Drifting

Chapter 1Claire's footsteps echoed as she walked across the planked blue-gray floor of the veranda, her pink cotton robe trailing behind her. Her hair was gathered on top of her head in a mother-of-pearl clasp, stray wisps of pale blond framing her high cheekbones. She set her coffee mug on a glass table, rubbing away a frosted circular remnant of someone's drink with her fingertip; her deep-set eyes faced downward, pools of transparent blue mist. She sat too stiffly in the cushioned wicker chair, the newspaper folded in her lap, and gazed out the salt-sprayed window. The beach in the distance was strangely stilled by the early autumn morning. The sand appeared dark, littered with pine needles. She listened to the pine needles hitting the flat roof outside their bedroom window the sleepless night before as they tapped the shingles like steel pin drops. A flurry of leaves suddenly twirled like a pinwheel in a vortex of wind and she turned her head to see a blue-and-white-striped awning loosen from an upstairs dormer. The American flag hanging over the front porch twisted around itself like a Chinese yo-yo. Purple and pink asters, their blooms nearly finished now, strained in one final effort toward the September morning sun that struggled through the clouds. Stella came and sat beside her, tail wagging low; her eyes, clouded with marbled blue cataracts, gazed up at Claire. Claire patted the dog's flank, so lost in thought that she startled when Eli came into the room. "Good morning, ladies," he said, placing his steaming mug next to Claire's and scratching Stella behind the ears. He touched Claire's arm. "Penny for your thoughts." Claire smiled at her husband. "Hi," she said, as he leaned over to kiss her. "You smell like mint." "New soap," he said. "Is that good?" She nodded and focused her glance on his hands. His fingers curled around the mug of coffee as he brought it to his lips. His hands were mapped with dark spots but still strong. Large hands that had held their babies, covered their infants' heads, and enveloped her the times she thought she might break in half if not for their salvation. She remembered watching once while he delivered a foal. How deftly he took the foal from its mother, holding it as if it were made of fine blown glass. How he looked when he knelt beside the mare, his breath coming in short precise inhalations, perspiration glistening on his forehead as she brushed away an errant lock of hair that had fallen in his eyes. She thought as she sat across from him now how odd it was that his dark hair was streaked with silver and wondered when it turned and why she hadn't seen it happen. He was wearing black jeans and a plaid shirt rolled to his elbows; a frayed white T-shirt peeked out at the notch of his neck. "There's a rip in your shirt," she said tenderly. "At the collar. I can sew it. I've been neglecting you, haven't I?" Eli shook his head and fingered the tear. "It's not worth fixing," he said. "I'll toss it later. How's Stella this morning?" "Not so great," Claire said, stroking the golden retriever's back. "She's having trouble lately up and down the stairs." "Her depth perception's gone," Eli said, lifting the dog's chin, studying her eyes. "I think she misses the kids. It's too quiet around here." "It always feels quiet Monday mornings after the guests have gone," Eli said. "Especially this time of year." Claire lifted her head and looked into his eyes. She wanted to tell him that it wasn't just the quiet of a Monday morning. It wasn't just the time of year. This was different from every autumn morning they'd known for the last twenty-two years. Didn't he hear the absence of Jonah's blaring stereo and rattling of old pipes as Natalie ran a shower so steamy that vapors seeped under the bathroom door and wafted into the hallway? Normally, Claire would have been dressed by now, cleaGertler, Stephanie is the author of 'Drifting' with ISBN 9780525947356 and ISBN 0525947353.