Chapter 6
Tommy was right about the rain. When Izzy finally locked up the shop, waved the others off, and climbed into her car, fat drops were falling onto the windshield. She sat there for a minute, switching on the radio as she watched the taillights of Nell’s car disappear down Harbor Road.
After Janie and Tommy left, they’d reheated the quesadillas in the microwave and stayed long enough to fill both their stomachs and the need to make a little progress on the booties and rompers and tiny sweaters that needed to be finished for the baby shower. Willow and Jane Brewster had insisted on planning it—small, they promised Izzy, just good friends. They hadn’t decided on the theme yet, but no matter what it was, the tiny outfits needed to be finished soon.
Janie’s move, however, had interrupted the usual rhythm of their Thursday-night knitting—the slow, easy hours they looked forward to all week. Their tonic, as Birdie put it. Their pocket of peace.
But they’d make up for it as they always did when unexpected circumstances cut their Thursday evening short. A Sunday morning together when the shop was closed or a knitting rendezvous on Birdie’s veranda or Nell’s deck. It was a need as deep as their friendship—the joy of casting on and binding off, of slipping strands of silky yarn through their fingers, of creating warmth and softness to cradle a newborn babe or protect an old fisherman from harsh winter winds.
Izzy turned out the lights and followed the others out, locking the shop door behind her.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a nor’easter this time, folks,” the radio weatherman had said. “Just a good old-fashioned summer rain to make the grass and flowers grow. Enough to wash off the sidewalks and docks and freshen up the town. ‘A good rain.’”
A good rain.
But not good for everything.
Not good for a yellow angora baby blanket, for starters.
Izzy slipped her keys in the ignition and started up the car, the methodical sound of the wipers filling the small car. She sat still for a minute. And then, as if the car had made up its own mind, she turned sharply at the corner of Harbor Road and headed toward the winding beach road.
She drove carefully, past joggers scurrying for cover, past the turn off to Canary Cove, Sandpiper Beach, the yacht club, and on north toward the cove, where she and Sam spent many hours. Sometimes they’d sit on the rocks that anchored it at both ends and watch the moon turn the water into a changing kaleidoscope of night colors. Or curl up on a blanket, pressing their bodies into the sand as deep night sounds surrounded them. Then they would gather their things and walk slowly back up the hill and through the sleepy neighborhood to Marigold Street, to home.
Filled with children in the daytime, Paley’s Cove frequently hosted bonfire parties and packs of college kids at night. But tonight it was quiet, people heeding the weatherman’s advice.
Izzy pulled off the road and onto the gravel parking area, just a single car deep and curving along the stretch of beach. Her beach. That’s how she thought of it.
Her beach.
She left the headlights on and climbed out of the car, barely noticing the rain, which fell heavier now. Her hair hung in damp multicolored rivulets, her sweater smelling of wet cotton. She tucked her chin to her chest and hurried along the wall until she reached the three small steps to the beach. At first she just stood there, staring out past the deserted beach to the ocean, unable to tell in the heavy night where the water ended and the black sky began. It was a thick sea of darkness. She closed her eyes, wiped the rain from her forehead, then slowly moved her head to the side and opened them again.
Of course it was there, just as she knew it would be. The edge of the yellow blanket sticking out, soggy and limp.
Without a second thought, Izzy tugged the offending car seat from the sand and carried it back to her car. She opened the trunk and in one clumsy movement hefted the wet seat inside and slammed the trunk shut. In seconds, she was back behind the wheel, her wet fingers grasping the leather covering. She pulled slowly out of the parking lot, an irrational relief flooding her body.
Hormones. In full rhapsody.
The rain came down in glassy sheets now, and Izzy stopped along the side of the road, letting the wipers do their work. A light from behind drew her eyes to the rearview mirror, but it wasn’t a car. Far down, at the bend in the road, a single steady headlight pierced through the darkness. A bike? she wondered, and almost turned around to see if the rider needed help.
But at that moment an engine gunned into life and the headlight began to move. Relieved, Izzy pulled back onto the road and made her way home.