“And what brought you to Marblehead, Mr. Langley?” the anesthesia nurse said as she and the surgical nurse shifted the groggy man from the gurney to the reclining chair in the recovery room. He smiled through a dreamy anesthetized haze at the heads drifting across his vision and said, “A VW bus.”

She laughed. “I’ve never heard that one before.” She unhooked the IV bag from the pole on the gurney and attached it to a hook over the chair. As she worked she talked. “All the way from Easthampton.” It wasn’t a question. She must have read in his record that he was born in Easthampton, Massachusetts.

“Years ago. Good car. Cold as hell in winter. Lived in Boston for a while, too.”

“It says here you’re seventy. I can’t believe it,” she said cheerily.

“I feel it.”

“That was just the hernia, Mr. Langley. It’s all fixed now and in a couple of days you’ll feel fine again.”

His balmy, dopey feeling was beginning to evaporate. The two nurses seemed less like a dream. His gaze fixed on the narrow gold rims of the anesthesia nurse’s round glasses and he said, “I like your glasses.” Her pale face was smooth like polished marble so the gold glasses stood out. She thanked him and said she’d searched until she’d found just the right pair.

“Now remember,” she went on, “no heavy lifting for a couple of weeks.”

Lifting. He remembered that the bubble just to the left of his groin had appeared after he’d carried the UPS box from the porch to his study. It contained paperbacks of his second novel that had come out in hardback the year before. When he set the boxes down and straightened up he could feel his side hurting. That night as he undressed for bed he saw the bubble in the mirror. He also discovered that with a little pressure and much pain he could force it back inside. The next day he went to the doctor.

Sam’s eyes hadn’t left the nurse with gold rimmed glasses who was busy covering his legs with a blanket. He wanted to ask her if she’d read his books, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that. In the waiting room before the operation, when another nurse was sticking the IV into the back of his hand, he’d resisted the urge to ask her if she’d read his books. His wife Sarah used to say that asking people if they’ve read your books was like asking for a compliment. But the nurse had seen his chart. Maybe she hadn’t associated Samuel Langley, the patient, with Sam Langley, the novelist. He knew from experience that people liked to talk to authors so it wasn’t really asking for a compliment. Still, he resisted the temptation to ask her.
Now, in the recovery room, there was just enough anesthesia left in his brain to weaken his resolve. He asked the nurse, “Have you read my books?” The words had no sooner left his mouth than he was castigating himself for begging a compliment.

“Oh,” she said, “are you an author?” The delight in her voice reassured him that he’d done the right thing, unless, of course, she was just humoring an old man. “What’s the name of your book?”

“Quiet Cove,” Sam said. “It came out two years ago and my second book was published last year.”

“I’ve got to read them,” she said. “What’s the last one called?”

“Playing With Fire.”

She leaned her shoulder against the wall and raised her right knee, then wrote on her pant leg the names of his two books. “I’m going to read these for sure,” she said. What a curious thing to do, Sam thought. He could see the surgical uniform being tossed into the laundry chute that afternoon and the names of his two books dissolved in bubbles of industrial-strength Tide. Maybe Sarah was right.

“Who’s coming to take you home, Mr. Langley?” the nurse asked.
“Sarah, my wife.”

She cocked her head and gave him a puzzled look. “It says here your daughter-in-law, Teresa Langley.”
“Oh. Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.” But he did know. It wasn’t the first time his longing for Sarah had confused his thinking.

In his son’s car on the way from Salem Hospital to his home in Marblehead, Teresa asked him nervously, “Are you going to be all right now?” She gave him a worried look, but then all her looks were worried. The ebullient young Catholic woman his son had married twelve years ago was now in a constant state of worry. Her hair, tied tightly into a bun, seemed to pull the skin of her cheeks as tight as a rubber glove. Sam felt he should ask about the bruise on her cheek, but what he really wanted was not to be around her. It was nice of her to drive him home, though.

“I’ll be fine. Just go by Crosby’s Market on the way and buy me a roast chicken and some potato salad. That’ll get me through tonight and tomorrow I can drive myself to the store. I’ll pay you back when we get home.” They hit a bump and the tape on his bandage pulled on his groin hair. He winced.

She glanced over. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m okay. Still a little woozy.”

