It didn't occur to me at first that she was in danger. I was combing the beach for seashells (depending on the size and shape, I could get as much as $2 a shell--then a friend would slap a nickel's worth of paint on them and sell them for $10 to $20 in his stand on tourist row). I was a long way from tourist row when I saw her. It was a more remote stretch of beach, where the rich vacationed in their condos. Most of them were time-share and it was late in the season--so very few of the beach-houses were occupied. The developer paid me to do some grounds keeping and generally look after the properties. It always seemed strange to me that the rich vacated around Labor Day, like crabs scurrying after the tide, because the fall and winter are the best seasons here. 

I had just found a nice shell, a banded kitten's-paw, and was admiring its worth when I noticed her, maybe 150 yards away: khaki shorts and a black swimsuit top, a straw hat and canvas beach shoes. She looked tall and thin, but she may have been quite small. Her legs were lean and muscular. She had some color but she obviously wasn't here for the sun. A blonde ponytail hung down from her straw hat, and she was carrying something in her hand--maybe a camera. I thought of her as being a girl but she may have been close to forty: a youthful, beautiful forty. 

She had used a series of stones, many of which are completely submerged at hightide, to reach a large rock in the bay. Waves beat at the rock; they must have been soaking her shoes and spraying her taut legs. 

Perhaps she was staying at the beach-house alone; perhaps a friend was helping her to get over a messy divorce and had given her the keys for some solitude and quiet reflection. Perhaps she had come to the cape to put the finishing touches on a novel or book of poetry. 

Perhaps one day around sunset I would be drinking a beer from a six-pack I had bought up the road. Out walking on the beach, maybe she would join me, and I would gather some driftwood and make a fire. I would admire her smile and her bare shoulders in the crimson glow of the firelight. She would laugh at my stories--eighteen years of life on the beach. She would say I should write them down, they'd make a wonderful book. 

Perhaps I would give her my denim shirt because I knew she was cold in spite of the nice fire. Thanks, she would say while she wrapped it around herself more like a blanket than a shirt. Perhaps I'd comment on the shapes I could see in the rising moon and she would say that she could see them too. Perhaps we would do all we could to not take those last swallows of beer; but ultimately we would. I'd help her up from the sand and she'd offer me my shirt. I would tell her to keep it, maybe I'd see her tomorrow night. All right, she would say, with a schoolgirl smile. 

Perhaps I would stand for a long time watching her walk back to her beach-house holding her sandals by their straps and keeping my shirt gathered at her neck. 

Perhaps she didn't know how deep the water was; perhaps she didn't understand about the undertow. Suddenly a giant wave reared up from the sea, like the hand of an angry god, and washed her from the rock. I dropped the kitten's-paw I'd been admiring and sprinted up the beach. The three shells in the mesh bag tied to my belt clinked against my leg. I called to her. I ran into the surf until it reached my waist. I felt the cold pull of the undertow. 

Far out, I saw her straw hat bucking on the sea. 

I needed to call for help. The nearest house was hers, so I ran until I came to the wooden steps, which I took two at a time. They led me up to her deck. There was a book spread pages down on the arm of an Adirondack chair--as if she was only leaving it for a moment. The French doors were unlocked so I let myself in. It smelled as she must have smelled: honey and jasmine and talcum powder. The living room was neat except for a folded towel on the back of the sofa and an empty coffee cup on the glass-top endtable. 

Next to the cup was the base for the cordless phone but the phone itself was not there. I looked about the room. I followed the hall to the master bedroom. The bed was haphazardly made; a disheveled newspaper lay upon it, as did the telephone. 

I called 911 and told them what had happened and gave them the address. As I spoke to the police dispatcher, I noticed a desk on the opposite side of the room. There was a computer on the desk, and books, and various sheets and scraps of paper; three yellow Post-It notes were adhered to the computer monitor, which was in sleep mode. 

When I finished talking I put the phone down and went to the desk. They were old books, like library books, and the papers were filled with scribbled words. The lighting in the room was low and I couldn't read the papers by just glancing down at them. I touched return on the keyboard and the monitor came back to life. The screen too was full of words. My eye caught a phrase: a beach with sand like satin. I reached into my mesh bag and took out the nicest shell I had, an alabaster moon, then I placed it on a stack of papers. 

I had to go wait for the police. I noticed that I had tracked into the house; it didn't matter--the hardwood floors were made to withstand sand and seawater. My sandal prints showed everywhere I had been. When I came to the kitchen's entryway I stopped . . . I slipped off my sandals and walked barefoot toward the refrigerator. I checked and I was leaving no prints on the floor. I opened the refrigerator; it was sparsely stocked. There was drinking water and a grape fruit, a quart of skim milk, some packages of meat wrapped in white butcher's paper--and a half drunk bottle of chardonnay that had been recorked. I even looked in the crispers to make certain: but there was no beer. 

I went back to my sandals and pulled them on. I would go down to the beach and point out the spot for the police, who probably would do nothing more than stare at the sea and wait patiently for the tide to return the woman to them. 

And to me. 

"An Alabaster Moon" originally appeared in PANK #3.