Out of the blue, Owen, my college roommate, emailed me. It had been a few years since he and I last spoke. We’d been close in college but grew apart as many friends do. After graduating, we both moved on with our lives, eventually losing touch.

Odd, though. When Owen emailed me, he didn’t ask how I was. Instead, he sort of told me how I was doing. He knew I was still in banking, pointed out that I hadn’t been promoted yet, hinted I might not be content, and speculated that I was itching to make a move. I laughed when he recommended I move to Rehoboth Beach and do it the following week. I responded, pointing out that would be during the Christmas holidays. Seemingly unfazed, Owen wrote right back about a job opening with a mortgage company in Lewes, the next town over. He said I’d be perfect for it and he knew the owner.

I looked up Owen online, as I supposed he did with me. He was still working for HomeBuild, a Delaware construction company. He and I worked for HomeBuild for two summers while in college, nailing shingles on roofs. He returned after graduating and unlike me, he had progressed in the company. He was now managing a development site outside of Rehoboth Beach. He was also a member of the Chamber of Commerce, the Rotary, and the rescue squad. He was certainly invested in the community, so it made sense that he’d know people.

I responded, thanking him for the suggestion, but said I was content where I was. I liked Rehoboth Beach, but I was a Jersey boy. I finished by suggesting we get together after the holidays to catch up.

Well, that wasn’t good enough. Owen called me at work the next morning. It made me smile to hear his voice. He was energetic and upbeat, exactly as he’d been in college. Owen was the most positive person I knew. He was the guy who could brighten a room just by walking into it, and I missed him instantly.

“Rusty! How are you doing, man?” Owen was loud; I’m sure others in the bank heard him.

“Owen, I’m good. How about you?”

“Couldn’t be better. Listen, this position at the mortgage company won’t last long, so you have to contact them today.” His tone was lower and conspiratorial, thank goodness. “That bank doesn’t know what they have in you. You’ll make things happen down here, and I know you love the beach. Besides, rumor has it, you and your girl split. You’ve got nothing keeping you there. This would be perfect for you.”

It was almost creepy how he knew all that. I don’t exactly post my every move on Facebook.

“I’m going to send you a link,” Owen said. “I already talked to my friend, Margaret, at the Lewes Mortgage Company. She’s expecting your resume today. Oh, and one more thing: Send a headshot. Trust me, it’ll help.”

I started to protest but Owen made an excuse and rang off. He was right about everything. I was stagnating in my job, my girl and I split three months ago, and I wasn’t happy. I had nothing holding me back. I looked up the mortgage company; they were local but a fairly big firm. They seemed to have room for advancement. And the office was a few blocks from the beach. Imagine, running to the beach for a quick swim at lunchtime. I’m a nut for the ocean—I love to swim! . . . . . . 

The smile on Ella Evans’s face was small, but Dawn recognized the pure joy in it. The two lifelong friends were browsing the Mercantile Antiques in Lewes, while their husbands were on the golf course. Rarely did either of them buy anything, but the store was Ella’s favorite place to visit whenever they spent the weekend at the Delaware shore. It transported her back in time to her grandmother’s beach house and the fun she and Grandmom Daisy had.

The shop was sort of like a mall, with a score of consignment booths. One booth, toward the back of the store, Ella especially liked. Whenever she entered it, her childhood memories of being in her grandmother’s beach house flooded back. The booth had tall cabinets lining both sides. On the wall at the back hung antique paintings and discolored prints, all placed just like her grandmother’s living room—frame to frame, floor to ceiling. Ella took a deep breath, inhaled the antique air, and closed her eyes.

The first two cabinets held porcelain and glass bowls, teacups, pitchers, and vases. Some were perfect, like new; others were chipped or worn from cleaning, but they were still well-lit and tagged. The last cabinet closest to the art-covered wall was filled with porcelain figurines. There were small hand-painted ones, taller slender ones that looked like dancers, and of course dozens of Hummels.  

Ella sighed and ran a finger over the smooth-painted faces. She took another deep breath. The place smelled musty and old. She inhaled again; the smell took her back to her childhood; she could almost see the figurines dancing across the floor. 

“You should buy this place.” Ella jumped as Dawn elbowed her.

“Right? It’s just like Grandma Daisy’s house.” Ella held out her arms like a game show host directing Dawn’s attention to a stage full of prizes.

“Is your grandmother from here?” Dawn asked. She kept her distance from the displays. Her oversized shoulder bag could wipe out an entire shelf. 

“Rehoboth, but I swear some of this stuff was from her house.” When Ella spoke about her grandmother, her voice seemed to take on a dreamy quality. 

She looked around, her eyes sparkling. She lowered her voice a little as if being secretive. “I loved being at Grandma Daisy’s house. It was the only place I wasn’t scolded for touching things.” 

Ella slowly moved to the next aisle, running a finger over a ruby-red cut crystal vase, then turned back to Dawn. “My grandmother would get down on the floor with me and play with her figurines, like that one there.” She pointed to a porcelain figure of a boy with a basket on his back and an umbrella under his arm, who whistled while skipping. . . . . . .

