Free Thrown by Tabi Wollstonecraft Page A

walkaimlesslyalong,waitingforthesun.ThelittledirtpathI’m followinghasbeencreatedovertheyearsbythousandsofpairsof walkingbootsandisatleastfifteenfeetawayfromtheedgeofthecliffs andmymindrunsoverthepossibilityofAuntBfallingaccidentally.I can’timagineitcouldhappenthatway.Sheknewthepathandshe walkediteverynight.Nowaycouldshefallovertheedge.Evenifshe stumbledonarockorsomethingandfelltowardstheedgethere’snoway shewouldreachit;she’djustlandonthegrass.
    ThemoreIthinkaboutit,there’sonlyoneexplanation.AuntBeth jumped.
    Iwalkcarefullytotheedgeandlookdown.It’salongway.Further alongthebeachthere’samanwalkingadog,throwingastickforitinto thesea.Thedoggoessplashinginandgrabsthestickandreturntohis ownershakinghimselfdry.
    Thestretchofsandendswheretherockycliffjutsoutintotheseaand there’sanotherpersondownthere,sittingbytherocksinfrontofwhat lookslikeapainter’seasel.Thetidemustbeoutforawhileifhehas timetopaintthelandscape.Istepbackfromtheedgeandcontinuealong lookingforoneofthepathsthatwinddowntheclifffacetothebeach.
    MaybeIcantakealookatthepaintingandchatwiththeartist.I’veheard thatartistscometoCornwallforthequalityofthelightandthatlightis abouttobeginforthedayasthesuncomesup.
    IfindatrailthatleadsdowntothebeachandItakeit,clambering overrocksandmakingsureI’msafebeforetakingeachstepdown.It’s steepbutaslongasIgoslowIcanmakeit.Theclimbbackupisgoingto beanightmarethough.MaybeI’llbeabletofindaneasierwayback.
    IletoutasighofreliefwhenIreachthebeachandItrekoverthesand towardtherockswherethepainterissetup.Helooksupandseesmeand wavesmeoverandIcan’tbelievemyeyes.It’sStoker.DeanStokerthe mechanicsittingonabeachatdawnpaintingthelandscape.Iwalkalittle faster,whichishardinthesand,andbythetimeIgettohim,I’m exhausted.
    He’ssittingonalittlefold-upstoolandhehasasmallwoodeneasel ontowhichhe’sattachedawatercolorpad.There’sapaletteofwatercolor paintsclippedontotheeaselandanassortmentofbrushessittingina tray.AjarofwatersitsinthesandbyStoker’sboots.Heisn’thisusual greasyselfthismorning;he’swearingadarkbluelong-sleevedt-shirt witharockband’slogoacrossthechestandbluejeanswithablackbelt andblackboots.Helooksgood.Reallygood.
    ‘Hey,Ididn’texpectyoutobeupsoearly,’hesays.
    ‘Icouldsaythesamethingaboutyou.’
    ‘Ifyou’regoingtopaintaseascapeatdawn,youneedtobehereat dawn.Takeaseat.Thesand’scomfy.’
    Isitonthesandandrunmyfingersthroughthetinygrains,making nonsensepatterns.
    ‘Ididn’tknowyouwereapainter.’
    ‘Youdidn’task.’
    ‘Stoker,don’tberidiculous.WhywouldIaskthat?’
    ‘Youdidn’taskbecauseallyousawwasthedirtymechanicinhis overalls.AndyouthoughtthatwaswhoIam.AllIam.’
    Ishrug.Heisn’twrongonthatscore.I did thinkthatbutonlybecause thatwastheoneandonlysideofhimthatIsaw.
    ‘Haveyoubeenpaintinglong?’
    ‘SinceIwasakid.Paintinganddrawing.Itletsmeescapetheworld foralittlewhileandconcentrateonsomethingthatisn’tdepressing.’
    ‘Howdoyoumean?’
    ‘Oh,youknow…justlife.’
    IthinkaboutthegravesofhismotherandbrotherintheSeaRoad Cemeteryandnod.‘Yeah.’
    Hegrababrushanddipsitintothewaterthenthebluepaintandhe laysdownawashonthepapertorepresentthesky.‘Sowhyare you upso early?’
    ‘Icouldn’tsleep.DellwenthomeyesterdayandIsortafellasleepall afternoonandallnightsoI’mupbrightandearlytoday.’
    ‘Wellit’snicetoseeyou.’Heputsdownagrayshapeonthepaper wherethecliffsare.
    ‘Whatareyoupainting?’
    ‘Youseethatcliffthere?Thewayitcurvesoutintothesea?Andjust beyondityoucanseearockformationinthewater.Iwanttocapture that.’
    IlookaroundattherocksaboveusandaskaquestionIhardlydare askbutwhichisburninginsideme.’Stoker,ititaroundherethat…Aunt B…fell?’
    Hepausesandtakeshisbrushfromthepaper.‘Yes.Justalittleway backtowardPromiseHouse.’
    OhmyGod.SoIactuallywalkedpastthespotAuntBwasstanding whenshefell.Ilookalongthelineofsandthatrunsbeneaththecliffs.
    ‘So…it’sthisbeach…’
    ‘Wheretheyfoundher?Yeah,itis.Alittlefurtherupthatway.Some