42
CHARLOTTE
October 25 . . .
As I turn down the drive to the house, I’m reminded how easy living with Rick was. I take in the view I’ve seen dozens of times—the rocky coastline, the expanse of sea that stretches into the distance, toward the horizon. At this time of year, you get the full benefit of the elements up here—the wind and rain, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below—perilous, but always breathtakingly beautiful.
As I get closer, I see Abbie Rose’s car parked outside the house, next to Rick’s. She’s still sitting in it, talking on her phone. Hanging back, just out of sight, I wait for her to get out, watch as she tries the front door, then walks round to the back of the house, peers in through the windows. There’s an offshore wind, and the tide is midway. I checked. Rick will be surfing.
Leaving the car where it is, I walk up to the house, let myself in through the front door. I’ve come back for only a couple of things. The house is definitely empty. After going over to the window, I watch Abbie Rose walk across the yard toward the beach. Then I turn my attention to the view, drink it in, photographing it into my memory. It really is idyllic. Idyllic . . . I savor the word. To be this close to the sea, to have this uninterrupted view, is close to heaven.
I look across the yard. To my amazement, Abbie Rose is climbing down the rocks to the beach. This I have to see. I run outside and, staying out of her sight, cross the yard, then crouch down where it reaches the cliff edge. I look at the lone figure on the sand, sitting meditatively on a surfboard, gazing out to sea. Rick.
In her stuffy clothes and leather shoes, Abbie Rose makes it down the last of the rocks and onto the shore. It must be important. I can’t imagine why she wants to talk to Rick. I laugh quietly as I watch her shoes start to sink into the wet sand. She slips them off, leaves them on a rock, before she makes her way toward Rick.
From where I am, I can just about make out her “Hello?” Lost in his own world, Rick doesn’t hear her. As she gets nearer, she tries again. “Hello?”
The figure turns round. It’s definitely Rick. I see his lips move. “Hi.” He doesn’t move.
Carefully, noiselessly, I creep down the slope, hidden by fallen boulders and underbrush. Something tells me I need to hear what they’re saying.
“It’s Rick, isn’t it?”
I’ve forgotten they haven’t met.
Then she adds, “I’m Detective Constable Abbie Rose. I’m looking for Charlotte.”
A faraway look comes into his eyes. “Let me know if you find her, Abbie Rose.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s gone, man. Packed up and cleared out.”
Abbie’s shaking her head. “I don’t understand. Why would she leave her house like that?”
Rick looks at her. “Is that what she told you?” He has a sad half smile on his face. “It isn’t her house. It never was. It’s mine.”
The look of astonishment on Abbie Rose’s face is comical.
“Even surfers can buy houses, lady.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. She seemed so at home. I assumed it was hers.”
“I always told her to treat it like it’s hers, right from the start. When we met, she didn’t have anywhere else to go. I offered her a bed. We got on.” He turns his head and continues staring out to sea.
“You miss her.” Abbie thinks he’s upset. There’s sympathy all over her face.
“Kind of. It was the way we met. I felt it was destiny somehow. There aren’t that many girls who get into surfing the way she did.”
“How did you meet?”
Why doesn’t Abbie Rose leave him alone? Suddenly, I feel protective toward him. Rick goes to the beach to meditate or surf, not to talk to people like her.
“I came down to the beach one day, after a storm. I’d dreamed about a mermaid, Abbie Rose. A beautiful mermaid washed up on the shore. And the next morning, there she was.”
“What? Here?” Abbie Rose looks puzzled.
“See that last rock, where the seagull’s sitting?” He points at the rocks to the left of them. “And that crack in the rock over there, which centuries from now, when the waves have battered it long enough, will be a cave?” He points to the other side of the tiny beach, where there’s a vertical crack that’s just beginning to be eroded away. “Draw a line between the two of them. Halfway along it, that’s where I found her. Right here.”
He places his hands on the sand in front of his surfboard. Suddenly I’m choked up. He’s reliving the moment he found me.
Abbie Rose doesn’t give up. “Where is she, Rick?”
He shrugs. “Gone.” He shrugs again. “Don’t know where. Not sure why, either.” He shakes his head slowly. “All I can think of is this guy came to the house the other night. Big guy. Really upset her. I got back, and there was all this yelling going on. I asked him to go. Man, I thought he was going to punch me. When he’d gone, she drank a whole load of wine and went off on one. Ripped me to shreds, then drove after him. She came back the next day, but it’s over. She’s gone. . . .”
As I look at him, I know what he’s hoping. That one of his big waves will wash his mermaid up again.
“Maybe she’ll come back,” he says, but he doesn’t sound hopeful.
“I hate to ask when you’re upset—” She breaks off.
Rick looks flummoxed. “Jeez, I’m not upset. It’s not like that.”
Abbie Rose looks dumbfounded. She thinks the heartbroken surfer is mourning the loss of his mermaid.
Rick’s silent, trying to choose the right words. “It’s just not right,” he says finally. “Karma, man. She shouldn’t have gone. She owes me.”
Before Abbie can say anything, he’s on his feet, his board under his arm, jogging toward the sea.
“Why?” she calls after him. The wind carries the word to me. “What does she owe you, Rick?”
From above the beach, I think I hear him say, “I kept her secret.” Then he’s in the water, the crashing of the waves drowning out Abbie’s voice. The philosopher and his element. Like Charlotte, gone.