Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

Even that early, Ocean Drive was busy with traffic, and Eleanor shied away from the buses as if they were fire-breathing dragons. The cars, the clamor, the traffic lights, Eleanor clung to his arm as if it were a life preserver. But whatever warmth she had absorbed from the bath was fast receding; her hand, he noted, was cool.

At Point Adelie, she had confessed the thing she most longed for was the hot sun on her face, and he was eager to show her the sunrise over the ocean. They had just stopped at a crosswalk when a vendor pushing a cart of Italian ices pulled up alongside them, almost the only pedestrians out at that hour, and gave them a hopeful glance. He might as well have been selling dynamite, and as Michael instinctively dragged Eleanor away, the vendor looked at him like he was crazy. But Michael knew the rules, and knew, too, that he was never going to be able to let down his guard. He would always have to be vigilant, and until the time came when the rest of the secret had to be divulged to her, he would also have to be secretive. But why burden her-at that rare moment when she might begin to experience happiness again-with something that he could carry alone?

As they crossed the street and then the scrubby dunes, the sky seemed to fade from an inky purple to a rosy glow. Michael led her past the towering palms, swaying in the sea breeze, and down to the surf. As the sun rose on the horizon, they sat down on the white sand and simply watched. Watched as it climbed up into the sky, turning the ocean into a silver mirror, burnishing the clouds with a ruby hue. Eleanor's green eyes glistened in the morning light, and as a gray-and-white osprey swooped low over the water, she followed its path. It was then that he noticed her rueful smile.

“What is it?” he said.

“I was just thinking of something,” she said, her long brown hair, still damp from the bath, blowing loose over her shoulders. “A music hall ditty, from another time.”

“How did it go?” He felt her fingers slip through his; exposed to the morning sun, they were perceptibly warmer. The osprey darted between the rolling waves.

“ And oh won't there be, by the side of the sea,’ “ she liltingly recited, “ ‘coconut palms as tall as St. Paul's, and sand as white as Dover.’ “

Her gaze swept across the bright horizon, the broad white beach, and Michael saw something like joy kindled in her eyes. “And so,” she said, still clutching his hand, “there are.”