Chapter Thirty-Two #2
I consider. “Well, I’ve never actually painted a room in my life, but I know there are trays and rollers and brushes and occasional
sanding involved.”
“Good enough. I can show you the rest.” His fingers touch my shoulder, just for a moment. “Hey, did you talk to Rika and Yasmin?
You tell them you’re officially staying?”
“Yeah.” I squint down the length of the beach, where it curves away into the horizon, melting into the foggy colors of the
sunset. “I talked to them both earlier.”
“And?”
I glance back at Nathan. “Well, I think they’d both guessed something was up.” Rika had been texting me for days, asking when
I was planning to come back to Boston, and I kept putting her off, saying I was figuring things out and I’d let her know soon.
“But they’re okay. When I said the bigger house has a guest room, Rika promptly started planning their next trip.”
He laughs, less shy, but still gentle. “Give it a year, and they’ll be joining the OUTfielders.”
We reach the bottom of the stairs and I kick off my shoes. “Please don’t say that. Rika has a surprisingly ruthless competitive
streak.”
The sand is cool under my feet as we walk toward the water, maybe another sign that summer is ebbing away.
Nathan picks up a flat black stone, winding his arm up and then uncoiling in one smooth motion, sending the stone skipping across the calm sea—twice, three times, four, and then five.
He turns to me with an expression of victory and I laugh.
We hunt for rocks to skip along the waterline, dodging around washed-up seaweed, while the bronze disk of the sun falls behind
the ocean, and the tide slowly recedes, and the sky darkens bit by bit. I watch the light change across his face. Watch him
laugh. Laugh with him. The waves soak the hems of our pants and I can feel the vague stickiness of salt on my hair when I
brush it out of my eyes, and on his fingers when I grasp his hand.
Finally, when my fingertips are numb from the wind and the wet rocks and his are no longer tapping absently against each other,
we turn and head back to the stairs.
“I’ve got a couple leftover ears of sweet corn,” I say, brushing sand off my damp feet and slipping back into my shoes. “I
was thinking of making those and heating up some leftover pasta for dinner. You want to stay?”
“Yeah, that sounds great,” Nathan says, pulling on his own shoes. “I might take a shower too, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” He’s already left a few articles of clothing around the bigger cottage. An extra T-shirt. A sweatshirt. A
pair of old sweatpants. It’s made sense, with how much time he’s already been spending here.
Twilight is creeping across the dune as we climb back up the stairs. When we reach the top, I hear music floating from the
direction of the little cottage. Through the birch trees, I catch a glimpse of open windows, the curtains drawn back. Dina
is standing in the living room, bathed in the warm glow from the lamp by the love seat, swaying gently, as though she’s dancing
with someone invisible. Her eyes are closed, her gray hair falling loose around her shoulders, her hands raised—one as though
it’s resting on an invisible shoulder, the other cradled by an invisible hand.
I stop, watching, and Nathan stops with me.
“I haven’t heard this song in ages,” he says.
I turn to look at him, but he’s looking past me, toward the cottage, a vague, faraway look on his face.
“She’s had this record for as long as I can remember,” he says, “but I don’t know when she last played it. It’s been years.”
There’s a faintly scratchy edge to the gentle ballad, the voice and strings and keys all warbling. It’s clearly an old song—something
from the fifties or sixties, tinged with gospel or soul.
I think of the large cardboard box Dina carried with her to the cottage, and the record player missing from the side table.
She must have taken the turntable with her.
“What is it?” I ask. “The record?”
“An album by the Four Tops, I think,” Nathan says. “I can’t remember the name of it, but I’m pretty sure George gave it to
her as a present.”
A last piece slips into the puzzle.
Even the front door works like that for some people, Dina told me.
I may not have seen anyone in the living room, but Nathan did. Maybe Dina does too.
Maybe she’s not dancing alone.
A sudden, desperate desire washes through me to walk up the flagstone path, knock on the door, and ask if I can come in, hoping
that maybe I’ll be able to see him too—her dancing partner—the way I saw Nathan’s parents.
But I can’t do that. I know I can’t. This moment isn’t for me. This is a last dance, the kind you ask for at the end of a
night, before you part ways. Before you say goodbye.
So all I say is “It’s a beautiful song.”
Nathan smiles. “It is.”
We stand there for another moment, listening, and then I turn away, holding out my hand. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and rough and faintly gritty with salt.
The kitchen light is still on in the bigger house, glowing through the windows like the lamp in a lighthouse as we climb the
deck stairs. The music fades behind us, blending in with the gentle hum of the last summer crickets and the distant rolling
waves. I let myself drown in all of it—the creeping chill, the breath of wind, the creaking branches, and the salty air.
And then I open the screen door, my fingers still tangled tightly with Nathan’s, and we walk into the house together, leaving
the deepening night behind.