Vanished in the Dunes Read Online Free

skin is remarkably smooth, as if she is newborn, her natural pink lips full to bursting. There is eye makeup and her brows are neat and dark, but he sees no other artificiality. He hesitates for words. He has rarely engaged a woman like this, but it is all frivolous and Sara is, frankly, not here to think otherwise. He suddenly enjoys the opportunity to relax.
    â€œI thought you got off at a later stop,” she says.
    â€œI did, but I needed to shop,” he answers and pulls the shopping bag upward.
    She ignores his bag, saying, “Can you show me the beach?” She is almost so direct that he nearly winces.
    All he can think to say is, “If you want to see the beach, you can take a taxi, or I guess I can drop you there.”
    â€œThat’s good,” she says without hesitation, yet even before the last words leave his mouth he realizes that a line has been crossed. He has left an opening, and a part of him, that piece of brain housing genetic material that determines conscience, hopes she declines. He has never been unfaithful to his wife, nor even considered it, despite Sara’s recent illusions. Yet this woman whom he now admits to himself looks exotically attractive does nothing to dispel this thought as she accepts the invitation.
    â€œThat sounds great.” She reiterates her approval. “Thank you.”
    She replaces the top on her soup container and carefully lowers it together with the plastic spoon, wedge of bread, and napkin into a bag that matches his. He stands and directs her to the rear lot and into his car.
    â€œIt’s chilly here,” she says from the bench at the very back of the beach, only steps from where he parked. He has taken her to Atlantic Avenue Beach in Amagansett. There are no other cars, the unseasonable cool keeps everyone away save a couple dressed in yellow rain slickers standing near the water, tossing shells into the breakers.
    She holds her cup of soup, which she says is too spicy, but nevertheless she eats greedily. In the short drive from where they met, introductions are exchanged. Her name is Heidi Kashani.
    â€œI know Heidi is not a common American name,” she says, “but it is very normal in Austria.”
    He agrees and tells her that he likes the name and that it makeshim think of green meadows and snow-covered mountains and
The Sound of Music.
Her English is very formal, almost precise. He asks her how long she’s been in New York.
    â€œIt will be two years next October. I have one more year of residency left. Then I will probably move to California, perhaps to Los Angeles. I am tired of cold winters.”
    He concurs with her weather analysis, but avoids noting his own disdain for Los Angeles. Some people love it there, yet her speech is so formal and L.A. so laid back that he finds it hard to picture her in such a place.
    She begins to shiver and they agree to head back to the car. She’s right, he thinks. If a fifty-degree day drives her indoors, it’s time to live somewhere else.
    â€œWould you take my picture before we go?” she asks as they stand, but it is more a statement of fact, a command as if she is the one who lives here, and he the visitor. She pulls a camera phone from her bag and shows him where to press for the digital photo. She stands several feet away, the water some hundred feet behind her, a turbulent boil with white froth in the far background. He snaps a photo and she checks it. He has caught a broad, white smile, enhanced by an overhead midday sun.
    â€œNow you,” she says. “If you give me your e-mail address, I’ll send it to you.”
    He reluctantly moves from the bench and hands her the camera phone. He has never liked posing, but agrees. He stands with his feet spread and his arms akimbo. He tries to smile and feels relief when the shot is taken. She shows him the image, an olive-complexioned, dark-haired middle-aged man in a white button-down long-sleeved shirt