Chapter 6
The road to Chasten Cove began at the south end of the main street, a paved side road that led down to a parking spot by the water. I had seen the sign when I drove into town. But when I met Aimee at the grocery store at six, she said we were walking.
"There's a trail," she told me with a grin. "Twenty minutes. You'll like it better than the parking lot."
I didn't argue. Aimee seemed like someone who knew where she was going.
The trail began behind the last building on the main street, a narrow path that cut through shore pine and salal bushes along the top of the cliffs.
The plants were thick and shaped by wind, the pines twisted by years of gusting winter winds.
Aimee walked ahead of me with the easy steps of someone who had been walking this path since she was a kid, pointing out roots and bumpy spots without slowing down.
"Watch the drop on your left," she said. "It won't kill you, but it would mess up your evening."
I watched the drop on my left. It was steep enough that she wasn't lying.
The trail curved south along the coastline, the ocean showing through the trees in quick glimpses.
The sky was going from gray to pale blue and back to gray as clouds moved in from the Pacific.
Typical March weather on the coast, the light changing every few minutes.
One moment everything looked flat and colorless, the next the sun broke through and the water turned from dark gray to silver.
After fifteen minutes, the trail started going downhill. The plants thinned out and I could see the cove below us, a protected half-moon of beach maybe three hundred yards long. Rocky points blocked both ends, covered in the dark groups of barnacles and mussels that marked where the tide came in.
The water inside the cove was calmer than the open coast, with small waves lapping instead of crashing. In the middle of the cove, two large sea stacks rose from the water, their tops covered with twisted salt pines that had somehow found enough space to survive.
To my surprise, there was nobody else on the beach.
"Summer, this place is crazy busy," Aimee said as we made our way down the last part of the trail. "The rest of the year, it belongs to whoever shows up."
We had shown up. The beach was ours.
The sand was gray and rough, mixed with small stones and broken shells. Driftwood logs were scattered along the high tide line, bleached silver by salt and sun. Aimee walked toward the water's edge and I followed, the sand crunching under my boots.
"See those flat rocks at the north point?" She pointed. "Harbor seals rest there. You come down here in the morning, you'll see a dozen of them lying in the sun. They'll watch you like you're the show."
I looked at the rocks. No seals today, but I could picture them.
"Did you know those sea stacks have names?" she asked. "The first settlers gave them names that nobody uses anymore. The names everybody really uses are different."
"What are the names everybody really uses?"
She looked at me with a smile that showed I was walking into something.
"I'd rather not say. I'd like you to think well of the local people."
"Now I have to know."
She laughed. "Long Cock and Fat Cock."
I looked at the sea stacks. One was taller and thinner. The other was shorter and wider. The names made sense.
"Norwegians," Aimee said. "The logging crews that settled this area were mostly Scandinavian. They were very straightforward people."
"I see that."
We walked the length of the beach, Aimee pointing out things with the exact knowledge of someone who had been exploring this place for years.
The tide pools at the bottom of the south point, where you could find purple seaweed and giant green anemones.
The part of the cliff face where a small landslide three years ago had shown a layer of old shells turned to rock.
The channel between the sea stacks where the current ran fast enough to be dangerous when the tide changed.
She knew this place the way I was starting to know my twenty-two acres. Not from studying but from being there. From showing up over and over for years and paying attention to what was there.
At the far end of the beach, where the south point met the sand, a crack in the cliff created a sheltered spot. A huge driftwood log had gotten stuck there, gray and smooth, sitting like a bench facing the water. Aimee sat down and patted the space next to her.
I sat. The log was surprisingly comfortable, worn smooth by years of weather. The spot blocked the wind and created a pocket of warmth. From here we could see the whole cove, the sea stacks, the darkening sky over the Pacific.
"This is the spot," she said.
I wasn't sure if she meant the spot for watching the sunset or the spot for something else. I guessed both.
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a flask. Silver, slightly dented like it had been carried in someone's pocket for years. She unscrewed the cap and handed it to me.
