Free A Sea Change by Annette Reynolds Page B

gonna spy on the wrong person, George.”
    “I don’t spy,” Gustafson said indignantly. “Someone has to keep track of the comings and goings on this beach. Someone qualified.”
    Before George Gustafson could launch into the long-winded saga of his World War Two exploits, Nick said, “Let’s hear the report, Sarge.”
    “I believe someone has set up housekeeping in Number Sixteen.”
    “Technically, there is no Number Sixteen, George.” The two-story house had burned long before Nick had arrived on the beach. The only house to be built on the cliff side, it sat hidden among the firs and madronas. Now it was merely a shell on stilts. The walls and most of the roof were still intact – portions of the exterior shingles were blackened – but there were no windows left. The absentee owner, apparently not willing to restore the place, had covered the gaping holes with heavy plastic and left it at that.
    “Nevertheless, Nick, I’ve seen signs of life.”
    “Do you have surveillance cameras set up?” Nick said. “How could you possibly see that far, George?”
    “I was on my Saturday patrol and you know that pile of old shingles that sits at the foot of the stairs that go up to the house? Well, there are a lot less of them.”
    “Maybe someone on the beach is using them to do some patching.”
    “I asked.”
    “Everyone?” Nick couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice. “Come on, George.”
    “Yes, sir, I did. Tomorrow I’m going to do a site check.”
    Nick shut his eyes in frustration. He could picture seventy-year-old George Gustafson’s foot going through one of those neglected, rotting steps, with only his cane for support. George was pretty spry, but a fall like that would cripple him. Or kill him.
    “Don’t even think about it, George. I’ll check it out in the morning.”
    Nick hung up and added Number Sixteen to his list of chores.

    The dreams were worse this time. Like short clips from a film, the vignettes grabbed his attention, sucked him in, and then left him wanting more. They were bizarre little flashes interspersed with such realism they infused his sleep with insecurity.
    He stretches upward to catch a pop-fly, but the ball vanishes. An enormous fish wriggles at the end of his line, pulling him toward the water, and then is gone. A dark-haired woman wearing a red hat, and nothing else, holds her hand out to him. He desperately wants to touch her, but as he moves forward a chasm opens between them, leaving him stranded. He watches two tears roll down her cheeks. Becky, as a toddler, hurtles toward the edge of the deck. His fingers just graze the pink jacket she wears as he tries to grab her.
    The last one woke him with heart-stopping fear, and Nick sat up. Sweat on his chest momentarily chilled him. He wiped it off with the edge of the sheet and tried to catch his breath. With one final deep gulp of air he felt his pulse slow.
    “Jesus!” He snapped on the bedside lamp. “Why is this happening to me?”
    Nick looked at the clock. He’d been asleep for less than an hour. The rest of the night suddenly seemed like the rest of his life.
    Chapter Eight

    Maddy had been sitting in the hushed darkness of the deck for what seemed like hours. The blanket she’d cocooned herself in should have kept her warm, but there was a chill in her bones mere thermal heat couldn’t dispel. The tears had stopped a while back, replaced by a dull, nameless pain. The weekend, which had gone so well, was nothing but a vague memory now. Ted’s phone call had seen to that.

    Saturday’s lunch with Karen had been good for her. Their friendship had begun the moment Maddy had stepped into the offices of Cheney Stadium. Karen Dysart was the Sales and Marketing assistant, but first and foremost, she was a fan. Her life revolved around the ups and downs of the Tacoma Barons, the triple A team for the Seattle Mariners. Karen took every loss personally, and every win ecstatically. Married to the ticket manager,