Failing Upward

Chapter 21 (part 2): No Place Like Home

When we got back inside, I sat down and played the piano. Sherlock sat next to Mary and nodded a thank you to her.

I decided to repay him by crooning some of his favorite Frank Sinatra songs. Afterward I called for requests. Anderson had plenty. I played and sang until the pink evening sky called.

Sherlock and I packed a picnic basket of sandwiches, rye crackers and cheeses. Sherlock cut up a cucumber, and I found some seedless grapes. Glenda tossed in a bottle of wine. I ran upstairs for our towels. Sherlock dug out a blanket from an old chest.

Throwing the blanket around his neck, he called to me, "Aren't you ready yet?" I clamored down our bedroom stairs. Glenda nodded with a slow smile as I ran past her to get the picnic basket off the counter. Waving goodnight to Mary and Anderson with my free hand, we stepped out the back door.

He lifted me off the deck, swinging me off my feet. As he put me down, his bathing trunks slipped down over his hips. I kissed his neck. "Where did you get these blinding neon green swim trunks from anyway?"

"Peter bought them at Wal-Mart," he said, stiffly. "He thought it was funny. He related the entire boring experience, including what one of the men in the red Wal-Mart vests said. 'Go down the end of the isle then turn west.' Turn west! Wal-Mart is the only store in America where it's so large they give ordinal directions."

Screw the stairs. We ran down the dune full speed, sand flying behind us, the towels and blanket flapping behind Sherlock. I jogged down behind him, hauling the basket. When we reached the bottom, we bunny hopped up and down, giggling each time the sand squeaked. Just two kids on the beach.

Mom, Dad, Harry and I spending summers near Mears. Climbing the dunes. I remembered how scary it was standing at the top and looking down. Those dunes were so huge and steep, they looked bottomless to us. Harry and I swallowed our fear and ran. The sand squeaking under our feet with each step. And at the bottom, looking up and seeing Mom and Dad, so far away and small. Little miniature parents. Going up the dune burned our lungs and calves, but we'd forget the pain as soon as we got to the top and would run back down again.

I watched Sherlock jumping. He wasn't worrying about Moriarty or the serum or me. He was living for now. Making our memories. Leave it to Mary. I silently thanked her for helping me remember what was important. As Sherlock and I let the waves chase our feet, I did feel untroubled, like a kid again, too. The water was damn cold, but we didn't care.

He turned to me and his lips trembled a bit, partly from the cold and partly anticipation for what we were about to do on the beach. I dabbed my lips on his, all blue and chilled from the water and begging to be warmed. I looked forward to freeing his clammy skin in the cooling sand. The sand on his legs stuck to his swim trunks. His milky white against my tanned. My mouth tickled his earlobe, and went to warm his lips again.

I skipped at the edge of the water, kicking water at Sherlock. This place was made to help me forget, made to help me remember.

We jogged farther down the beach. From there, we climbed over two small dunes down to a hidden inlet where we could watch the sun sink under the water. It was perfect, cozy and private with soft white sand and tufts of grass surrounding us. I spread the fuzzy red blanket. I could feel Sherlock's cool green eyes on me as I bent over so I wiggled my ass in the air.

"Come on," he grinned, running up behind me and pinching me. Then he pulled me by the arm, hauling me to the inlet. Our feet sank in the wet sand, making footprints one inside the other.

"It's not so cold over here," he pointed. "Let's swim."

Sherlock drew me into the warmer water of the creek, where it spilled into the cold lake. He splashed me. It wasn't that warm.