As the afternoon sun streamed across the room, Molly sat, tears running down her young face.
* * *
Molly didn’t know I was standing there in the corner of the room, watching, crying with her. I was always there whenever my own needed me, and I was always crying with them. It was the least I could do.
* * *
In the quiet of the cottage, the telephone rang. Molly looked down at the sleeping infant in her arms and frowned. The baby snuggled into her soft arms, her tiny thumb in her mouth. Sweet. Tender. Molly didn’t want her to wake up. Gingerly, she rose, and with steady arms, carried the baby to her crib, laying her down on the pink-sheeted mattress. Then she hurried down the hall to the kitchen where she answered the call.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
There was no answer.
“Hello,” she repeated a little louder this time. “Is there someone there?” Just about to replace the telephone receiver, Molly thought she heard someone on the other end of the line. “May I help you?”
“Yeah, you can help me,” a gruff male voice replied. “You can give me the money you owe me.”
Leno Stevens! Molly would never forget that voice. Her heart pounded as fear rose within her. He’d called before, and she had stalled him, saying she was short on cash and couldn’t pay what Augie owed. It had been the truth. Leno seemed to have been appeased, but apparently not for long.
“That’s between you and my husband,” she told Leno now. “I can’t pay you, nor am I obligated to.” Molly wasn’t quite sure about that. There might be some legal loophole or other, she worried, but she doubted whether this man would know.
The man snorted. “That’s not the way I remember it, Mrs. Bradford. Your husband borrowed money from me fair and square, and I’m going to collect! Augie said I should get the money from you.” With that, the angry man slammed down the telephone receiver, leaving Molly stunned.
Figure On The Beach
Elizabeth wasn’t able to concentrate on her painting. Now the canvas she’d been working on left her cold and empty as she picked up her paintbrush, loaded it with the watercolor, and swished it in the jar of water again and again. Her heart and mind were no longer on her work. Sorry, Valerie Meyers, Elizabeth thought, the timing just wasn’t so great right now. She had other things to do.
All she could think about was the young man at the cove. While she showered, while she dressed, while she drank her orange juice and nibbled at her slice of buttered toast. It was as though she were hypnotized, possessed. She felt frightened and exhilarated all at once. Elizabeth longed to know who he was, to meet him. To peer into his cobalt eyes.
Following what had become their daily routine, Elizabeth and Sammy walked along the beach searching for the handsome young surfer. But the weather had changed during the night, unusual for this time of year. It had turned chilly and a thick fog had rolled in off the sea, all but obscuring the pounding ocean. The sky was a fuzzy gray as Elizabeth and Sammy made their way along the shoreline. She could feel the fine mist on her face and hands. The chilly dampness bit her as it seeped through her white jeans and navy hooded-sweatshirt. Sammy remained close, his thick golden coat, weighty with mist.
There were no surfers out at the cove this morning — it was much too foggy for that. Walking as though in a snowy winter whiteout, Elizabeth tried to keep an eye on the shoreline which ran in and out just beyond her feet. She heard the ocean pound and roar around her, though it remained hidden from view.
Her brunette hair was becoming damp, her sunburned toes cold as she moved barefoot along the shore. Then, from somewhere behind, Elizabeth heard something scratching at the wet packed sand.
She stopped, and turned to look over her shoulder. The sound stopped, too. She saw no one in the thick fog. Resuming her walk, she once again heard the scratching behind her. Perhaps it was another dog following them or a band of birds pecking at dead sea life in the dampness. Sammy began to whimper. Elizabeth felt for his head, and gave it a reassuring pat as they moved ahead. But, with each step she became more unnerved herself.
The sound of scratching grew louder as it advanced. She could hear it above the roaring of the surf. From somewhere in the distance, a foghorn blared from an offshore fishing boat. A lonely, piercing shriek. Elizabeth began to feel the fear grow within her. What was following her?
The fog was closing in all around, so dense now she could barely make out the foamy waterline at her feet. She couldn’t run. It would be like running blind into nothing but a wall of white. A snow blizzard in the midst of summer. Should she turn and head for home?
Sammy kept his large form pressed against hers, their bodies stepping silently together as though one. He continued to whimper as they made their way.
Elizabeth’s heart began to pound faster. Panic was engulfing her as she wondered what she should do. She and the dog were trapped in the thick, colorless fog on the lonely stretch of sand. They were isolated, alone.
She stopped. She turned around. There in the mist stood a man in black. He was wearing a long trench coat and a brimmed fedora. His facial features were hidden inside the clothing and fog. No face. No hands. Elizabeth gasped. She stood frozen. Sammy began to bark again and again.
The man, appearing as a shadow, merely stood there. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. The thick, gray fog swirled around his form. Then it swallowed him, and the figure in black vanished.
Elizabeth knew this was not her young surfer. The form she saw was ominous, exuding darkness and forbidden dangers. The young surfer would never have scared her so. Elizabeth was certain of that.
For minutes, all Elizabeth could do was stand there. Then, suddenly, she broke into a run. She had to get to the safety of her home.
She and Sammy continued to run. In a clearing up ahead, she could see the rocks surrounding the perimeter of Surfer’s Cove. Just a little further. A few more feet and she would be safe. She climbed them precariously, her feet slipping on their smooth, slick surfaces as she made her way. Finally, they raced to the narrow stretch of grass, then pavement. Elizabeth and the dog rushed up the broad front stairs past the pots of brightly planted red geraniums, and into her Loft House. She slammed the front door behind them.
She was safe, secure. She hadn’t noticed the second set of wet footprints on the steps beside hers.
* * *
“You can’t have Elizabeth,” I screamed at the man in black. “I know who you are, and you can’t have her yet!” I shuddered with fear and rage. Death. Life. The heavenly battle was on.
Eggs And Recollections
Tilly stood at the stove scrambling eggs. She was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and matching sweater, more for fall than summer she had to admit, but she was chilled this morning, the sun having abandoned them.
“Where did the sun go?” Richard asked, sipping his coffee at the table. It was like he’d read her mind. He set down his cup, and rubbed his hands together as though stirring up some warmth.
“It deserted us,” Tilly told him, “as so many other things have.” She sounded bitter, and she knew it. But then, she was often