The sun was merciless, scorching bodies. Like a box of wooden matches being shaken, I was bouncing shoulder to shoulder with a hundred total strangers. There was no shelter, no shade, and no place to hide—and I was loving it! Why? Because the hot guy dancing in front of me, wearing a leopard print skirt and bra, was holding my hands and smiling only at me.

**

Come Monday, summer’s over. Vacation will end and it’ll be time to go back to school. It was the Saturday before Labor Day, our last weekend in Rehoboth Beach. The weather was perfect, just shy of broiling without a cloud in the sky. 

Three girlfriends of mine and I rented a small apartment a block from the beach and we’ve been soaking up the sun for two weeks. We spent every day on the beach, our towels spread out behind our beach chairs, trashy novels on each. We lathered up in sunscreen, made sure our suits were perfect, and tied back our hair. We eyed hot guys who slowed as they ambled past and sometimes even smiled at them. We tanned, waded into the ocean to cool off, and walked up the beach, flirting with lifeguards and surfers. We played it cool—none of us wanted a short summer romance just before college started back up. 

It’s not that we lived too far away to date someone from Rehoboth, but each of us had a summer romance last year and they all ended badly. Even though we had met guys that week, we had a pact to not fall in love this summer. That was until I saw him.

I was stretched out on my beach towel; my friends had gone off for lunch, but I wasn’t hungry. To tell the truth, a moment alone was welcomed. I love my girlfriends, but after two weeks in a small apartment and every day with them on the beach, I needed some alone time. I also needed some sleep; we closed the bars every night that week.

I put my summer romance novel down, closed my eyes, and dozed off. I was just easing into a dream when a sudden burst of cheering broke the spell. I turned to see a group of teens and college kids playing volleyball a few yards away. They’d played a couple of days before and I enjoyed watching them. It was obvious they were close friends; the trash talk among them was hysterical. 

Not long after the game started, a petite high school girl, trying so hard, hit the ball wide. It flew straight at me, hitting the sand inches from my towel and splashing me with sand. I grabbed the ball to toss back, but then noticed a guy come running to collect it. He had jet-black hair, with matching eyes that sparkled in the sun. The only thing that sparkled more was his smile. It was brilliant and he was smiling at me.

I stood and held the ball out to him. He looked to be my age and was maybe an inch or two taller than me. I could have tossed the ball to him, but I wanted to delay his return to the game. As he approached me for the ball, his smile grew even bigger. I couldn’t help but smile back. His smile was infectious. 

“Sorry about that,” he said, pointing at the sand on my legs. “Hey, would you want to play? We need one more to even out the teams.” 

It’s odd seeing Alaric Kinney leaving Santa’s Workshop, the Christmas store on the avenue. It may not sound so odd, but it was the fifth time this summer and it was only the second week of July. 

The other oddity? Since joining the squad six years ago, Alaric’s never been out alone. He’s more than gregarious; he’s a mentor to juniors and a leader to seasoned guards. And he’s hands-down the favorite lifeguard with locals and visitors alike—we have a stack of letters to prove it. 

Since joining, Alaric has soared. He’s always the first to arrive for training, he enters every competition, win or lose, he remembers the children’s names, he befriends vacationers, and rose to the rank of lieutenant—number three on the Rehoboth Beach lifeguard squad. More importantly, he’s the nicest person; he’s polite, thoughtful, and has the warmest heart.

It wasn’t like I was spying on Alaric. Occasionally, my wife and I enjoy a glass of wine out on the balcony in the evening. Our apartment overlooks the hustle and bustle of Rehoboth Avenue and is across from Santa’s Workshop. Alaric’s hard to miss; he’s tall with the blondest hair. 

Normally, on summer evenings—well, except for last year when the beach was closed by the pandemic—you’d find Alaric on the boardwalk or beach surrounded by friends. He’s funny and energetic—contagious, even. But this year, Alaric’s been keeping to himself, as if self-quarantining, which is a problem. He’s vital to squad cohesion.

In his third year on the squad and at the young age of twenty, Alaric started an exercise regimen that changed our entire training program. The semester before that summer, Alaric took classes on proper intensive training and team building. He came to me with the idea of merging his two courses. In one well-thought-out idea, he built a program that formed a cohesive squad while getting each member in shape. He did it with exuberance and passion, making sure even the newest lifeguards felt like an integral part of the squad. He revised and improved the program each year. So, it surprised the chief and me when Alaric relinquished the training program this year to Hannah, the second lieutenant.

Suddenly, Alaric was quiet, distant, and serious. He’s always been serious when it comes to rescue, but not much else. And his distance worried me.

I sighed, watching Alaric leave Santa’s Workshop. He barely looked as he crossed the street, his head was down, hands in his pockets, and his stride was lackluster and aimless. 

**

The squad trained on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at seven AM on the beach. Oftentimes, we split into groups, other times we train as a unit, depending on Alaric’s workout schedule. When the weather is nice, some residents or tourists come to watch. Sometimes, one or two stand close and follow along. Few can keep up with us. The day after seeing him leave Santa’s Workshop, Alaric was late—a first. Had he been running training, it would have garnered the latecomer an added run to Dewey Beach and back.  . . . . . . . . 

“Dude, you’re killing me.” Craig feigned banging his head on the bar. 