I took a drink. The whiskey was smooth and warm, with flavors of caramel and oak and peat. It was a lot better than I expected from a flask pulled out on a beach.
"That's good."
"I was married to a man who drank the wrong things in the wrong amounts," she said. "But I've always been picky about whiskey. If you're going to drink, drink something worth drinking."
I handed the flask back. She took a sip and capped it and set it on the log between us.
"So tell me about this cabin of yours. What's the plan?"
I found myself telling her more than I expected to.
About the condition of the place when I first saw it, the sagging porch and the water damage and the septic system that needed to be re-certified.
About what I wanted to do with it, the repairs and improvements that would turn it from a building into a home.
About the land itself, the creek and the pond and the deer trails that wound through the old-growth forest behind the cabin.
She listened with the same attention she brought to everything.
When I finished describing the septic situation, she asked practical questions about the drain field and the soil type and whether I had thought about a composting system as a backup.
When I mentioned the porch repairs, she asked about the foundation and whether the posts were sitting on concrete or right on the soil.
"You know a lot about this stuff," I said.
"I grew up on my parents' property four miles up the coast. Two acres, a house that was never quite finished, parents who fixed everything themselves because they couldn't afford to pay someone else." She shrugged. "You learn what you need to learn."
"Is the property still in your family?"
"Mom died six years ago. Dad's in assisted living in Sequim.
The property got sold to pay for his care.
" She said this without drama, just facts.
"I know what a cabin that needs work looks like.
And I know what a man who plans to do the work looks like.
Versus a man who talks about doing the work and then hires people and then complains about the people. "
"Which kind do I look like?"
She studied me for a moment. "The first kind. Early opinion. Could change based on proof."
"I hope you're right."
"So do I."
The afternoon light was dropping and the temperature with it. I felt the chill creeping in at the edges, the warmth of the spot not quite enough to hold it back. Aimee shifted on the log, moving closer. Her shoulder touched mine. Her thigh pressed against my thigh.
I was aware of her closeness. I had not been this close to a woman for longer than I wanted to think about. The warmth of her body through the layers of clothing. The smell of her hair, something flowery and clean. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath.
She turned and looked at me. She was not being subtle and she knew she was not being subtle. Her face showed she thought this was a good thing rather than a bad thing.
"So are you going to kiss me," she said, "or do I have to take the lead here?"
I leaned into her.
The kiss was long and slow. Her lips were soft and tasted of whiskey. Her hand came up to rest on my chest, not pushing, not pulling, just touching.
She made the kiss deeper and I responded. Her tongue touched mine, careful at first and then more sure. My hand found the small of her back, the curve of her waist under her jacket.
She took my other hand and moved it under her shirt.
Her skin was warm and smooth. I felt the soft weight of her breast against my palm, full and heavy. No bra. Her nipple hardened under my touch and she made a small sound against my mouth.
She broke the kiss and looked at me with clear eyes.
"Like I told you, we are both adults who have been neglected for a long time. This part of the cove is private. The seagrass behind this log is pretty soft and comfortable." She smiled. "I don't see a good reason for getting back to town just yet."
I looked at the seagrass. It was thick and cushiony, protected from the wind by the driftwood log and the curve of the cliff.
"It does look soft. We should find out."
What happened between us on that stretch of beach was warm and urgent and sometimes awkward how first times between two people who have just met are always awkward.
The jacket zippers gave us trouble first. Mine got stuck halfway down and I swore under my breath while Aimee laughed and reached over to free it. Her jacket was easier. She pulled it off and spread it on the seagrass, then reached for the bottom of her sweater.
"Help me with this."
I helped her with it. The sweater came off over her head and she was bare underneath, her breasts pale in the fading light, nipples dark and hard from the cold and the wanting. She pulled me down onto the seagrass beside her and kissed me again while her hands worked at the buttons of my shirt.
"Too many layers," she said against my mouth. "This is the problem with March."
"Summer would be easier."