Sanctuary(33)

Shells the tide had left behind were scattered like pretty toys along the sand. Tiny dunes whisked up by the wind were already forming behind them. The busy sanderlings were rushing back and forth in the spume, like businessmen hustling to the next meeting. And there, just behind the first roll of water, a trio of pelicans flew in military formation, climbing and wheeling as a unit. One would abruptly drop, a dizzying headfirst dive into the sea, and the others would follow. A trio of splashes, then they were up again, breakfast in their beaks.

With the ease of experience, Nathan lifted his camera, widened the aperture, increased the shutter speed to catch the motion, then homed in on the pelicans, following, following as they skimmed the wave crests, rose into their climb. And capturing them on the next bombing dive.

He lowered the camera, smiled a little. Over the years he'd gone long stretches of time without indulging in his hobby. He planned to make up for it now, spending at least an hour a day reacquainting himself with the pleasure and improving his eye.

He couldn't have asked for a more perfect beginning. The beach was inhabited only by birds and shells. His footprints were the only ones to mar the sand. That was a miracle in itself, he thought. Where else could a man be so entirely alone, borrow for a while this kind of beauty, along with peace and solitude?

He needed those things now. Miracles, beauty, peace. Cupping a hand over the camera, Nathan walked down the incline to the soft, moist sand of the beach. He crouched now and then to examine a shell, to trace the shape of a starfish with a fingertip.

But he left them where he found them, collecting them only on film.

The air and the exercise helped settle the nerves that had jangled before he'd left Sanctuary. she was a photographer, Nathan thought, as he studied a pretty, weather-silvered cottage peeking out from behind the dunes. Had his father known that the little girl he'd played mentor to one summer had gone on to follow in his footsteps? Would he have cared? Been proud, amused?

He could remember when his father had first shown him the workings of a camera. The big hands had covered his small ones, gently, patiently guiding. The smell of aftershave on his father's cheeks, a sharp tang. Brut. Yes, Brut. Mom had liked that best. His father's cheek had been smoothly shaven, pressed against his. His dark hair would have been neatly combed, smooth bumps of waves back from the forehead, his clear gray eyes soft and serious.

Always respect your equipment, Nate. You may want to make a living from the camera one day. Travel the world on it and see everything there is to see. Learn how to look and you'll see more than anyone else. Or you'll be something else, do something else, an to just use it to take moments away with you. Vacations, family. They'll be your moments, so they'll be important. Respect your equipment, learn to use it right, and you'll never lose those moments.

"How many did we lose, anyway?" Nathan wondered aloud. "And how many do we have tucked away that we'd be better off losing?"

"Excuse me?"

Nathan jerked when the voice cut through the memory, when a hand touched his arm. "What?" He took a quickstep in retreat, half expecting one of his own ghosts. But he saw a pretty, delicately built blonde staring up at him through amber-tinted lenses.

"Sorry. I startled you." she tilted her head, and her eyes stayed focused, unblinking, on his face. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." Nathan dragged a hand through his hair, ignored the uncomfortably loose sensation in his knees. Less easily ignored was the acute embarrassment as the woman continued to- study him as if he were some alien smear on a microscope slide. "I didn't know anyone else was around."

"just finishing up my morning run," she told him, and he noted for the first time that she wore a sweat-dampened gray T-shirt over snug red bike shorts. "That's my cottage you were staring at. Or through."

"Oh." Nathan ordered himself to focus on it again, the silvered cedar shakes, the sloping brown roof with its jut of open deck for sunning. "You've got a hell of a view."

"The sunrises are the best. YoL,'re sure you're all right?" she asked again. "I'm sorry to poke, but when I see a guy standing alone on the beach looking as if he'd just been slapped with a two-by-four and talking to himself, I've got to wonder. It's my job," she added.

"Beach police?" he said dryly.

"No." she smiled, held out a friendly hand. "Doctor. Doctor Fitzsimmons. Kirby. I run a clinic out of the cottage."

"Nathan Delaney. Medically sound. Didn't an old woman used to live there? A tiny woman with white hair up in a bun."

"My grandmother. Did you know her? You're not a native."