SHIFTING SANDS: Anne Basnight finds love on an island with a reclusive artist.
The smell of bacon pulled her from a deep sleep. She rolled over and stretched, brushing the sleep from her eyes, then jerked back when an Irish setter sat up. Tail slapping on the floor, the dog yawned and breathed doggy breath into her face. He shoved his head under her hand, pleading for a pat. Faded drawstring curtains flapped in the breeze, drawing her gaze past the louvered doors to a deck. Her foggy morning mind recognized the sound of ocean waves crashing and the cries of laughing gulls somewhere near. She gasped, seized by dread. I don’t eat bacon, live by the ocean, own a dog or sleep naked!
Pulling herself up from the rumpled king-sized bed, she scanned the room looking for her clothes and purse. Years of self-taught restraint controlled her panic. She knew she was used to giving orders. Her confidence only needed a bit of shoring up and everything would be fine. She wrapped the soft quilt around her body and stood up. The room swirled around her so she put a hand on the bedpost to steady herself. Dizziness receding, she gingerly made her way across the creaking floor to the adjoining bathroom. No clothes here either.
She saw an old tub behind the shower curtain and a set of thick blue towels hanging neatly on a rack behind the door with more stacked in an open bin. Rolled hand towels and washcloths filled two more cubicles. Have I walked into a home magazine photo shoot? She turned back into the bedroom and searched the massive wardrobe. A row of blue jeans and a few collared shirts hung in precise order. Tee shirts lay folded in a bottom drawer. They look familiar, but are they?
She grabbed a pair of faded jeans and held them up to her waist. Her hands trembled as she pulled them on. The length was right for her height, but when she tugged them on, the waist dropped low on her hips. Shrugging into a floral print shirt, fingers fumbling with the shirt’s top buttons, she gave up and tied a knot with the bottom corners of the shirt tail.
Still woozy, she walked through the French doors and peered over the dunes for anything that looked familiar. Nothing. Holding the porch railing, she stood on tiptoes to glimpse the flat waters of the sound and a distant shoreline. She had no memory of anything prior to seeing the red dog that now sat on his haunches watching her every move. This doesn’t feel right, why can’t I remember?
The clatter of dishes and pans drew her to the top of the stairs. Her attention focused on the back of a man working over a stove. He wore a plaid shirt tucked into ragged jeans. His unshod feet scuffed the worn linoleum floor as he moved about. The dog nudged past, leading her down the steps.
“Oh!”
He turned, holding his breakfast plate. “Sorry. I’m not a pretty sight.” He set his plate on the table and grabbed a Carolina ball cap cupping it over the angry scar that crossed his bare head. “Good morning.” He faced her again. “How are you feeling?”
Her stomach jerked as she swayed against the stair railing. She balled her fists and demanded, “Who are you? Are you some kind of pervert?”
“No, I’m not a pervert. Calm down. You invaded my space yesterday. I’d like nothing better than to send you back where you came from.” He tucked his hands in his pockets as he studied her. “Do you remember how you got here?”
“I don’t even remember my name.” Frustrated, she studied the square kitchen, with varnished pine walls, open cabinet shelves and pantry. An arched doorway opened to the living room. The staircase divided the two lower rooms. Looking out the kitchen window over the sink, she saw sand dunes and outbuildings, no other homes. “What did you do with my clothes?” His cheek bones shifted back and forth as he swished his coffee and stared back.
Under his gaze, she stood tall, running her fingers through her shoulder-length auburn hair. “You don’t remember?” Her face had changed in the twenty years since he last saw her.
“No. Do you know who I am?”
She had grown up, but still had that determined chin-poked-out stance she had when she wanted something as a child. Her posture indicated she was used to giving orders. Her hundred-dollar haircut shouted class. “Nope, I haven’t a clue,” he lied. “I’d like to know who you are, also and how you got here.”