Hale's Point Read Online Free Page B

Hale’s
Point was named. Some twenty acres of woodland, also Hale property, abutted the
beach—prime North Shore real estate, entirely undeveloped except for the half
acre or so immediately surrounding the house and stable, the latter of which R.H. had long ago converted into an eight-car garage for
his collection of vintage sports cars. The Hales had fended off lucrative
offers for the land for two centuries.
    He had loved the beach as a boy, but with his leg all but
useless, he couldn’t even think about climbing down there.
    The sound he had taken for waves came from the pool, where
Harley glided smoothly and swiftly through the pale blue water. Her arms curved
in perfect arcs: her movements were graceful, but eerily mechanical. Every
third stroke, like clockwork, she took a breath. Her pace never varied or
slowed as she swam lap after lap.
    He lay back down and threw an arm over his eyes. How long had
it been since he had swum? Ten years? Fifteen?
    He rolled over and tried to get to back to sleep, but the
splashing kept him awake. Her pace was maniacally, irritatingly perfect.
    Finally, the splashing stopped. Tucker sat up and parted the
blinds again. Still in the pool, she reached onto the smooth concrete deck for
something—a black stopwatch—clicked it, and checked her time. Pushing against
the deck, she propelled herself up and stepped nimbly out of the pool.
    She was compact and sleek, a healthy animal. For a woman her
size, she had long legs, and they looked like they meant business. She wore a
black swimsuit, one of those unlined Lycra racing suits, as revealing as skin.
He could see the contours of her breasts as clearly as if she were nude; they
were small, high, and firm, their nipples hard in the cool morning air.
    Tucker turned away from the window, feeling like a Peeping
Tom. He took another shower to get the kinks out, combed his wet hair back to
get it off his face, and put on a pair of baggy shorts and a T-shirt. He forgot
what their original colors had been. Most of his clothes were army
surplus—khaki, olive drab, and navy—so they had probably started out militarily
neutral before fading, like everything else he owned, into a kind of used-up noncolor .
    He grabbed his cane and followed the aroma of freshly brewed
coffee to the kitchen. She stood at the stove, cocooned in her white
terry-cloth robe, holding a saucepan full of gray paste, which she was spooning
into a bowl.
    The paste had pieces of something in it. When she saw him,
she tilted the pot so he could get a better look. “Oatmeal with raisins,
apples, and sunflower seeds. I made enough for you.”
    “Thanks, but I’m trying to cut down.” She looked a little
confused, then rolled her eyes. “You don’t have any glazed doughnuts, do you?”
he asked.
    “That’s what you eat for breakfast?”
    He nodded, taking a seat at the big pine table and leaning
his cane against it. “I’ve been known to have them for lunch and dinner, too.”
    She joined him at the table. “You are what you eat.”
    “I beg to differ. I saw you get out of the pool just now, and
I know for a fact you’re not gray and lumpy.” She glanced at him and then
spooned some oatmeal into her gorgeous mouth. “Do you swim every morning?”
    “A hundred laps. But usually I swim at six. I set the alarm
two hours later today ‘cause I was up half the night.” Her skin shone, her eyes
glittered. She looked invigorated and happy. He figured she was probably just
jazzed on endorphins, but she looked sensational. She looked like she’d just
had great sex. The thought made him want to get up and untie the double-knotted
sash on that terry-cloth robe.
    Instead, he said, “A hundred laps? You count them?” She
nodded. “Doesn’t that kind of take the pleasure out of it?”
    “My morning swim is for exercise. And my afternoon run. My
evening swim is for pleasure.”
    She was too much. “What happens if you suddenly find yourself
enjoying your morning swim? Do you