It was Wednesday night. Kyle and Craig were seated at the bar at Murphy’s Pub in Baltimore, Maryland. Years ago, the sports bar would have been cloudy with cigarette smoke. The walls still carried the tawny tint. The pub is where the two best friends could be found most Wednesday evenings; the two-for-one pints and five-dollar burgers beat junk food. 

“What?” Kyle, who seemed to be distracted, finished his beer and waved the empty at the bartender. 

“If you mention that name one more time, I swear!” Craig downed his beer and pushed his glass across the bar. “You’ve been whining since Thanksgiving. ‘Sydney this,’ ‘Sydney that,’ ‘Sydney’s perfect,’ and ‘Sydney knew everything.’ If you say it one more time, I’m going to slit one of our throats.”

“I don’t talk about Sydney that much,” Kyle snapped, frowning at Craig.

Craig looked over the top of his glasses at Kyle. “Dude, all you do is wonder where she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with. Would you just call her?”

All through grammar school, Kyle and Craig sat next to each other. In high school, they were in most classes together and they attended the same college. They’d been on just about every sports team together, except track, which Kyle ran his senior year, and wrestling, which Craig signed up for his senior year. And the two friends couldn’t look any more different. Kyle was tall and slim with drawn-out features. Craig was shorter, and though not heavy at all, was round. 

“She said it’ll never work, not with Maddog. The beast never leaves her side.” Kyle planted his elbows on the sticky bar to keep his head from slumping.

“Fine, then move on. You had a great summer with a pretty lady, bask in it.” Craig sipped his beer and surveyed the bar. “Listen, you’re not that ugly. There’s gotta be a girl or two who’d date you.” He laughed.

Kyle huffed and ate the last cold fry from the red plastic wicker basket.

Craig pointed down the bar. “Look, there are two pretty women all by themselves. They obviously don’t have boyfriends and neither has a ring. Go say hello.”

“Sure, I just walk over and say, ‘Hi, Sydney won’t, but would one of you have a drink with me?’” Kyle gulped down beer.

“That’s your opening line? ‘Sydney dumped my ass, would you like a drink?’” Craig smacked his palm to his forehead, closed his eyes, and sighed. “Pathetic!”

“Ugh! I’m going home.” Kyle stood and tossed some cash on the bar. 

Shaking his head, Craig watched his friend lumber out. Kyle moved as if his Vans were made of cement. As soon as Kyle was gone, he raised his eyebrows, picked up his beer, and walked to the end of the bar. “Hi. I’m Craig, . . . . . . . .

For as long as I can remember, on Christmas Eve, my dad was gone before anyone woke and returned home late at night. When I was young, I thought he went to work, too young to know that most people had at least half the day off. 

Every Christmas Eve day, my mom, sister, and I decorated, baked, and made a big lasagna; our traditional Christmas Eve meal. Dad would return home well after it was dark; it was the only day of the year when dinner was served past eight o’clock.

Mom never mentioned that anything was out of place. She’d kiss Dad when he got home, take his coat, and put dinner on the table. Looking back, I remember thinking Dad always looked exhausted. He didn’t move from the table until the dishes were cleared.

When I was twelve or thirteen, I asked Dad where he’d been. He deftly changed the subject. The following year, I had a plan. I got up before him and dressed, keeping as quiet as a Christmas mouse. It was dark; the sunrise wouldn’t happen for an hour. But Dad found me and shuffled me back into bed. He kissed my forehead and pulled the covers over my clothes. 

By the time I was in high school, I was aware he wasn’t going to work on Christmas Eve. His office was closed. Again, I asked my mom, but all she said was, “Your father has a job to do.” I pleaded, but she wouldn’t tell me where he went. She’d smile and tell me to forget it.

My dad was a frugal man, including with his words. When he returned home late on Christmas Eve, he was frugal on steroids. That’s why my guess, which was that Dad had a secret second family, changed to Christmas shopping. Last-minute deals were right up his alley and so I was relieved. But the following year, while Mom and sis were stringing popcorn, I found the Christmas presents already wrapped in her closet. 

When I turned eighteen, I asked my mom again. I thought, as an adult, she’d fess up. But she simply repeated, “Your dad has a job to do.” I pressed her, but like my dad, she said nothing. Was my father involved in something dark or illegal? Maybe some sort of cult? Government project? My imagination ran rampant. 

Or maybe he had a family member in jail and this was his annual visit? But no, Mom just shook her head and told me to move on. 

After graduating college and landing a job close to home, I moved back home—temporarily. That year on Christmas Eve, I rose early and watched from the shadows as he left the house. He carried nothing with him and was in no hurry. He casually got in the car and drove away. My younger sister had been wondering as well, so we pressed Mom yet again, thinking the two of us would make her crack. But no, she kept the secret, insisting we drop it. 

The following year, I got out of bed at three-thirty, dressed, and tiptoed out of the house. I waited in my car until Dad got into his car and pulled away. I followed him for the first block without headlights. He drove a few blocks and pulled into a grocery store parking lot, stopping pretty far from the closed entrance. He didn’t get out of his car as I slowly passed. I drove to the corner and pulled over at the end of the block, watching his car in my side mirror. I saw him get out and walk directly to me.  . . . 

