Hugh Howey - The Shell Collector

The ornate and intricate way he’s going about giving me the answer—this retracing of some journey that led him to the shells—is a hint. He’s putting off the inevitable. Delaying. And yet his enthusiasm seems genuine. So Ness either has some master plan, or the man has no grip on reality. I came here wanting to believe the latter, but last night I confided to my journal that the former was at least some dim possibility.

No matter what, I can already feel sadness at having to leave this place, this beach, this small home on the dunes. I was hesitant and wary of coming here, but now the estate has its claws in me.

I start coffee and take a quick shower, the sea-glass bricks muted this time by the dark clouds outside. The handful of ingredients in the fridge force me to cook eggs-in-a-hole, a staple of my youth. With a tall glass, I punch out a perfect circle in two slices of bread, butter up both sides, then throw them in a pan and crack an egg in each hole. The removed discs of bread get toasted with a lot of butter. There’s no jam in the fridge, but I find honey in a cabinet. Fending for myself makes this place feel a little mine . I dream of spending a month here to work on that novel I keep saying I’ll finish. I wonder if every journalist who has ever stayed the night has thought the exact same thing.

Still no sign of Ness. I eat at the small table by the window, propping open Treasure Island by tucking one side of the book under the edge of my plate and laying a knife across the other. The rain is violent. I can easily imagine the sea storm described in the book. The house becomes a rocking ship, and it’s hard to say if the sounds of the crashing waves are out beyond my door or in my imagination. I glance down at the beach, and that’s when I see the note.

It’s inside a plastic bag, which has been wedged between the doors. I never locked up the night before—the note must’ve been wedged there while I slept. I retrieve it, pat the bag dry on my robe, and sit on the edge of the bed to read. I glance at the signature first to make sure it’s from Ness. It is.

Maya,

Sorry to do this, but that something I mentioned yesterday that might come up — it came up. We’ve still got plenty of time to show you everything you need. Should be back after lunch. Make yourself at home up at the house. Lots of movies in the TV room. Sorry there’s no cable. Numbers for Monique and Vincent below. Dial 9, and you’ll get Security. Maybe enjoy the day off and write nasty things about me!

Phone numbers for Monique and Vincent are jotted below his name. I feel a roller coaster of emotions. First comes the disappointment that whatever he had planned for the day has been called off. But then I taste the excitement of open potential, of a day with absolutely nothing to do. I haven’t had one in ages. I could sit on the bench upstairs and read a novel all day. I could write. I could say damn the rain and put on my wetsuit and go for a snorkel to add to my collection of shells. The boundless opportunities have me seeing this as a blessing in disguise. A vacation within a vacation. I could easily not leave this little house perched on the dunes until the sun goes down. I can subsist on toast and eggs.

But a glance up at the main house crushes any such fantasy of me taking a day off. There’s a reason I haven’t taken one in ages. My mind won’t stop spinning, assembling my next story, and while the healthy thing to do would be to stay in and rest, to not set foot in that house, it would be unprofessional of me not to go up there. A dereliction of my duty as a reporter and a missed chance to make up to Agent Cooper for losing the shells. Ness has formally invited me to make myself at home, to rummage through his movie collection—and who knows what else.

I check the time. Not even seven yet. The note says he’ll be back after lunch. I could go snoop for two hours without any chance of seeing him. And even if I do, he has invited me in. This is as big a mistake with journalists as it is with vampires.

Hanging my robe up to dry, I pull on shorts and a t-shirt, stuff I don’t mind getting wet. I’ll find a towel up at the house. The side door is more out of the wind, and I’m just steeling myself for the dash across the boardwalk when I consider the chances Monique will show up to tidy the main house and catch me poking around. I turn and grab Ness’s note. My hall pass.

I feel invincible. The journalist in me can’t believe my good fortune. Carte blanche in the inner sanctum of the subject of my exposé, and the prime suspect in an FBI investigation into shell forgery. I can hear Henry and Cooper both urging me along, rooting for me, grins on their faces.

I wait for the next gust of wind to pass. Sheets of rain roll in like an ocean swell. A hiss moves down the side of the house, and I slip through the door and run, bare feet slapping through puddles, wind and rain pushing at my back, feeling a temptation to squeal from the cold and from how quickly I’m absolutely drenched.

Mindful of slipping, I keep a hand on the rail. Up one flight of steps, across another boardwalk, and then the three steep flights to the covered deck—past the landing with the lounge chairs and fire pit, past the al fresco dining table—until I’m in the would-be shelter of the house’s generous overhang. But the sideways reach of the heavy wind whips the rain across my back even here.

I don’t have time to contemplate, to knock, to peek inside. I test the door, find it unlocked, and hurry through. Fighting the shoving of a fierce gust, I manage to get the door closed behind me.

Dripping wet and shivering, I call for Ness and then Monique. No answer. My shirt is soaked, and I see that the dark bra was a poor choice. My legs are covered in goose bumps. The AC and my wet clothes threaten to turn me into a giant ice cube as a puddle begins to form at my feet.

I hurry to the guest bath and find just a sink and a toilet. There’s a small and useless hand towel threaded through a ring—the decorative kind you can never tell if you should actually use. The kind that barely absorbs water anyway.

I look elsewhere. The house is a maze. I’ve only seen parts of it: the overhang room, the main hall, the foyer, the kitchen. A breezeway leads off to another wing. The windows are all closed, turning the breezeway into a sheltered glass hall. I follow it, leaving wet footprints behind me, hoping to find guest quarters with proper bathrooms and proper towels. This is already going badly. But it’ll be a long time before Ness returns. I hope.

At the end of the hall, I pass through a reading room. Bay windows jut out toward the sea. There are shells everywhere: on the walls, in glass cabinets, decorating every surface. Shelling books are scattered on a table. There’s an open sketchbook with a detailed drawing of some torus. I can look later. My teeth are chattering. I need to find a thermostat and turn off the AC.

Past the reading room, I enter a bedroom twice the size of my entire apartment. It has its own sitting area with a fireplace, a breakfast nook, a desk in a far corner, matching Tahitian-style furniture, and flowing white drapes that frame a view of the beach. I can see why the house is arranged as a scattering of joined rooms along the dunes. Every room has a sweeping view of the sea.

Through a door on the far side of the room, I pass through a walk-in closet and, finally, a bathroom. Towels. Hallelujah. I grab one and pat myself dry, squeezing my hair in the folds, and realize my clothes are not going to dry for a while. There’s a robe hanging on the back of the door. I close the door, strip naked, and don the robe. Wringing out my shorts in the sink, I remember the note and fish it out. The piece of paper is soaked through, the blue ink turned to blotches. It’s barely readable. But Ness is the only person who could get angry about my being here, and he knows he wrote it. I lay the note out to dry, wring out my shirt and underwear, and drape everything over the shower door.