A Cosmic Kind of Love(12)

    You got it.





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?Four hours later, I was jogging down Lily Pond Lane, a tree-lined street in East Hampton. Hedges that had grown high for privacy hid the beautiful homes, while towering trees spaced sporadically along the street offered even more shelter from prying eyes.

The sun was bright in the midday sky, casting shadows from the tree branches, like delicate lacework across the road in front of my feet.

It was two miles from the train station at East Hampton to my aunt Richelle’s house on the beach. I’d jogged it in fifteen minutes, enjoying the sweat that beaded across my skin, the heat in my muscles as my feet pounded concrete. This was much nicer than jogging in the city.

But I’d had to take a train at Penn Station, and it had taken two hours to get here.

I did not know what had driven me to jog to the train station. I just knew that when I stepped out of my apartment building, instead of turning left, I turned right. Jogging past the Chrysler and the Empire State Buildings, I suddenly was at Penn, waiting on the next train that would take me to the Hamptons.

Turning right, down a lane that led toward the beach, I realized how much I’d missed this kind of peace away from the frenetic energy of the city. When I was on the ISS, I’d gotten used to the quiet, the distance from human society. But human noise was also the thing I’d grown to crave by the second to last month of the mission.

Funny how the grass was always greener.

My aunt lived at the end of this lane, her house right on the beach, her back lawn having direct access to the sand. It was a moderate-sized (for the Hamptons) four-bedroom home with a swimming pool. Too big for one person, really, but my aunt was once a big deal in the art world. She and my mom were both extremely creative, and while Mom channeled it into interior design, Aunt Richelle was passionate about her painting. Aunt Richelle said her own success was partly finding the right gallery, the right patron, at the right time.

Aunt Richelle bought the Hampton beach house years ago because she said it fed her artist’s soul. While her paintings weren’t as sought-after as they once were, my aunt really didn’t seem to care. The money from those earlier years had set her up nicely, and she assured me she had all she needed.

I could understand why this was the place she decided to live as I drew to a stop outside the double-door front entrance, breathing in the sea air.

There was no answer when I knocked, so I pulled my cell out of the back of my jogging pants and called her.

She answered on the third ring.

I couldn’t remember a time when Aunt Richelle hadn’t answered when I called her.

“How are you, sweetheart?” she asked without preamble.

“Well, I’m currently standing outside your front door wondering why no one is answering. Are you out?”

“Are you here?” Her voice rose an octave with excitement.

I grinned. “Yeah, that’s what I just said. I’m here.”

“I’m on the beach with Bandit. Let yourself in. I’ll be five minutes.”

Eyes narrowed, I tried the handle on her front door and it opened. “Aunt Richelle, you leave your door open?” I stepped inside the cool home, irritated and concerned.

“Nothing ever happens here.”

“Until it does. Promise me, from now on you’ll lock your doors.” My voice was hard as I moved through the open hallway and staircase into the main living area. A large kitchen, dining area, and living space all looked out on the yard through bifold doors. The sea glimmered beneath the sun beyond the lawn.

Aunt Richelle sighed. “Okay, I promise. Help yourself to a beer. And I just baked a fresh batch of banana bread and cookies.”

“I adore you.” My stomach growled at the thought of my aunt’s famous banana bread.

She laughed, and the line went quiet.

I didn’t care. I was already on a mission.

By the time Aunt Richelle returned to the house, I’d eaten two slices of banana bread. I was nursing a bottle of ice-cold beer when she burst through the doors and got hip-checked by Bandit, who tore past her as soon as he saw me.

Bandit was a large white Old English sheepdog named for the unusual black patches of fur across both of his eyes.

“Jesus.” I had just put my glass down safely before Bandit launched his big hairy body at me. “Hey, boy.” I laughed, lifting my chin to avoid his kisses. I gave him a rubdown as he barked and panted with joy.

“Okay, Bandit, out of the way, out of the way.” Aunt Richelle pulled him gently by the collar out from between us so she could envelop me in a hug.

“I’m sweaty—” I tried to say, but it was too late.

“I don’t care.” She huffed, squeezing me tight.

I returned her embrace, inhaling her familiar scent with a sense of relief as I lifted her off her feet.

Aunt Richelle giggled like a little girl, and I chuckled, finally releasing her.

She pulled back to clasp my face, and she looked so much like my mother, I felt a sharp twist in my chest. “So what brings you here . . .” She glanced down at my attire. “No luggage?”

I shook my head. “Honestly, I don’t know how I got here. I went out for a jog, and the next thing I know I’m on a train to you.”

I felt her scrutiny for about two seconds before she said, “You have clothes in your room if you need to change. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”