Sure, the shoobies were loving this summer weather, but me and the others were baked. There ain’t been a drop of rain since the fireworks and us lifeguards ain’t had a day off yet. They promised us one day a week but we’re shorthanded, so the boss offered overtime. Everybody agreed, assuming there’d be rainy days, but nothing in four weeks. 

But, mmm, my bad mood changed on Monday. This girl that I saw on Sunday was back on Monday with her family, and she was my kind of girl: pretty, curvy, and confident with a great smile. Usually, I pay no attention to enders, even the pretty ones. Enders are tourists who come to the beach on the weekend or worse, just Saturday. All they do is crowd the beach and break the rules. They’re just shoobies down for the day. And you can tell they’re shoobies, they can’t even walk in the sand barefoot. So there ain’t no use getting to know them. 

But when this girl’s family showed up again on Monday, I knew they were weekers. Now I had time to make my magic happen.

Even better, I’d seen the two little rug rats, her brother and sister, playing by the water. Sometimes the small ones help you meet the pretty sister. But either way, I always keep a keen eye on the small ones. First, I check out the ’rents to see if they are watching out for their small ones. Some ’rents forget they have kids, expecting us lifeguards to babysit. But these ’rents were attentive. I seen them watching when the small ones were splashing in the surf and I appreciate that. 

I’ll keep ’em safe, but sometimes shoobies don’t think right. Like the dope I was whistling in. This weeker floats way far out and pays no attention to the flags. We put ’em there so we can keep everyone in plain sight. 

I waved the blockhead back into the zone a couple of times and finally decided to whistle him in. It pisses me off when I have to whistle someone in. I know they’re here for fun, but it’s my job to keep ’em safe. I was getting angry, but then, as I ran down the beach to whistle at the fool, I saw her again. 

She had beautiful auburn hair that was all shiny and wavy. It bounced like the ponies on the carousel at Funland as she walked. I already told you about her curvy figure, which explained the meaning of an hourglass for me. And, she was prettier than a princess with a perfect smile, which she just gave to me.

I secretly flexed some as I whistled at the fool. Some girls like that. I smiled at her as I walked back to my bench, while telling the weeker why I whistled him in. She turned and walked backward a few steps to keep my smile on her. She smiled back as I reached the lifeguard bench and sent the dope back to his umbrella. I registered, and so I kept turning to see if she was watching me. She was, of course, until she was too far away. 

I’m a cool, laid-back kind of guy. I don’t worry much about my looks. Like my hair, it needs cutting, but I’ve been too busy so I just tie it back. I lift some and run some, but I swim every day, no matter what. And swimming keeps my abs in place. Girls check me out all the time, and I’m okay with that. I think they like what they see.

I ain’t a pushy guy either, nope. If a girl ain’t checking me out, no skin off my chin. But this one looked and we made eyes. When I knew she was looking, I slowly stood up on the footrest of my bench so she could check me all out.  . .

Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!

Something heavy crashed inside the bedroom wall. Logan stopped and listened, even though he wanted, no, needed to continue.

Whomp! Whomp! Whomp!

“Hello?”

The room was dark. Still, he cringed, opening his eyes. He looked around, blinking over and over. He squinted as if that would help him focus. He pressed his palms against his temples, hoping to stop what felt like drilling into his skull. He pressed harder.

“Hello?” the voice asked again.

Logan struggled to get to his feet. He reached around and felt the back of his head. It was damp and sticky. He pressed his sleeve against the gash he’d just made. The warm wetness seeped through his shirt, dampening his wrist.

Slowly, he crept across the darkened room to a bedroom window. The autumn fog seemed to glow from the streetlamp at the far end of the street, but it provided no help identifying the owner of the voice. Logan sneaked to the next window, this time standing to the side as he’d seen people do on TV. He could see no one there.

Logan tiptoed out of the bedroom, crossed the living room, and silently moved down the stairs to the front door of his apartment. He looked out of the peephole. No one. His neighbor’s apartment was dark too. The guy who lived in the first-floor apartment worked the late shift and often stayed at his girlfriend’s place.

Logan had sublet the second-floor apartment from an ex-coworker who disappeared a few days after, along with Logan’s car. He’d taken the cheap place after losing his job, no longer able to afford his apartment a block from the beach. This run-down two-story bungalow was miles from the beach and in a neighborhood with other transients like himself. 

“Great, now I’m hearing voices.” Logan’s voice was hoarse and ragged. He staggered back up to his apartment. Each step amplified the pounding in his head. Flipping on the bedroom light, he saw blood splatters where he had pummeled his head against the wall. The blood had dripped down over an oversized air vent and onto the floor. He knelt at the spot and was focusing on the bloody wall when the pain started stabbing him again. “I can’t even kill myself.” He felt the dampness as he rested his forehead in the dent he’d made. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Just let me die!” He sighed.

“Hello!” The voice was more insistent this time.

Logan snapped up, wincing as he looked around. The voice was muffled as if coming from the other side of the wall, but he lived on the second floor. 

“Who’s there? Leave me alone! Go away!” Logan pressed his temples as he yelled.

“Listen, buddy, nothing could be that bad. Everything can be fixed.” The voice was deep, but with a mothering tone. . . . . . .

“Tell us, Ms. Stanley.” The gray-haired man paused, touching the arm of his eyeglasses to his tongue in a well-rehearsed movement. “How does it feel to be nominated for two Grammys at your…uh, um, at this stage of your career?” 

