Chapter 1

Squinting through the covered porch over the brilliant white beach into the gulf, Greg intently supervised each bird's diving in quest of the sea's bounty. The ebbing surf whispered, and the birds squeaked and squawked as his keyboard replied with urgent sentences. A car door slammed in the driveway — then the car drove away. It's about time! Queen Marcia is finally here. Two days late and just like her not to call!

He finished the next brilliant sentence with an emphatic period when a non-Marcia woman's voice from behind, challenged, "Who are you?"

Looking around in surprise, he replied, "I'm Greg. Who are you?"

"I'm staying at the House of the Mermaid," she replied.

"This is it. Every splendid board of it."

She probed, "Are you here with Marcia?"

"Well, no, I thought you might be she. She stood me up."

She posed, disheveled, at the top of the stairs drooping a carry-on bag from one shoulder, a laptop from the other, and a shopping bag from Bloomingdale's in her hands, then dropped her athletic bag on the floor. She tossed her long brown hair back in anguish, revealing earrings and a pretty face needing basic makeup repair. She shot back quick questions. "Where is she? Why isn't she here? When is she coming?"

He responded, "A. I don't know. B. She chose not to tell me. C. The day before yesterday. And, who are you?"

Greg was annoyed. She was about 5'9," athletically trim and shapely, though drooping at the moment from carrying the heavy bags.

"I'm Sheila. Marcia is my stepmother."

"Welcome Sheila, please put your stuff down. Marcia has told me a few things about you."

With a sigh, she dumped her bags, and then began seeking her PDA. Finally, she said, "Marcia told me we're supposed to be here from the 29^th through the 6^th."

"No problem. What date does your calendar say?"

She stared in disbelief, then said, "The 28^th."

Greg you're the only one here. Get ready for the brunt of her anger. Try humor. "I feel better already. I thought maybe the salt air had addled my mind. I did not expect anyone but her. How did you get here?"

"A couple on the plane dropped me off. We were late out of Atlanta and they were going just down the beach. Otherwise, I'd have to take the shuttle."

She sat dejectedly on the top stair, cupping her chin in her hands, and said, "I rescheduled a job interview so I could get here in time. Shit! I forgot to tell her about my changed dates. I just don't do this kind of fuck-up."

Go easy, Greg. This is not your fault. "It wouldn't have mattered, we were supposed to be here anyway. You're welcome to phone," he replied, trying to solve her problem.

He was visibly annoyed -- she had interrupted his work, and was putting him in a corner. I'll relax and regroup. She will not get to me.

She jerked her cell phone from her purse and started to punch numbers. She looked at it and then tried again. "I'm not getting anywhere. There is no signal here."

"You're right. We're out of range of civilization. The land line is just there in the kitchen."

Walking to the phone, she muttered, I can't believe I did this. She poked numbers briskly.

In relief due to her momentary distraction, he pondered the situation. Some days at the beach foil even the most critical who cannot improve the moment. A gentle on-shore breeze rumples the hair and with a soft pressure on the skin moves on from the water where it created a shimmering of late spring's yellower light. Pelicans patrol parallel to the waves in stealthy quest for the gourmet delights available just down the beach, their squawks, neither harmonious nor pleasant, mark their territorial rights.

He wondered, did the first human emerging from the jungle to walk on the white sugar beach return there led by undiscovered genetic drivers? Diving birds now plunge to retrieve the warm Gulf bounty. The Romans, the Greeks, and those before, described splendid feelings of well being at the seashore that science now tells us is caused by negative ions.

And I came here to work? That's right, Greg. Back to the draft.

Greg and some colleagues rented this beach house to write a difficult proposal, rather than meet at the wintry O'Hare Marriott one more time. Isolated, they produced an acceptable draft, which he now had to polish. Non-disclosure ideas longed secretly for coherence.

He had been using the electronic blue pencil for several hours, looking up only to reflect on the squawking birds, and the sound of one sentence after another striving to convert technical jargon into readable prose. His collaborators finished their contributions yesterday, and left quickly. With no people, email, or other obligations, he made remarkable progress turning genius into understanding.

Enduring permanent hold on the kitchen phone, Sheila idly flipped through a stack of photos on the counter. Though not really snooping, she followed her curiosity. My God, is that him? Her gray haired host-adversary had his arm around a smiling knockout blond by a sunny ski lift, and in the next photo she was kissing him. Then she wore a thong bikini at a rocky beach. Well-dressed stepmother Marcia stood smiling with him by the fireplace. Then, she did a double take on a shot of the blond in shorts and halter chained under a staircase. Regaining her purpose, she said, "I'm on permanent hold. The damn people forgot me." She slammed down the handset.

"You can try again now, or wait until later. Your choice."

She cradled the phone in her neck and was reconnected. After several minutes of waiting and asking questions, she hung up. With rising frustration, "The damn secretary told me that Marcia went to San Francisco on a big crisis and did not know when she would be back! Oh, there is a message from Marcia on your phone."

I must have missed that while I was out on the beach. He dialed up the message and listened on the speakerphone. "Greg, I am very sorry about this. I am in San Francisco virtually being held hostage in a high security building, working on the rapid transit system. We can't receive calls and our phones won't work in here. I told Sheila it would be okay to stop by for a couple of days before she went to St. Augustine. Tell her about this when she arrives. Sorry. Bye."