Free Summer's Passing by Randy Mixter Page A

it caught up with her. 
    "If you don't want to carry me, I suggest we turn around," she said to me behind her back.
    "Fine. My foot's bothering me anyway," I grumbled.
    "Poor baby, I'll kiss it and make it better when we get back to the blanket."
    It would have been around that time, if Beckie had been walking normally on both legs, that I would have grabbed her and tossed her unceremoniously into the Gulf of Mexico. Believe me; the temptation was strong, even with her bad leg.
    "Come around," she said as she stopped.
    When I faced her, she dropped her crutches and collapsed into me. We held each other close, with the surf lapping the shore providing the background music. 
    "I should tell you everything about my father. You've earned the right to know." She whispered against my neck.
    I held her in my arms. Rebecca, the girl whose past was broken into small sharp pieces, and those shards cut when held; when gripped tightly in the harsh light of day, they cut deep. 
    "It's best here, with you holding me, in the daylight."
    "You don't have to tell me anything," I looked into her eyes. "I know what you went through."
    The gulf breeze had ruffled my hair. She ran a hand through it.
    "If I don't tell you, it becomes a secret and I don't want any secrets between us."
    I think I might have fallen in love with Rebecca the first time I saw her. I was almost certain of it. But maybe it was then, that very minute, on the beach, with her hand in my hair and a secret on her lips; it may have been then that I fell in love.

20
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    Tales told to those who were once strangers. Tales of pain and sorrow. Everything said once, never to be spoken of again.
    We walked the beach slowly and I did carry her the short distance from the surf to the blanket. She seemed lighter than before, perhaps the cast had added the weight, but I imagined it was something else entirely.
    "I think I'll sleep for a while. Do you mind?" she asked, once we were in the umbrella's shade.
    "No, go ahead. I'll go get the laptop. Need anything from the house?"
    "Not now. Take the crutches with you. I won't need them for the time being."
     
    The glare on my laptop bothered me even in the umbrella's shade, but I wrote anyhow. I didn't dwell too much on Beckie's words. I felt safe in the daylight, in the warmth of the sand, with the sound of the waves. 
    I wrote, not seeing the words as much as my face reflected back at me off the computer's screen. This is why I came here , I told myself as I typed. This is the reason I came to Port Grace, to write this story.  
    Time passes quickly when writing; most authors will tell you that. The sun shifted lower in the sky, as the day grew older, and had begun to creep onto Beckie's legs. I placed the laptop on the blanket to adjust the umbrella when I saw something in its reflection. A man standing directly in front of the beach house porch, standing without movement, looking down at us.
    I turned quickly. For an instant, the sun's glare obscured my view. I held my hand above my eyes. Nothing. No one stood there. 
    I flashed back to the night I saw the girl in the summer dress,the girl who left a necklace for me to find.
    "You okay?" Beckie lay on her stomach, leaning on her elbows.
    I turned to her and smiled. "I'm fine, just seeing things."
    "Join the club," she added. 
    We stayed on the beach for a little while longer, talking about the present, not the past. We packed our things when the sun began its slow descent toward the gulf.
    "Let me get rid of the chairs and umbrella. I'll come back for you," I said with my hands full.
    "Don't forget me, I know where you live," she said as I walked away.
    I glanced down as I drew closer to the house. What was I looking for? Another necklace? Or something else, something to prove I wasn't going crazy?
    When I saw the footprints in the dirt near the house, from shoes, or maybe boots, I felt some relief, but I also felt dread, a real and certain fear of the unknown, now free from the