The New York music critic from TV8 covered half his face with his notepad and prayed the camera was focused on the pop star.

Pamala Stanley sat up straight, her posture perfect from decades of practice. The smile on her face was friendly and never waned. Under the bright studio lights, her amber eyes sparkled like the chocolate diamonds in the broach on her lapel. Her make-up was flawless, her favorite wig sent rivulets of curls tickling her shoulders. She tilted her head ever so slightly, as she did in all her press photos, and grinned.

She let the seasoned interviewer stew for a moment, then responded. “Why, Mr. Carmichael.” Pamala beamed, her polar-white teeth glinting in the bright lights. “No need to be embarrassed. I’m old enough to be the grandmother of some of the other nominees. I’d be happy to answer your question. It feels wonderful at my age to have two songs at the top of the charts. Cher once told me sixty-five is the new thirty-five.” 

The interviewer regained his composure and cleared his throat. “How have you been able to stay on the charts for so many decades? You’ve been called the ultimate diva.”

“To this day, I practice six days a week. I write daily and constantly hound the best songwriters in the business for new songs. More importantly, I listen to my fans. If I didn’t give them what they wanted, I’d be back singing jingles.

“And, Mr. Carmichael, some may call me one, but I’m no diva. I’ve just been here longer than most.” She leaned in, looked directly into the camera, and smiled. “But I do enjoy dressing like one.”

The interviewer laughed and looked down at his pad. “You’re originally from Rehoboth Beach. It’s a shame about this year’s Christmas concert.”

“What?” Pamala turned her head, losing her smile.

“Seems the city choir came down with a bug.” The interviewer held up a photocopy of the Cape Gazette, whose headline read Flu Cripples Choir, Bandstand Concert uncertain. 

Pamala looked around as if unsure of where she was. She couldn’t see past the wall of darkness created by the spotlights. She squinted, looking from side to side.

“Is everything okay, Ms. Stanley?” The interviewer, brow furrowed, leaned in.

“Yes, yes. Sorry. I hadn’t heard about the concert. It’s been ages since I’ve been back home. To my knowledge, the Christmas concert has never been canceled, not even in the snowstorm of 1983.” Pamala forced her smile back in place and fixed her posture. 

“Well, certainly you sang there as a child?”

“Mr. Carmichael, I never had the opportunity. I went away to school before I was old enough. But,” Pamala paused dramatically, “that bandstand is why I’m here today.”

Without making it apparent, Pamala rushed the answers to the rest of the interviewer’s questions and stood as soon as the interviewer thanked her. She reached an arm out into the darkness through the spotlight’s curtain, waving her hand fast. A moment later someone took hold, quickly pulling her away from the cameras.  . . . . . . .

Running on the beach was a first. It was a great way to start my first visit to Rehoboth. I’d heard other runners praise jogging on the beach, now I knew why. It’s hard work but totally worth it. No stubbed toes, no blisters, and the sand felt wonderful between my toes. And even though the sun was full, the breeze off the ocean kept me cool and comfortable. It was the best run of my life, but what happened next was exponentially better. 

It was crazy! I was sitting in the sand, catching my breath, when these two kids came running down the beach and dove into the waves. They couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, and they swam out past the breakers. They bobbed for a few minutes, then suddenly started swimming in like madmen. I watched as both rode the wave in like a surfboard! I was up on my feet, mouth open, eyes wide, and cheering at them. 

I couldn’t resist, I ran and dove right in. The two kids swam back out and looked at me like I was from Mars. I asked them to show me how and they did. It was amazing! 

I bodysurfed until I couldn’t raise an arm to swim anymore. When I dragged myself out of the water, I was stunned by the number of people who had come to the beach. Rehoboth’s beach, as far as the eye could see, was packed. Families, couples, old and young, were blanket to blanket, chair to chair, all facing east like worshipers of the sun god. There had to be hundreds, maybe thousands of people soaking in the sun. But that’s not what I came here for either. 

I hadn’t come for a tan, a run, to bodysurf, or to vacation; I had come to find Alec.

I didn’t know where Alec lived or worked. I had the address of my younger brother’s first apartment, but knew he’d moved more than a year ago. The last time we spoke I was still living in Denver with my father. Alec called to tell me he was moving, but when he found out that our father was listening on the bedroom extension, he stopped talking. All he said was that he was moving in with a friend, but didn’t tell us who or where. 

I didn’t question him, knowing Dad was listening in. If I could feel the tension emanating from our father, Alec certainly could. Alec was usually the cause of that tension, so little more was said. 

Growing up, Alec and I had been close, maybe even best friends. He was two years younger, and as his older brother, I always looked out for him. He’d once been a target of bullying, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. I’d put out the word, anyone messing with Alec would answer to me. 

I know he looked up to me and that made me feel good. But what he may not have known is that I looked up to him even more. Alec was fearless. He didn’t fall in line just because he should; he set his sights on what he wanted and did whatever he could to achieve it. He took the lead role in school plays, always had a solo with the school choir, and was captain of his track team. But the bravest thing he had done was come out to us at fourteen. 

