Page 115 of The Seaside Homecoming
“Yes, but that’s not why I read it to you. My sister Emily wrote that. Her name does not appear on the guide, but still, I am so very proud of her. Thank you for indulging me by listening.”
“The pleasure is mine, and well you should be proud.”
The following day, they set off together. Picnic basket, blankets, umbrellas, and Mr. Filonov’s art supplies strapped to a docile donkey led by one of Mr. Smith’s sons. The artist had accepted his host’s invitation to join them and planned to paint as well as partake of the picnic meal.
Mira, meanwhile, carried her own small bucket and shovel. Miss Patel had dressed her in a pinafore and pantalettes so she could frolic more easily than in a long dress. Claire and Sonali wore their customary clothing, and Mr. Hammond wore his usual outdoor attire but with knee-length breeches instead of trousers and gaiters.
They followed the esplanade for a time and then descended, walking westward along the pebbled shore, past bathing machines and fishermen’s cottages.
The way narrowed near the jutting headland that divided the beach in two. As they rounded the headland, Claire glanced up at the lime kiln looming on the cliff top above.
Reaching the more secluded western beach, Claire saw two men standing on shore, thankfully clothed. As they neared, she recognized them as Armaan Sagar and Jack Hutton, hair still damp after a swim, towels in hand. Mr. Hammond hailed them, and they paused to exchange greetings.
Mr. Hammond invited the men to join their picnic. Armaan, looking from Claire to Mira to Sonali, cheerfully agreed. Major Hutton, however, politely declined. He bid them farewell and took the cliffside path up toward the lime kiln on his way back to Westmount ... and his wife.
The adults prepared for their picnic as Mira enjoyed her donkey ride, sitting sidesaddle on the gentle creature, the lad leading them along the shore at a sedate pace. Meanwhile, a few other people arrived and spread their blankets at a distance.
The western beach was largely pebbles, but low tide revealed a generous stretch of damp, packed sand. To avoid the damp, they spread their picnic blankets farther from the surf on smooth pebbles.
Mr. Filonov set up his stool and easel nearby, preparing to capture the scene. He enthused, “Is nothing like paintingen plein air. Natural light! Fresh air! De views!”
Looking from the sunny beach with its backdrop of red sandstone cliffs to the blue-grey sea, mild waves, and distant sails of passing boats, Claire could understand the appeal.
Sonali settled herself primly on the blankets, a parasol fluttering over her pretty head. Claire and Mr. Hammond laid out the food. Knowing their load would be much lighter once the food and jug of lemonade had been consumed, Mr. Hammond released the lad with warm thanks and coins to seek another customer for his donkey.
Mira was too excited to nibble more than a few bites and soon began to dig in the sand and collect seashells in her bucket.
After the rest of them had eaten and the men were busy conversing, Claire surreptitiously inched up her skirt, removed her shoes, and rolled down her stockings, slipping them into her shoes. She rose and stepped gingerly over the pebbles to reach the sandy stretch. Standing barefoot, she pressed her toes into the warm, damp sand. Heavenly.
Then she joined Mira in exploring rock pools, the two exclaiming over crabs and prawns and starfish trapped there until the tide rose once more.
Her father joined them, and Claire noticed he’d discardedhis coat and removed his shoes and socks as well. In shirtsleeves and bare feet, he chased Mira down the beach and picked her up, swinging her around to peals of delighted laugher. When he set her down, she splashed him, and he chased her again, back toward Claire.
Mira slipped one hand into Claire’s, and her father took the other. “Swing me!” she pleaded.
So together they walked along the shore, swinging the little girl between them at intervals, over the larger waves.
Soon Claire’s skirt hems were damp a good six inches, but she decided she did not care.
Eventually Mira ran off to show her uncle the shells she’d collected, while Claire and Mr. Hammond remained near the shore. She looked at him, his wind-tossed auburn hair, pale skin and freckles, and rumpled, rolled-up sleeves, and imagined the rumbustious lad he’d once been. Mischief tickled her breastbone, and she bent to the water and splashed him, much as Mira had done.
“Foul play!” he exclaimed, and retaliated in kind.
The cold water pelted her neck and she gave a girlish squeal, which inspired him to laugh and repeat the act.
She bent toward the water again, intent on revenge.
“Oh no, you don’t!” he playfully called, grasping her from behind.
She was immediately conscious of his nearness, the tangy smell of shaving soap, his muscular forearms sprinkled with freckles and golden hairs, wrapped firmly around her.
She spun to face him. Looking up, she found his face perilously close to her own. Her breath caught, and his playful expression changed into something else entirely.
For a moment neither moved.
Then Mira ran over and thrust herself between them. “I want to play too!”
Claire pulled back abruptly, face hot. Had she learnednothing? Would he think her a loose woman? No doubt Sonali would. But when Claire braved a look toward the blankets, she was relieved to see her and Armaan deep in conversation.
