"Do you live here all by yourself?" I asked after a few minutes.
"I do now." I caught a hint of sadness in her voice. I shouldn't pry, I thought.
"Summers, I have some live-in help, to clean and serve meals. But they usually go back to college come September. I don't mind being alone, though. The sea's company, and the gulls. I'm happy to have the time to think, and remember."
A dreamy look crossed her weathered visage. For a moment, her eyes were focused on something I couldn't see. I had a sudden urge to rise and put my arm around her shoulders, but I resisted, not wanting to intrude on her reverie.
The moment passed, and she turned her radiant smile on me once again. "Why don't you go out in the parlor and relax, while I do the dishes?”
"Nonsense," I told her. "I insist on helping."
"But you'll spoil your lovely suit."
I removed the jacket and draped it over the wooden-spoked chair. "Do you have an apron?"
Maggie produced a classic gingham pinafore from one of the kitchen drawers. "It doesn't quite match your fashionable outfit," she said, her eyes twinkling.
"It's perfect," I replied, tying the sash behind my back and donning a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "I'll wash; you dry."
We worked well together. No sooner would I deposit a wet plate or bowl in the drain board than she would have it in her hands, energetically applying her towel. Every once in a while, she would anticipate me too closely, and her fingers would brush against mine. Even through my gloves, her hand felt hot. She was flushed, too, the rosy hue of her cheeks extending down to the triangle of bare skin that I could see at her open neckline. It must be the steam rising from the sink, I thought. My own cheeks felt as though I had been sitting too close to a fire.
We were finished in record time. Maggie put on a kettle. I reclaimed my jacket. "Can I use your telephone?" I asked.
"Out in the parlor. Go ahead. I'll just fix us some tea, and be out in a moment."
I put in a call to my office, leaving a message for my secretary regarding my predicament. Then I looked around.
"The parlor", as Maggie called it, was a cozy room on the other side of the kitchen, also with an ocean view. A huge fieldstone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by overfilled bookcases. A double screened door led to the porch. I could hear Maggie singing to herself in the kitchen as I stepped out into the deepening twilight.
The eastern sky still glowed with the memory of the day, luminous as the depths of a dark sapphire. A few stars flickered overhead, as if mirroring the lights of fishing boats near the horizon. The salty ocean smell was strong here. Looking down, I saw granite boulders tumbled at the cliff's foot, exposed by the low tide. They were cloaked in seaweed, fronds swaying as the waves lapped at them. The familiar scent stirred something in me, some restlessness that I could not name. I felt the day's dread lurking at the edge of my consciousness and pushed it away.
A seagull swooped low over the waves, scolding. A chill evening breeze sliced through my linen jacket. I shivered.
The screen door squeaked open, and then Maggie was beside me. She gazed at the sky for a long time before she spoke.
"Peaceful, isn't it? You should see it during a storm, though. The breakers climb right up the cliff. The porch gets drenched in salt spray. It's frightening, then. But it's still beautiful."
"How long have you lived here?"
"A lifetime," she said with a funny little smile. "My father built this place just after the First World War. I was born right there in the parlor." She noticed me shivering. "It's cooling down. Come on inside now, Nicole, where it’s warm." In fact I could feel heat radiating from her, as we stood shoulder to shoulder, as if the sunshine that fueled her smile burned in her body. I followed her back through the screened doors. She bolted the shutters over them, sealing out the night wind.
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