He came out to me first; I wasn’t shocked but still surprised. I warned him about coming out to our parents, Dad mostly, but he did anyway. He made the matter-of-fact announcement at dinner one night, and continued eating like nothing special had been said. That was the last civil conversation my Baptist minister father and brother had. . . . . . . .

“Dad, Dad, look!” Harold jumped and pointed out at the ocean.

“What?” His dad looked up from his paperback.

“A submarine! I saw a periscope!” The boy, maybe fourteen with a bronze tan, jabbed his finger at the horizon.

His dad frowned. “Son, there’s no submarine. The Watchtower Museum has your imagination in overdrive.”

“No, Dad. I saw it, really,” Harold pleaded.

“Like the killer whales yesterday and the hammerhead sharks last week?”

“Daaaaad!” 

“Harold, there’s no periscope.” His dad picked up his novel and leaned back in his beach chair.

Harold looked back. The ocean surface that had just splashed around the dark tube with a reflecting eye was now smooth. With a hand shading his eyes, he stared out to sea. The hammerheads and possibly the killer whales might have been shadows, but shadows didn’t make wakes or reflect the sun.

Later that evening, while his mom fixed dinner, Harold opened his laptop and searched the internet. A submarine, even a US sub off the coast, had to be news. But nothing. There was nothing about it anywhere. 

After dinner, Harold asked if he could ride his bike to his friend Justin’s house. He and Justin met on the beach on the first day of vacation and became instant best friends. Without waiting for a response, he ran out quickly, shouting a promise to be back by dark. He looked back before dropping his father’s binoculars into his basket, praying his dad didn’t go looking for them. 

Pedaling hard down the block, instead of turning right toward Justin’s house, Harold turned left. Five minutes later, he was standing on the beach, his father’s binoculars pressed against his eyes. Harold paced as he scanned the water’s surface. He scanned every inch of the ocean, moving slowly back and forth. He was so focused on the task at hand that he jumped when his phone rang. Sprinting back to the boardwalk, he jumped on his bike and pedaled fast.

“Sorry, Mom. We were in a video battle, and well, you know.” Harold didn’t wait; he ran up to bed.

As he lay in bed halfway to dreaming, submarines kept nudging into his side. He rolled over, but the mattress felt as if a periscope pushed along the length of his back. At dawn, with visions of a beach invasion racing through his mind, he creeped out of bed and down to the kitchen. His parents were still asleep, so he wrote a note telling his mom he went to see the sunrise. He silently eased out of the house and rode off.

The sun was partially up when he arrived at the beach. He raised the binoculars and started at the far left, methodically scanning to his right. When reaching the end, he worked his way back. 

The sun was well over the horizon when he let the binoculars drop, sighing in disappointment. As he dropped to the sand, a young guy with long, sun-bleached hair came walking up. He carried a bright yellow surfboard under one arm. The surfer nodded to him and looked out over the water. 

“Flat.” He dropped his board and sat on it. He pointed to Harold’s binoculars. “Looking for something?” . . . . . . . .

Sahira lunged out, clamping down on Dimitri’s arm as he walked past. She frantically pulled him into the nook beside the bike shop door. Alarmed, Dimitri lost his balance, falling to the side of the building. She pushed him against the wall and out of view.

“Deem, what’s wrong?” She paid no attention to the families and couples who glanced over as they strolled past them.

Realizing who it was, Dimitri stopped fighting and peered around the corner of the building. There was a police car in front of the Night Owl Taproom where they both worked.

“Sahira, I didn’t do anything, I swear.” It was a clement summer afternoon, but Dimitri was sweating as if he’d been at the gym. He studied the worried lines on his friend’s face.

“Damn it! You pulled the Knight of Swords and the Tower card. I told you something was wrong.”

“Nothing was—” Dimitri stopped mid-sentence. He peered around again; a cop was standing at the door to the restaurant.

Sahira frowned at him. He was pale, his eyes darted around, and his shirt was damp in spots. At the young age of twenty-one, still, Dimitri never seemed to get flustered. He was cool yet well-mannered. Even when the restaurant was packed, Dimitri had a smile and swagger in his step. “You’ve never pulled the Knight of Swords. You always pull success cards. I should have stopped you.”

“Sahira, stop. Please!” Dimitri sucked in air. 

“Why are the cops looking for you?” Sahira never took her eyes off him. It looked like she was trying to read his mind.

Dimitri stared at the card reader. Sahira was a woman of indiscriminate age. She had on a royal blue and gold sari and wore a score of silver bracelets that tinkled as she moved. Her dark hair was tied in an elaborate bun, but was frazzled and frayed as if haphazardly done. She was smart and could read people like no one else. She was the most compassionate person Dimitri had ever met. 

Sahira glared back. Dimitri could feel her dark eyes searching his soul. He wondered how much she could see in him.

The two had become close that summer, working at the most popular eatery in Rehoboth Beach. The place was known for humorously titled food, generous drinks, and crazy iridescent painted walls. It was always packed and could be deafeningly loud. Dimitri waited tables and Sahira read tarot cards at a small table in the corner by the bar. It was hard to tell if she had an accent, or if she just spoke a little differently than most. 

For two bucks she pulled a card and gave a one-sentence prediction—not a fortune. A five let you pick a card, ten got you three cards and additional details or warnings, but twenty got you a ten-minute reading. Tourists enjoyed the whimsy and the gypsy costumes, but the Night Owl staff listened intently when pulling a card. Sahira rarely missed and was always ready with advice.  . . . . . .

