls; her mouth had curved up with pleasure when gulls screamed by their window. Now he watched her, charmed by her eagerness, wanting to show her everything, to share with her the village where he had grown up, its red-roofed cottages, its hilly, winding streets, its little restaurants and galleries. Wanting her to love the inn that had been his home, wanting her to be a part of it.
Within an hour he was showing her Carmel, the narrow, shop-lined alleys, the Monterey pines marching down the divided main street. The inn stood a block from the shore; he could see that she liked its white stucco walls and red tile roof, and its balconies bright with potted red geraniums. Mrs. Trask kept it just as neat and welcoming as it was the day she bought it from Gram. He parked and reached behind the seat for their bags and his painting things. Melissa swung out, took her bag and his and went ahead up the brick walk, looking.
The lobby pleased her; she entered slowly. Sunlight through tall windows played over the white walls and potted ferns. The large cool room was high ceilinged, its brown tile floors bare, its white wicker chairs cushioned in pale blue. Only the proprietress looked out of place, black as a raven in her long black dress and thick black stockings and flat black shoes. Mrs. Trask was a hard-looking old woman with gray, grizzled hair knotted behind her head. But when she saw Braden and cried out a greeting and hugged him, her face changed; she was all smiles and warmth. “I save your usual room. Is enough space for easel. Do you bring a cloth to cover my floor?”
Braden nodded and grinned, hugging her.
The woman looked at Melissa shyly, perhaps comparing her to Alice, but then she smiled and took Melissa’s hand in a warm, engulfing grip.
Their room was on the third floor. Its wide corner windows looked down over the village to the sand and sea. Its tile floors showed off white embroidered rugs, and the thick white spread was embroidered with flowers; crewel work, Braden said. He unfolded his drop cloth in a corner and set up his easel, then grabbed her in a hug. “I don’t know whether to take you to bed, or swimming. Either way, take your clothes off.”
It was much later that they swam. The sea frightened her and was ice cold. Behind them the beach was nearly deserted except for a few walkers; no one else was swimming. The waves hit her so hard she could hardly stand. Beyond the waves, Braden swam strongly, and she wouldn’t be outdone. She followed, thankful Mag had made her learn in the swift Sesut River. But they came out soon, freezing, and lay warming on the sand, holding hands, feeling the heat build, thinking of lovemaking until they rose and returned to the inn.
They entered the inn through the rear patio where they could hose off their feet. The bricks had just been washed. The round tables were pushed together and the chairs piled on top, and a man in coveralls was setting mouse traps behind the potted geraniums. Mrs. Trask sat at a table cutting up raw bacon for mouse-bait. Her face looked angry and sullen, as if she trusted no one, but again when she smiled the sun came out. Melissa wondered if she had had a very hard life.
The old woman looked them over. “You have goose bumps. No one swims in that water—water like ice. Foolish, Braden. People drown in that water.” She saw Melissa staring at the traps, and smiled.
“Mouse somewhere. It overruns us. I tell Arnol, either we must catch him or we have to have a cat. I never see mouse so bad.”
