AN: Its that time of year down here...
Wet Sand
Autumn is perfect for beach walks. The sun sets earlier these days, and Jack can feel echoes, vague, vague echoes of Colorado here. Not in the salty air or wet sand beneath his feet…but in the cooling evenings, the colours the aged sunlight turns the sky, the turning leaves as fall sets in (though no one calls it that here).
Ahead, Shan strolls through the surf, unconcerned and bare legged to the knee, watching as Hellie toddles before her. The little girl looks faintly ridiculous in her big wooly jacket and bare feet. Jack smiles.
Beside him, Homer, the big slob, is lolloping along as though he's doing them all a great favour by coming out for a walk with them. He ruins the image by pausing to wheeze every so often. He had been given to them merely middle aged, but somewhere along the line had become fat and middle aged. Jack strongly suspected both Sam and Hellie of slipping him tidbits.
Speaking of the Sam…
He looks to the left. Three meters up the beach she walks parallel to the shell band, a pouch made out of Jack's bandana in one hand while she holds the other poised at her side. Sharp blue eyes scan back and forward across the sand, a small smile playing on her lips.
As the sun falls, the light with it, it touches the shells, picking out the tiny perfect ones polished by sand and ocean. Brittle, wafer-thin scallop shells gleaming flesh-pink, apricot, pearl and cream. Burnished periwinkles, each a perfect pink, silver and lilac spiral. Green-lipped muscle shells with purple backs and brilliant rainbowed insides.
Each one of these and many others go into the bandana, and every time she finds one, it's a tiny triumph, a gift. Each time Sam collects a shell, Jack collects a smile. Some watchful part of him that he often denies having knows that she never really got time like this as a kid (the first time anyway). Ever-moving military brat that she was, he doubts the number of beaches she got to collect shells on.
With a squeal and a gasp of laughter, Hellie comes tripping back down the beach to get them and Homer goes to meet her with a hoof-oofing bark. Sam crouches low for Hellie and carefully opens the bandana to show her the treasure trove. Sunlight glides in again, picks at the gold of her hair, the warm flush in her cheeks from the crisp air. Jack loves the tang on the breeze suddenly, the wet sand beneath his feet, the icy tide threatening his ankles…he loves the shape of her smile which has always been the thing that's bound his heartstrings.
And yes, he realizes he's become a hopeless romantic in his (young) old age.
But isn't that the best part? After all, autumn is perfect for beach walks…