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No one knows me. Somehow, he made it all of the way to the end of the deserted road, where the entrance to the falls was. The state park closed after sunset. A barrier was lowered to keep people out of the parking lot. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and shut off the engine and the music. His was the only car there. He was the first to arrive. He sat there for a long moment, hearing the steady roar of the waterfall, his agitation mounting. He needed to hear a sane voice. He lunged for his cell phone and called Mitch. But Mitch actually understood him-who he was, who he wanted to be.
Plus he wanted nothing in return. And this was unusual. Hell, this was unheard-of. Although right now the voice on the other end of the phone just sounded groggy and disoriented.
I just wanted you to know something. More an sec sadness. The damage is done. What the hell are you talking about? Got out of the car and staggered his way blindly down the footpath toward the falls, clutching the schnapps bottle in one hand and a book of matches in the other. It was so dark he loccal stumbling over the loose rocks and exposed tree roots. He lit a match, squinting. It all started here. And there was the walkway to the top of the falls. During the day, people came from miles around to see the waterfall, to photograph it and wade in the cold, clear pools at its base, to eat their gray, greasy junk food and drink their carbonated sugar water and do the other normal, stupid things that normal, stupid people did.
A wooden guardrail hugged the edge of the cliff, smelling of creosote. Wire mesh was stapled to the posts to keep small children from slipping under the rail and falling to their death. He lit another match. Now he stood before the warning sign that read: Let the Water Do the Falling. Stay Behind This Point. He paid no attention. Climbed right over it and out onto the flat shelf of granite ledge, directly over the falls. This was their place, the secret haven where they came to make feverish, forbidden love, nightafter night, as often as they dared.
They were alone here. Just them and the water and the darkness. The bare granite was slick from the fog and the spray. And it was a bit cooler fkr. But still he was sweating. He crouched here on the ledge; feeling the full power of the river as it tore right past fkr into the darkness of space, smashing down onto fpr smoothed hollows of granite a hundred feet below, swirling and foaming and cascading before it bottomed out into a river once again. Acarsiad did think about hurling himself loca off the ledge right now, sparing himself the pain of what was about to come.
But he could not will scarsaid to do this, no matter how much he wanted to. Finss words had acarsaif be spoken. And so he waited in the fog for his one true love to come. Or hear fod quick, sure footsteps until they were very close to him. He could see everything with his own eyes shut, just as his lips knew the locak soft, sweet lips fof were now kissing him, kissing him. Was she standing there? They were apart, now and forever. That it… it has to be over. Until he heard locao gut-wrenching sob. But I have to do it. I sound like a pathetic old lady. And I wish we could go on like this forever.
You are living a lie. And I hate you. Do you hear me? Now all that was left was the ugliness, the words that hurt. Our lives were dead until we found each other. How can you turn your back on that. How can you walk away? You know I do. I swear I will. No good way, anyhow. And now it began to creep into his mind-the terrible thing he had been trying not to think about. Which was that this secret place of theirs, this private, perfect perch where they made love, was also a private, perfect place to kill. And, worse, that he was totally capable of doing it. I am one of them.
I am one of the Bad People. Maybe he had known this all along. Because he was coming here to murder the great love of his life and he damned well knew it. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, preparing himself for what he was about to do. And it was all so unexpected, so ferocious, so unthinkable that he had no chance to hold his ground. He did try, in that desperate last fraction of a second, to cling to the slick stone, digging at it with his fingers and his toes like a wild, desperate animal. But now he was pitching over backward into the blackness with his arms waving wildly and the roar of the falls growing louder and now the roar was coming from out of him as his head smacked into something hard.
And everything went from black to red. As he lay there on the rocks, he thought he heard a sob coming from somewhere far away, but that may have been his own last groans he was hearing. He felt no pain, no fear, no regret-only a powerful rush of relief. I am free of them. I am free of the Bad People. These days, Mitch Berger, creature of the darkness, got up when the sun got up. And he loved every glorious minute. He loved the cool, fresh breezes off Long Island Sound that wafted through his antique post-and-beam carriage house no matter how hot and sticky the day was.
He loved the blackberries that grew wild all over the island and the fresh vegetables that he had brought to life in his own garden.
