A Season To Believe

Turning, Jane stared out over the sea. Great. She had the starring role in Matt Sullivan’s detective novel. Just what she wanted.

“You don’t have to force your memory.” Obviously misunderstanding her intent, Matt placed his hands on Jane’s shoulders and swiveled her toward him. “It was a crazy idea to bring you down here and think that making you stare at the ocean would result in some sort of epiphany. Besides, I’m getting hungry. Are you ready to go?”

Jane shrugged. “Sure.”

Matt took her hand, then turned and started back up the beach. Far ahead Jane could see a path leading to the parking lot above and to their left. She was surprised to realize how far she had come earlier with her eyes closed, conversing with Matt. The walk back now, in silence, seemed much longer. The wind was blowing harder, too, bringing bone-chilling moisture from the ocean. And beneath her feet, the uneven sand seemed to fight her desire to hurry away from this place of disappointment.

About thirty yards from the path, Matt stopped, bent forward and rubbed his right knee, then straightened and turned to her. “How about we take a little break before we head up to the car?”

It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to say she wasn’t tired, when she connected his action to the injury he’d suffered. Uncertain just how sensitive he might be about the subject, she simply replied, “Sure,” then followed him to the dune on their left. When he sat down and leaned against the hill, she followed suit.

The wind seemed less biting at this level. Between the warmth of the sand against her back and the rays of the weak winter sun, Jane felt almost toasty within her soft fleece jacket. Gazing forward, she noticed that the surf had grown rougher. Each wave created a large head of foam as it rolled and crashed. The hypnotic motion and rhythmic whisper slowly teased the tension from her muscles, calmed her mind and coaxed her to shut her eyes.