They stopped at the store and then drove to Sam’s house. Teresa took his elbow as they climbed the steps to the front door. Inside she led him to the sofa and plumped up two pillows at one end. “Lie down here,” she said, “so you can see the TV. Here’s the remote. Now, are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I’ll be just fine.” He could tell she wanted to leave and he wished she would.

“I hate to run off, but Jimmy’s coming home from school and I need to start dinner for Russell.” Jimmy was in the fifth grade in the McCutchon Elementary School in Beverly where his parents lived, two towns away.

“Don’t worry. I’m okay. If I have a problem, I’ll call you.” He’d rather die right there on the sofa than call. Asking Teresa for a ride home from the hospital had been bad enough. He had to listen to fifteen minutes of how inconvenient it was for her to cut into her busy day. She had shopping to do and the house to clean, but she said she’d do it because neither of his other two children were willing to help. Actually, they would have been willing to help but they weren’t available. His middle child, Cynthia, was a pediatrician at the New England Medical Center in Boston and couldn't get away. His youngest, Kathleen, an environmentalist with the New England Clean Air Council, was in Maine taking air samples on Cadillac Mountain in Arcadia National Park.

As soon as she left, Sam went to the icebox — he still called it an icebox — poured himself a glass of cranberry juice, picked up the cordless phone, and returned to the sofa. He set the phone and the glass down, then sat himself down, swinging his legs up onto the sofa. The pain of that movement was so severe he lay his head back on the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Pain killer’s wearing off,” he said aloud. The doctor had given him some Percoset until he could he could get a prescription filled, but he’d be damned if he’d take that stuff.

The pain persisted. He wished he could ask Teresa to pick up some Tylenol, but that would mean another round of complaints about her being overworked. “I don’t see how Russ puts up with her,” he sighed. “She drives me crazy and I don’t even live with her.”

Sam felt a thump on his chest and opened his eyes. Key West, his cat, had leaped from the back of the sofa and was kneading Sam’s flesh through the cotton shirt he wore. Slowly the cat began to move toward his incision, as if directed by some internal radar to the spot that would hurt most. Sam tossed him on the floor, then punched on the TV remote and drifted off watching Rosie O’Donnell.

The ringing of the cordless phone woke him up. He reached for it and knocked it over. Picking it up, he said hello three times before he remembered to push the talk button. “Goddam phone!” He pushed the button and said hello. It was Kathleen calling from Maine.

“Are you all right? You took so long to answer.”

“Yeah. Fine. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa.”

“How was the operation? Did Teresa bring you home?”

“She did. I’m feeling fine. I’ll be up and around tomorrow.”

“Have you got anything to eat?” He could hear the worry in her voice and knew she felt bad about not being with him.

“Roast chicken and potato salad. How does that sound?”

“Good, but you need some greens too. I’ll be back in Marblehead in two days. Can you make it to Friday okay?” Kathleen lived in Marblehead with a woman named Naomi Jackson. They’d been together for three months and, as far as Sam knew, seemed to get along well.

“Sure. No problem. I’ll go out tomorrow and get Chinese takeout. How’s your project going?”

“Can you believe we’re picking up hydrocarbon particles all the way from Ohio?”

“Yeah. Something’s turning the grass brown down here. Think that’s it?”

“It doesn’t do that. Look, you take care of yourself and I’ll see you Friday night. Call Russ if you need help.” They said good bye.

I wouldn’t call him on a bet, Sam thought. Every time we talk he’s gotten himself into another jam. He watched the local news until he fell asleep.

When he awoke he realized that some of the pain in his stomach was from hunger as well as the operation. He tried to get up but couldn’t get a grip on the back of the sofa with his right hand to pull him up. Each movement shot pain through his groin. Finally he rolled onto his left side and with much effort pushed himself into a sitting position. Then he set his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. Slowly, leaning on the coffee table, he pushed himself up until he was standing. Walking bent over like an old man —who am I kidding, he thought, I am an old man — he went to the kitchen and put the roast chicken in the microwave.

“Now for a drink,” he said to Key West who’d followed him into the kitchen. Before the operation he’d asked the anesthesiologist if he could have a drink that night. Grinning she held her thumb and first finger up about half an inch apart and said a small one. A small scotch would only be a tease so he had a large glass of chardonney. As he settled back on the sofa with the plate of chicken and potato salad on the coffee table next to his wine, the phone rang. It was Cynthia.

