Free The Last Girls by Lee Smith Page A

then, that message from Hawk.
    â€œHoney”—he hadn’t called her honey for years—“where are you?I’m heading down to the coast to do a little fishing with the guys. Why don’t you come on down, too, and pick up some barbecue on the way, will you? And some hushpuppies, you know, the works.”
    She knew. With Hawk, it had always been “the works.” The barbecue place was right on the way down to their beach house at Emerald Isle. But Hawk hadn’t said a word about any fishing trip, especially not in the middle of the week like this. And what about that message from Ellen Henley? Courtney had listened to the messages again, standing barefoot in the middle of Gene’s kitchen floor while Stan rubbed against her legs and purred. Before Gene, she’d never known a man who liked cats. But there was something funny about Hawk’s voice, there was something wrong. Courtney tiptoed in and retrieved her clothes from Gene’s bathroom and dressed and left, as she often did, without waking him. On Wednesdays Gene liked to nap until about six o’clock and then stay up till all hours watching videos. He was a night owl and a movie nut.
    Courtney pictured him as she drove to the coast. It usually calmed her down to think of Gene slumbering through the afternoon, her own sleeping giant, but today that didn’t work and even the pokey little towns of eastern North Carolina, which she loved, failed to do the trick. It was a beautiful day, though. As she drove across the last big bridge over the sound, Courtney put her window down and drew in a deep breath of the familiar salt marsh smell. The wind felt good in her hair. She’d been finally cheerful by the time she turned into the concrete driveway of Miss Evangeline’s old shingled beach house, an anomaly among the newer, smaller houses that surrounded it.
    Courtney had pulled in next to Hawk’s Land Rover and got out, wondering where the other cars were, the other guys. She climbed the outside staircase up to the deck carrying the box from Fat Daddy’s, then went in the kitchen door and put it on the table next to Hawk’s car keys and this morning’s newspaper. The old house was completely quiet. Dust turned in the beams of sunlight slanting across the widepine floors, covered with the myriad rag rugs that had been here ever since Hawk’s parents were young and this house stood alone on its stretch of beach. Courtney hadn’t been here since the past summer—funny, isn’t it, how time gets away from you? The Copelands had come over for lunch, and she’d made that cold spinach soup; later, she walked up to the point by herself and saw a rainbow. It seems like yesterday. And only yesterday, too, since the kids were small and she brought them down here all the time. Right here on the kitchen wall are all the marks Hawk made with the ruler as they grew up. But where
is
he? Maybe they went off to fish in somebody else’s car.
    Courtney stepped out of her shoes and went out on the deck. Almost nobody was on the beach. The tide was out, tide pools glistening silver in the sun at different places, Courtney thought, from where they used to be. Nothing stays the same. She headed down the boardwalk which was partially covered with sand from the winter’s storms, making a mental note to call Mr. Tabor, the caretaker.
    But who was that on the last landing, just sitting there? Somehow, from the back, it hadn’t looked like him. He turned as she approached, but did not wave or speak. He sat on the wooden bench, tackle box beside him, rod and reel propped against the rail. Cloud shadows raced across the beach behind him; a jogger passed and waved. He sat there. “Hawk!” she called. He looked at her for a second with absolutely no expression followed by a big surprised grin that lit up his whole face. “Courtney!” He had seemed delighted. “Hey, where’s