Finally getting to work on a new mystery, Bell Buoy, set on Cape Cod. Here is the first draft of the first chapter. It wanted to get some air. Like this seagull.
Bell Buoy - Chapter 1 (first draft)
I walked around to the passenger side to attach her leash and ease Lucy down, but she brushed past my offer of help and jumped, landing with a thud on the soft sand.
“Someone might want to remember she is not as agile as she once was,” I said, and shut the door of my embarrassingly new silver Subaru. Silver doesn’t show dirt.
Recovering like a champ, Lucy pulled me over to our scraggly bayberry bushes and began sniffing every square inch of the ground as if her life depended on it. Both agitated and delighted, she would sniff, stop, do a half squat, and then be assaulted by some new scent and off she’d go, sprint-waddling to find its origin. Whenever Lucy tried to hurry somewhere, she looked more like an animated sack of potatoes than a dog. For that, I loved her fiercely.
The essential problem was that it had been over four hours since our last stop in Connecticut. Too long for a 14 year old bladder. But she hadn’t smelled these smells in years, and she couldn’t help herself. She was just a vessel for the competing forces of nature – to smell and to pee. Maybe that is all any of us ever are.
Lucy is a good dog, and while it is a stretch to call her a beagle, I do it anyway. I picked up the habit because it was the quickest way to answer the inevitable question: “What kind of dog is that?” Of course, people stare at me a little lopsidedly but are usually too polite to argue. In truth Lucy looks quite like I would imagine the offspring of a platypus and a coyote. Sharp eyed and wide-bodied. The only beagle-y things about her are her approximate size and the white tip at the end of her tail. And her nose, of course.
That beagle nose was getting overwhelmed by all the smelly options tonight, and I was afraid Lucy would have a seizure from the stress and excitement. If only I could tell her that she would have plenty of time to cover the roots of all the bushes in Green Pondwith Lucy pee. I gave her another minute and then dropped the leash so I could put my bags down and grab the house key that I – and everyone else - knew was hidden on a hook behind the shutter to the left of the door.
In the fading light of a long day, I wriggled the key into the lock by feel as Lucy finished her business and took the five broad stairs to the porch one at a time. Once she hit the porch, she veered right and went directly to a small red Coleman cooler I hadn’t seen and wagged her tail.
“Good girl,” I said, and Lucy wagged her tail faster.
Taped the to the handle of the cooler was a note: “In case you didn’t get to the store. Milk, butter, coffee, bread, OJ, eggs, and beer. Put the bread in the freezer. Love, Claude and Nancy.” I smiled. Straightforward, kind and a little bossy. God, how I have missed New England. I have been back, of course, but this time is different. This time is for good. I hope.
Nancy and I went to law school together and she is one of the reasons I finally decided to give full time Cape life a try. Claude too. He is a chef,although he would call himself a cook. They make a great couple. I hate them a little for that.
I grabbed the cooler and held the screen door open for Lucy who made straight for the couch. I held my breath as I turned on the lights.
“Okay. Not too bad.” I exhaled. There were no mice running for cover. The ceilings all where they should be. The mildew smell is strong, but that is nothing open windows can’t solve. The house is still functional, which is a small miracle given how our family – really just Joy and me - has ignored her needs for the last decade.
Taking the cooler into the kitchen, I unloaded the groceries and headed back through the living room where Lucy was staring at me.
“Of course your highness,” I answered, boosting her up on the couch where she settled into the middle cushion after going on a short and wobbly walkabout to test them all. Then I went back outside and grabbed my bags. A large rolling suitcase that I had to carry because there are no smooth surfaces in Green Pond or our old house, and a bigger duffle. The rest could stay in the car overnight. I was tired.
The stairs were steeper and narrower than I remembered. Up was manageable, but down was going to take some imagination. I opened all the windows upstairs the air breezed through the house. The design of these old cottages is amazing. I pulled some mismatched sheets and towels from the cedar drawers in the bathroom and hung the towels and made the bed. I grabbed an extra couple of towels for the downstairs “bathroom” and outdoor shower.
I opened a beer and sat on the front porch. A fox barked in the distance. I could hear the movement of the water on the floating dock at the baby beach, but that was about it. It was too early for the summer people and only a handful of the houses were occupied year round. It would take a while to get used to the quiet, I realized. But there was a lot to do. A lot to think about. I needed the quiet.
Why did I come back? To escape the grind and the mistakes. To feel the salt in the sea, to be governed by the wind and the weather and not by email and Twitter. To let my dog spend her last years or months in a place she loves, to remember how to sail. And maybe, to find a fresh start. I had spent 35 years as a lawyer, and while I didn’t hate it, I didn’t love it. At this age, could I learn to love something again? I didn’t know.
Lucy was dead to the world, so I didn’t bother trying to convince her to climb the stairs. I filled a water bowl for her in the kitchen, hoping she would remember how to get there.
“Good night, girl.”