“Hey, what’s going on?” Janine called out as she entered the small second-story condo. Karl followed close behind, head down and keeping Janine between him and their friends at the table.

There were five others there. Together they had rented a second-floor apartment two blocks from the beach in Rehoboth. Four were sitting at the kitchen table, pulling money from their pockets and tossing it in the center of the table. There had to be twenty bucks in the pile already, and Buddy was still digging in his pocket. 

Fran, who was standing behind Brad, waved Janine and Karl over, grinning. “Brad’s got five bucks that he had the best dream of the week.”

Karl shook his head and turned to leave, but Janine grabbed him, pulling him back into the room.

“Both Ham and Buddy guarantee they’ve got him beat.” Fran laughed, then pointed at the two other boys. “You guys, you have to promise to tell it like it is. No making shit up to win.”

Karl tugged his arm away from Janine and took a step toward the back door. His head was shaking slowly from side to side.

Fran turned back to Janine and Karl. “I got five on Ham, he’s got that wiseass grin.” 

Janine’s grin grew wide as she stepped closer. By the time she reached the table, she was laughing.

Ami, who sat across from Brad, was watching Karl. She squinted at him, then pointed. “Karl, where’re you going? Don’t you want in?”

Excited, Janine pulled up a chair, squeezing in between Buddy and Ham. It was the end of the summer, and fall classes would start the following week. The seven friends had spent the summer shoehorned into a tiny two-bedroom beach rental.

“I’m in!” Janine’s voice was high and excited. “But not on any of your dreams. I’m betting on Karl.”

The six friends turned in unison and stared. Karl instantly turned a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“Karl, you betting on yourself?” Ami asked.

Karl looked at Janine, his eyes pleading. He held his hands in a prayer formation. 

“He’s too embarrassed,” Janine announced, her grin continuing to grow. She reached over for a piece of paper and scribbled two IOU’s, one for her and one for Karl. “Karl had a wet dream on the beach today.”

For a second there was complete and utter silence. But just as fast, the room erupted in laughter. Every person was up, howling, pointing, questioning, and laughing. Speaking over each other they asked what that meant, how could it happen, who saw it. The excitement in the room was the highest it had been all that summer.

Karl took a step toward the bedroom but then spun around. He didn’t want Janine to give them the wrong impression.

“Are you serious? Karl had a wet dream on the beach?” Brad asked. . . . . . . .

I must have fallen asleep; I don’t remember closing my eyes, but I knew I’d been dreaming. Hard to believe anyone can sleep here. The cacophony of beach sounds is loud enough to wake the dead. Crashing waves, cries from opportunistic gulls, and kids laughing and shrieking in glee as they played tag with waves. But all this makes Rehoboth Beach a summer paradise.

It’s hotter now. Earlier, before Mom and Dad went for a walk and before I nodded off, there was a cool ocean breeze. It felt like the wind had kissed the ocean swells and then softly washed over me. Ocean air must be some sort of sleeping potion. But now the sun had shifted and my feet, legs, and left shoulder were no longer hidden beneath the beach umbrella. I consider getting up to shift the umbrella, but maybe a little color wouldn’t be so bad. 

The beach is super-crowded. Families and couples are blanket to blanket for as far as I can see. The family next to our blanket, a mom and dad and three young kids, keep secretly glancing over at me. It’s almost as if they’re keeping an eye on me. I smile at the dad when I catch him the next time—which is fine, I get it. Maybe I should go over to say hello, but decide not to intrude on their fun.

His kids are having a ball playing in the sand; they’re making quite a sandcastle. They have pails and shovels and molds; one boy, he must be six or seven, is the runner. He keeps running back to the surf to fill his bucket while his brother mixes the water with sand and dribbles the sludge into cone-shaped castle drip roofs. I’d love to go sit in the sand with the kids and help them dig. It looks like fun. But I shouldn’t intrude, besides, I’m saving our spot on the beach.

I look up and down the beach: Mom and Dad are nowhere. I turn back to the water. Maybe they’re in the water with Darius. I assume that’s where my friend is. He loves the water. I squint and scan the ocean fast, but no, I can’t find anyone, anywhere. I look back up the beach, then down the beach. My heart rate increases when I can’t find them. I’ve been left alone before, but I always knew where everyone was. Darius was supposed to be swimming. I don’t know where Mom and Dad are. 

My heart goes into overdrive and I can’t help jerking my head around, looking for my parents and Darius. Mom and Dad never swim, so they could be in real trouble? I’m about to jump up and run to alert the lifeguard when I catch sight of a bright green and yellow bathing suit rocketing down the face of a wave. It’s Darius and he’s bodysurfing a six-foot wave.

Darius is a big fella, much bigger than me. He’s two years younger than me but it seems the other way around. He’s tall and strong, and if either Mom or Dad or both were drowning, he could have rescued them for sure. He’s saved me more times than I care to admit. Darius is super-nice. I consider him a friend. We tell each other everything. Well, it’s more like he knows everything about me there is to know. And I memorize everything he tells me about himself.  . . . . . . .