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He loved mowing his little patch of lawn with an old-fashioned push mower, which had to be one of the great lost pleasures of the modern age. He loved parking his pudgy self in a shell-backed aluminum garden chair at sunset, cold beer in hand, waiting for Des to come thumping across the rickety wooden causeway in her cruiser. He loved the bracing dips in the Sound they would take together. He even-and this was the truly amazing part-loved those disgustingly healthy dinners of grilled fish, brown rice and steamed vegetables she would cook for them. Every day he learned something new about the sun-drenched natural world around him. Goldfinches are attracted to sunflowers, hummingbirds to the color red.
The male osprey stays behind to teach the fledgling how to fly while the female migrates south on her own. There was no getting around this: Mitch Berger, lead film critic for the most prestigious and therefore lowest paying of the three New York city metropolitan dailies, was in a male bonding group. Or so Des called it. Mitch simply described it as four Dorseteers who liked to walk together, eat fresh-baked croissants and discuss life, love, and women-three subjects they freely admitted they knew nothing about. Besides, today he had a serious career-related matter to discuss with Dodge.
At the sound of Mitch stirring around in the kitchen Quirt came scooting in the cat door for his breakfast. Mitch had grown accustomed to her being there at night and missed her terribly, but he had also come to understand cats and the high priority they placed on their own comfort. Right now, she yawned at him from his chair and stretched a languid paw out toward him, which was her way of saying good morning. Mitch was otherwise alone this morning. Des had taken to spending three or four nights a week with him, the rest at her own place overlooking Uncas Lake.
Bella Tillis, her good friend and fellow rescuer, had moved in with her on a trial basis, which meant Des could stay over with him and not fret over her own furry charges. While Quirt hungrily munched kibble Mitch squeezed himself a tall glass of grapefruit juice. As he drank it down he stood before his living room windows that overlooked the water in three different directions, savoring the quiet of early morning on his island in theSound. A fisherman was chugging his way out for the day. Otherwise, all was tranquil. Mitch dressed in a faded gray T-shirt and baggy khaki shorts. Shoved four blue tin coffee mugs in his knapsack, along with an eight-ounce plastic water bottle filled with that see-through low-fat milk Des had him drinking-he himself vastly preferred whole milk of the chocolate variety.
But Des was absolutely determined that Mitch take off some excess poundage this summer. And a determined Des was no one to trifle with. The island had been in the Peck family since the s. It was forty square acres of blue-blooded paradise at the mouth of the Connecticut River just off Dorset, the historic New England village. There were five houses on the island, a decommissioned lighthouse that was the second tallest in New England, a private beach, dock, tennis court. Right now one other house was in use-Bitsy Peck, his garden guru, was living in the big Victorian summer cottage with her daughter, Becca.
He had needed somewhere to go and heal. And it turned out that somewhere was this place. Slowly, he was healing. He could see them waiting for him there at the gate as he crossedthe narrow quarter-mile wooden causeway-a trio of middle-aged Dorseteers in sizes small, medium, and large. Will and his hyperkinetic wife, Donna, ran The Works and Mitch was a huge fan of their chocolate goodies, or at least he had been until Des put him on his diet. Standing there in his tank top and baggy surf shorts, knapsack thrown carelessly over one broad shoulder, thirty-four-year-old Will looked more like a professional beach volleyball player or Nordic god than he did a jolly chef.
He was a tanned, muscular six foot four with long sun-bleached blond hair that he wore in a ponytail. Early one morning, Mitch had encountered him on the bluff hiking with Dodge Crockett and Jeff Wachtell. Introductions had been made, a casual invitation extended. Next thing Mitch knew he was not only joining their little group every morning but looking forward to it. It was a loose group. If you were there at seven, fine. There was only one rule: Any subject was a legitimate topic of conversation. Not that he had bothered to mention this to any of them-they would not understand what he was talking about. They had not, for example, grasped the origin of the Rocky Dies Yellow tattoo on his bicep.
They set out, walking single file down the narrow footpath that edged the bluffs. Beach pea grew wild alongside of them. Cormorants and gulls flew overhead. Dodge set the brisk pace, his arms swinging loosely at his sides, his shoulders back, head up. Mitch fellin behind him, puffing a bit but keeping up. He was definitely making progress, although his T-shirt was already sticking to him. Dodge was far and away the oldest of the group. He came from old Dorset money, had been a second-team All American lacrosse player at Princeton, and remained, at fifty-four, remarkably vigorous and fit.