“How’d the operation go?”

“Fine. I’m lying on the sofa eating my dinner and watching TV.”

“Did they give you percoset?”

“Yes. Teresa had it filled on the way home. No pain at all.” He knew how to talk to his daughter the doctor.

“So she picked you up at the hospital like she was supposed to. She called me late last night and asked me to do it, but I had a list of patients a mile long. Was she all right today? It sounded to me like she’d been crying.”

“Her cheek was bruised, but I didn’t ask about it.”
“That worries me Dad. I think you’d better check into her bruises.”

Sure, he thought. I’m lying here with an incision in my side and I’m supposed to check on Teresa. Sam closed his eyes and leaned back onto the pillows. “Yeah, I’ll run right over there.”

“I didn’t mean now. I just meant keep your eyes open.” He opened them. She paused to change the subject. “Claude and I would like to come by your house on Saturday to say good bye before we leave for Europe. I’ll bring the dinner and take care of everything so you can relax with the kids. Do you think you’ll feel up to it by then? Vickie and Claudia miss you.” Vickie was three and Claudia five. Sam liked them in small doses.

“That would be nice,” he lied. “What time?”

“About two. That’ll give me time to get dinner ready while you and the kids go to the beach.” Sam lived on a street off Ocean Avenue, just three blocks from Devereaux Beach. With school out and with the warm weather, the beach would be jammed.

“You come at two and we’ll see about the beach. I might not feel up to it.”

“I’m sure the doctor told you a little walking is good for you. Claude’s bringing his tool kit if anything’s broken.”

“For God’s sake, Cynthia, I’ve got tools and I keep things in repair. I don’t need Claude fixing things.”

“I know,” his daughter said, “but humor him. He likes to feel useful.”

“Okay, how many neurologists does it take to change a light bulb?”

“Not funny Dad.” Claude was a neurologist. “Well, I’ve got to go. Take your percoset and don’t lift anything and we’ll see you on Saturday.” Sam lifted his glass of wine as he said good bye. He knew what Saturday would be like. He appreciated what they did for him, but their presence was exhausting. Maybe the sales on the second book would pick up and allow him to get a cleaning service every other week.

Enough of the kids, Sam thought. It’s time to take care of myself. He called his friend Art Pohly who lived on the other side of town. “Art, how about breakfast tomorrow?” Now that the weather was warm, breakfast meant a trip to Flynnie’s on the Beach.

“Sounds good to me, but it’ll have to be early. I’ve got to be at the office by nine.” Technically, Art was retired but he still spent three mornings a week at the insurance office he’d founded as a young man. He was married and had two married kids and, like Sam, loved them but wished they’d run their own lives.

“I thought you were going to have surgery today,” Art said.

“I did, that’s why I want you to pick me up on the way to breakfast.”

“Amazing what they can do today. In and out. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

They hung up and Sam struggled to his feet. Bending over slowly, he picked up his plate of chicken bones and carried it to the kitchen. There on the counter was Key West tugging at a piece of skin still attached to the roast chicken. “Here,” Sam said, “let me help.” He tore it off and gave it to the cat who took it to the other end of counter. Like a lion crouched over its fallen prey, Key West stared at him with feral eyes.

Sam was glad his friend could make it for breakfast. Tomorrow was his and Sarah’s wedding anniversary and he’d need all the help he could get.

Art got a blueberry muffin, warmed and oozing melted butter, and Sam got a bagel and cream cheese. They both had coffee in paper cups. At eight in the morning there was still room on the picnic tables on Flynnie’s deck and the two men sat facing the ocean. The weather had turned threatening overnight and dark clouds obscured the morning sun. Beyond the sandy beach the slate gray water was dotted with islands and two container ships anchored in the distance awaiting a berth in Boston harbor.

“How about a round of tennis this afternoon?” Art asked as he stirred milk and Sweet And Low into his coffee.

“I would but I’m not supposed to lift anything heavy like a tennis racket.”

“You look pretty good, though. Does it hurt much?”

