The view wasn’t what quite Clemmie had been expecting. It was much larger and yet somehow still intimate, dark rocks scattered below a sloping grassy bank to hug the shoreline beneath a vast, soaring sky. The sand was extraordinary; pale, white and pristine, and she bent to trail her fingers across it, leaving a faint line as evidence of her presence here this morning. Would she leave anything of herself in this place when these few days were done and she had to return home? She hadn’t yet been here long enough to find answers to the questions churning in her mind.
She stood up, the sun still rising behind her as she gazed across the water. Somewhere out there lay America, and even that was a place she knew better than this strange and unfamiliar land. And yet she felt connected to it somehow, even though she’d only been here for twenty-four hours. When she’d woken and pulled back the curtains in her room to reveal the view, she hadn’t been able to resist getting dressed and hurrying out to follow the quiet lane through the village to the sea. One or two people had already been about, and each had offered a curious stare and then a greeting, which she was glad to return. Did they know who she was, and understand her connection to this village and its past in a way that she did not? Perhaps they knew more of her family, the Scottish one she never knew she had, than she did.
She bent to slip off her trainers and strolled along the sand, letting the water skim her bare feet, seaweed scattered across the shore. The water was warmer than she’d expected and the tension in her shoulders began to ease as the waves lapped at her legs and splashed her jeans. The light was extraordinary, and it came again, the sharp longing to immerse herself in those turquoise waters and forget for a few moments the reason she was here. She would return tomorrow and swim.
Clemmie reached the end of the tiny bay, marked by another high clump of dark and misshapen rocks, and she leaned against them, trainers still in her hand. She had so many questions and she’d rushed to get here without knowing who to turn to, not yet. Perhaps someone in the village could help. She’d passed a little shop, plus a café and the pub, and surely they’d know something of her family’s history in this place. Tears were hovering again as she thought of her mum and the questions she longed to ask, and now never could. She stared at the sea until a growl in her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, and she turned her head to search for the path that would lead her back to the village and breakfast.
Someone was walking towards her, and she immediately rephrased that in her mind. He was marching, there was no other word for it. His stride was more purposeful than hurried, and she noticed that he too was barefoot, but his jeans were dry. Unlike her he had been able to resist the lure of the water, and she wondered why he walked in a place like this when he seemed so oblivious to its startling beauty. She was startled to read anger in his gaze when his head jerked up and he caught her eye.
Clemmie almost blurted out an apology in case she was trespassing, but she had seen no sign warning her that this beach, this secret haven, was a private one. But his scowl, spoiling a startlingly handsome face, was still evident and eyes laden with resentment and disapproval still held hers. Dark hair was wild and long, skimming his neck above a plain grey T shirt, and a beard flecked with grey suggested he was a few years older than her. The wind caught a long curl and flicked it across her face, the smart of it a sting when it caught her eye. She tugged it back and saw him stutter to a sudden halt ten feet away. Surprise brought a swift flare in her pulse; perhaps he meant to admonish her for invading a place his expression suggested he resented sharing, at least with her.
But then he blinked rapidly and shook his head, resuming that furious march again to stride past without a word or even a nod, hands rammed into his pockets. She wasn’t afraid of him; there had been no threat in that infuriated gaze. Rather, it had been a kind of resentful curiosity, and she had the strangest sense that he had already committed her face to memory.
© Suzanne Snow 2024