Dodge was also the single most rigidly disciplined person Mitch had ever met in his life. So disciplined that he never needed to wear a watch. Thanks to his strict, self-imposed regimen of daily activities Dodge always knew within two minutes what time it was. What made this especially amazing was that Dodge had never held a real job in his life. And yet he was never idle. Each day he awoke at six, walked at seven, lifted weights at eight, read The New York Times and Wall Street Journal at nine, attended to personal finances at ten and practiced classical piano at eleven.
After lunch, the remainder of his day was given over to meetings. Some years back, he had also put in two terms as a state senator up in Hartford. And yet, Dodge was no tight-assed prig. Mitch enjoyed being around the man every morning. He was good company, a good listener, and somehow, he made Mitch feel as if walking with him was the highlight of his day. Dodge also possessed a childlike excitement for life that Mitch truly envied. He had health, wealth, a beautiful renovated farmhouse on ten acres overlooking the Connecticut River.
He had Martine, his long-legged, blond wife of twenty-six years who, as far as Mitch was concerned, was merely Grace Kelly in blue jeans. Between them Dodge and Martine had produced Esme, who happened to be one of the hottest and most talented young actresses in Hollywood. And the reason why Mitch needed to speak to Dodge this morning. Because this was by no means a typical July for Dorset. Tito and Esme, each of them twenty-three years old, were the biggest thing happening that summer as far the tabloids were concerned. She was a breathtakingly gorgeous Academy Award winner. Their arrival in Dorset had sparked debate all over the village.
He was searching for a young actress to play an underaged Roaring Twenties gun moll in the next Martin Scorsese crime epic. Esme won not only the part but an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress. But Dorset also cherished its decidedly un-Hampton low profile, and Esme and Tito had brought a media army with them, along with stargazers, gawkers, and more gawkers. The village was positively overrun by outsiders, many of them rude and loud-although none ruder or louder than Chrissie Huberman, the high-profile celebrity publicist who the golden couple had imported from New York to run interference for them.
Dodge had a bristly gray crewcut, tufty black eyebrows, and a round face that frequently lit up with glee. He was no more than five feet nine but powerfully built, with a thick neck, heavy shoulders, and immense handsand feet. He wore a polo shirt, khaki shorts and size hiking boots. They almost always travel in pairs. It was a big, thickset bird with a dark back, white belly, and the longest, flattest orange bill Mitch had ever seen. Jeff had moppety red hair, crooked, geeky black-framed glasses, and freckly, undeniably weblike hands.
He also happened to walk like a duck. Jeff possessed even less fashion sense than Mitch. Right now he had on a short-sleeved dress shirt of yellow polyester, madras shorts, and Teva sandals with dark brown socks. It was a very special ribbon of sand. At its farthest tip was one of the few sanctuaries in all of New England where the endangered piping plovers came to lay their eggs every summer. There were two chicks this season. The Nature Conservancy had erected a wire cage to protect them from predators. Also a warning fence to keep walkers and their dogs out. Kids liked to have beer parties and bonfires out there and sometimes got rowdy. No one else in the groupcalled him Dodger-so far as Mitch knew, no one else in the world did.
And so orthodox I must say crossword-bye. Buried together, that is. All drafts of subjects-history, Poker, math.
He was a good-looking guy with a strong jaw and clear, wide-set blue eyes. Yet he seemed totally unaware of his looks. He was very modest and soft-spoken. This was in January and the ground was frozen, so they had to wait until spring before they could bury him. My dad used to dig the graves over at the cemetery, see. Will was only a kid when he died. Dodge gave Will odd jobs after that and became like a second father to him. The two remained very close. And, yes, they are. Buried together, that is. What color was it? The tide was going out. All sorts of subjects-history, English, math. Already, Mitch had turned down a chance to become recording secretary of the Shellfish Commission. Not the sort of thing he could see himself doing.
It seemed so Ozzie Nelson. But Mitch was coming to understand that getting involved was part of the deal when you lived in a small town. Will Durslag served on the volunteer fire department. Who knows who among the people in your city or state wants to have a casual romp up on the sheets tonight? You can search individuals by location, name, and photos and send them a message if they want to meet and fuck with you by the alley. With our local sexapp, you can search for women who have various offers to you. Technology makes things easier and for more people to come out and shout their desires of getting la id each night. Go out and meet different fuck buddies you can have every single day.
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