“No. I took some Ibuprofen this morning.” Sam bit into his bagel. “I should have asked them not to put butter on it. The cream cheese would have been enough.” Neither man looked at the other when he spoke, yet each felt their comfortable companionship. Sam’s hair was pure white and curled out from under his straw hat. He’d already had several basal cell cancers removed from his face, ears and neck and he didn’t want more. His driver’s license said he was 6’2”, but he was probably only six feet now. Art was a little shorter and wore a skipper’s hat with a large visor over his graying hair. Both wore glasses, were quite trim and had only small paunches.

“Why do you keep working, Art? You’ve got enough money. Why don’t you just quit and paint?” Art had already had one showing at the local Episcopal Church.

“Why don’t you quit writing?” Art answered. “And don’t tell me writing is the same as my painting. You work at it, and you’ve said it’s darned frustrating at times. It’s a job.”

“At least it’s not like going to the office every day.” Sam had been a partner in an advertising firm until he retired at sixty-five. He considered what Art had said about the frustration. “It’s got its hard times, but there’s the good times, too, when things are flowing.”

“And now?” Art asked.

“Now’s not one of ‘em. I finished the manuscript for Playing With Fire two years ago and with Sarah gone I can’t get started again. I’ll get one going, then, after three or four chapters, it turns to mush. Sometimes I think the first two novels were flukes, that I’m not a writer at all. And then this damned hernia. I feel old.”

“Yeah. I’ve had two of them. But one thing about an operation, each day you’re a little better.”

“It’s more than feeling old.” Sam set his bagel on the paper plate and let his eyes wander over the beach as if looking for someone. He was wondering how frank he could be with Art. They’d known each other for more than a year, usually meeting here at Flynnie's for breakfast, but their conversations had been light with a lot of kidding. Could he tell Art how lonely he felt, especially today?

“I miss Sarah.” He laughed disparagingly. “Two years — you’d think I’d be over it by now.” When Art didn’t interrupt with a witty comment, Sam went on. “It was hard at first. The last few years Sarah and I were together, she traveled a lot. I got used to fixing my own meals and spending nights alone. When she disappeared, I pretended she was away on a trip. I fooled myself for a month or so until the kids sat me down one day and told me to face it: she was gone. We called the police and they issued a missing person’s report. But we heard nothing. By then the trail was cold.” Sam sighed deeply. “That was two years ago. The children don’t say it, but I know they think she’s dead. I can’t bring myself to that. So I mope about the house, try to write.”

“And you think about Sarah,” Art said.

“It’s worse than that. Sometimes I hear her in the kitchen. Sometimes I can smell her perfume.” Sam thought about telling Art that he even talked with Sarah, but it sounded too crazy.

“Where was she when she disappeared?” Art asked.

Sam set his bagel down and stared out at the ocean. “I don’t know. She didn’t say where she was going. She just left and never came back.”

Exhausted from his trip to Flynnie’s, Sam fell into a deep sleep as soon as he lay down on the sofa. As if no time at all had passed he was jarred awake by a crash of thunder. The storm clouds they’d seen that morning had arrived. Huge raindrops driven by violent winds were pelting the window. Sam looked at the clock surprised to find that he’d been asleep for almost two hours. Letting his head fall back on the pillow he closed his eyes and listened to the branches of the weeping beech slap against the window. It had never done that before. Must be a different sort of wind. When Sarah gave him the tree the day after they moved into the house, they had been careful to plant it far enough from the house to give it room to grow. The little slip of a tree had meaning for them. It had been within the sheltering branches of a weeping beech in Boston’s Public Garden that Sam had first kissed Sarah. Now the tree, fully grown, was nudging the east wall of the house.

Slash, slash against the pane whipped the tendril branches of the tree until Sam was worried they might break the window. He sat up to study the situation but his eyee were drawn to a woman in a hooded raincoat standing on the sidewalk, staring at his house.

Sam reached for his glasses from the coffee table and put them on. “What’s she up to?” he mumbled aloud.

The figure of the woman undulated in the riverlets of rain cascading down his window. Sam squinted, adjusted his bifocals and watched her rub her right cheek beneath her hood.

“Sarah!” Sam whispered. “Is that you?”

Getting up he pushed his body through a wall of pain, and rushed to the front door. A gust of wind caught the screen door and threw it open. He stepped onto the porch and into the pouring rain. His glasses, rain smeared, were useless so he pulled them off. Rubbing the water from his eyes he stared at the street. The woman were gone.

Chapter Two