He could hear the ocean if he listened for it, a low, constant rumble off to the east. Closer he could identify the chirp of birds, the monotionous drumming of a woodpecker hunting insects somewhere in the shadows of the forest. Dew glistened like shards of glass on the leaves of cabbage palms and palmettos, and there was no wind to stir them and make them rattle.
Whoever chose this spot for the cottage chose well, he thought. It sang of solitude, offered view and privacy. The structure itself was simple and functional. A weathered cedar box on stilts with a generous screened porch on the west end, a narrow open deck on the east. In'de, the main room had a pitched ceiling to add space and an open si I feel. On each end were two bedrooms and a bath.
He and ICyle had each had a room in one half. As the elder, lie laid claim to the larger room. The double bed made him feel very grownup and superior. He made a sign for the door: Please Knock Before Entering.
He liked to stay up late, reading his books, thinking his thoughts, listening to the murmur of his parents' voices or the drone of the TV. He liked to hear them laugh at something they were watching.
His mother's quick chuckle, his father's deep belly laugh. He'd heard those sounds often throughout his childhood. It grieved him that he would never hear them again.
A movement caught his eye. Nathan turned his head, and where he'd expected a deer he saw a man, slipping along the river bank like the mist. He was tall and lanky, his hair dark as soot.
Because his throat had gone dry, Nathan forced himself to lift his mug and drink again. He continued to watch as the man walked closer, as the strengthening sun slanted over his face.
Not Sam Hathaway, Nathan realized as the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. Brian. Twenty years had made them both men.
Brian glanced up, squinted, focused on the figure behind the screen. He'd forgotten the cottage was occupied now and made a note to himself to remember to take his walks on the opposite side of the river. Now, he supposed, he would have to make some attempt at conversation.
He lifted a hand. "Morning. Didn't mean to disturb you."
"You didn't. I was just drinking bad coffee and watching the river."
The Yankee, Brian remembered, a six-month rental. He could all but hear Kate telling him to be polite, to be sociable. "It's a nice spot."
Brian stuck his hands in his pockets, annoyed that he'd inadvertently sabotaged his own solitude. "You settling in all right?"
"Yeah, I'm settled." Nathan hesitated, then took the next step. "Are you still hunting the Ghost Stallion?"
Brian blinked, cocked his head. The Ghost Stallion was a legend that stretched back to the days when wild horses had roamed the island. It was said that the greatest of these, a huge black stallion of unparalleled speed, ran the woods. Whoever caught him, leaped onto his back, and rode would have all his wishes granted.
Throughout childhood it had been Brian's deepest ambition to be the one to catch and ride the Ghost Stallion.
"I keep an eye out for him," Brian murmured and stepped closer. "Do I know you?"
"We camped out one night, across the river, in a patched pup tent. We had a rope halter, a couple of flashlights, and a bag of Fritos. Once we thought we heard hooves pounding, and a high, wild whinny."
Nathan smiled. "Maybe we did."
Brian's eyes widened and the shadows in them cleared away. "Nate?
Nate Delaney? Son of a bitch!"
The screen door squeaked in welcome when Nathan pushed it open. "Come on up, Bri. I'll fix you a cup of lousy coffee."
Grinning, Brian climbed up the stairs. "You should have let me know you were coming, that you were here." Brian shot out a hand, gripped Nathan's. "My cousin Kate handles the cottages. Jesus, Nate, you look like a derelict."
With a rueful smile, Nathan rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. "I'm on vacation."
"Well, ain't this a kick in the ass. Nate Delaney." Brian shook his head. "What the hell have you been doing all these years? How's Kyle, your parents?"
The smile faltered. "I'll tell you about it." Pieces of it, Nathan thought. "Let me make that lousy coffee first."
"Hell, no. Come on up to the house. I'll fix you a decent cup. Some breakfast."
"All right. Let me get some pants and shoes on."
"I can't believe you're our Yankee," Brian commented as Nathan started inside. "Goddamn, this takes me back."
Nathan turned back briefly. "Yeah, me too."
A short time later Nathan was sitting at the kitchen counter of Sanctuary, breathing in the heavenly scents of coffee brewing and bacon frying. He watched Brian deftly chopping mushrooms and peppers for an omelette.
"Looks like you know what you're doing."