Edgar “Little Eddy” Falco swam as if his life depended on it. He was two hundred feet offshore and swimming into the wind, his arms slapping the water faster than a paddleboat. With every other slap of his right arm, he turned his head out of the water long enough to suck in a lungful of air. As he inhaled, he forced his eyes open, searching the beach. Just about spent, Eddy pushed through the aches and prayed the man on his heels didn’t catch him. 

Little Eddy Falco hadn’t been scheduled to swim in the deciding final relay of the Delmarva Summer Lifeguard Olympic Games, but there he was, pounding the ocean surface with all his might and forcing himself to remember all he’d been taught. If he didn’t keep the lead given to him by the team captain, they’d lose it all. Edgar Falco had never been in this kind of situation. No one had ever counted on him so much before. That was until he met Mateo Veloce, captain of the Rehoboth Beach Lifeguard Olympic Swimmers.

**

When Eddy joined the Rehoboth lifeguard squad in early May, he weighed just over a hundred pounds and couldn’t swim more than a few lengths. He knew he should never have filled out the application; he barely qualified. He was shy, knew no one, and was terrified that someday he might have to save someone. Standing in the line next to the other lifeguards, he was shorter than every other guy and most of the girls. To make things worse, Mateo, tall, strong, and handsome, had made Eddy his very first pick for team Veloce. When Eddy heard his name being called, he stepped back, praying it was a mistake. He shook his head, knowing he’d be a complete disappointment. But Veloce pointed to him and called him over again.

At the May tryouts, Major Salvavidas, manager of the Rehoboth lifeguard squad, selected four team leaders from the returning varsity squad. He had those four select their teams, one by one, from all the returning and first-year lifeguards. Those four teams trained as groups and competed against each other weekly. It was the major’s way to improve training through competition, but still grow camaraderie within the squad. Rebecca Bagnino and Eric Stevens, cocaptains from the previous summer, were automatic leaders. The next two leaders would be the fastest swimmer, strongest rower, or best runner. The four teams trained intensively for the June 30 competition where the winning team’s leader would be that year’s squad captain.

Winning the squad captain’s spot not only gave you bragging rights and the choice of your lifeguard bench and partner, but also added a lot of hard work. That hard work came from Major Salvavidas’s singly focused need to beat the Ocean City, Maryland lifeguard squad at the Delmarva Summer Lifeguard Olympics. The games, held in late August, were supposed to be a fun way to keep the lifeguards in shape, keep communication between the coastal cities open, and garner community support. But Salvavidas didn’t care about any of that, his only concern—beating OC, Ocean City, at any cost.  . . . . . . .

Gerald jabbed his finger at what could be called artwork in a booth at Grove Park. Hanging along the back wall were dozens of dream catchers. They looked like webbed artwork, each unique in shape and size. The feathers attached to the sides fluttered in the morning breeze, making their beads sound like applause and the tiny chimes like bells.

Phillip repositioned his ball cap and huffed.

“You’ve tried everything else; you’ve got nothing to lose.” Gerald shrugged and started toward the booth.

“You aren’t seriously suggesting arts and crafts will help me sleep?” Phillip followed.

Gerald shrugged again. “Nothing else you’ve tried has helped.”

The two widowed friends were on their biweekly Friday visit to the farmers market. They met when Phillip retired and moved into the Rehoboth town house next door. Gerald was thrilled to have someone his age moving in, and even happier that the sour old biddy who reported Gerald to the homeowner’s association weekly was leaving. She once wrote him up for opening his garage door after nine pm. 

The day Phillip moved in, Gerald greeted him with a bottle of champagne and a pizza. The two men had been friends ever since.

“Phil, you look like hell. You’ve got bags under your eyes. When was the last time you slept all night?” 

“You don’t look so good either. Are you not sleeping too?” Phillip didn’t wait. “You really think a spiderweb will work better than pills?”

Gerald stopped and frowned at him. “You sleepwalk on those pills.”

The large tent-covered booth was filled with Native American arts and crafts. The front table displayed moccasins, handwoven baskets, and beaded bags. Behind the table was a half wall of garments, woven blankets, and buckskin shirts. Along the far side, was a long table with glass cases of handmade silver jewelry. Hanging along the back wall near what looked like a genuine tipi, were the dream catchers. Some were small with tiny metal chimes, and others were as large as a window with intricate web designs, beading, rope, and feathers. 

Gerald stopped at the first table and picked up a buckskin shirt. “It’s my grandson’s birthday soon.”

Phillip nodded and trudged to the back wall. He quickly glanced at the dream catchers and selected a saucer-sized one. It had a white web supported by a metal ring, two tiny white feathers, and toothpick-sized chimes dangling from the base. For ten bucks, it would get Gerald off his back. 

Just as he was about to turn to pay, an elderly Native American man ducked and stepped out of the tipi. The man’s face was dark and heavily lined as if sunbaked for decades. His gray braided hair that fell down his back had two long feathers fastened behind his ear. He was dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt with a colorful beaded breastplate. The man studied Phillip as he approached. 

“That will not catch a dream for you. It is a toy.” The man’s heavily accented voice was so deep and authoritative that Phillip took a step back. 

“I don’t know anything about these. My friend said it might help with my bad dreams so I can sleep,” Phillip said,  . . . . . .