About fifty yards down the beach two children were playing in the moderate surf, watched over by a woman in a wheelchair and a large black maid. There was a lavender parasol above the wheelchair and a Chinese kite tail hanging from it fluttered in the wind. A group of sanderlings skittered by narrowly avoiding each wave wash, at which point they dashed after the receding water, pecking in the sand for marine organisms. A shudder of absolute peace swept over him but only briefly. He wanted to go swimming, but where would he put his billfold? Not impossible. He undressed down to his bathing suit and backed slowly into the water, glancing seaward with an obtuse desire for direction. With a little wit, problems could be solved. Then his heel caught on a coral outcropping and he tripped, grasping wildly at the air for a handhold. Oh well. Hopefully too shallow for sharks. He surfaced, feeling foolish without witnesses, and rubbed the salt water from his face, momentarily disoriented. Where the fuck is the land? There it is, with my clothes on it. Then there was a truly memorable chorus of screams from down the beach. The black maid was struggling with the wheelchair which had tipped over and the two children were running in noisy circles.

Warlock reached them in no time flat, wallowing out of the water and breaking into a sprint. The maid wept along with the little girl while the boy stood there whitefaced, trying to figure out the situation. One of the wheels had slipped off the walkway. Warlock knelt by the woman as she laughed and struggled to her elbows. He brushed sand from her face and sandy colored hair. Her white nightie was twisted around her body and her afghan had slipped to her knees revealing a bare bottom that had few equals on earth.

“May I help?”

“I should hope you can. You could right the chair and lift me into it. Or carry me up the walk. Or cover any exposed parts.” She was still laughing. “Hannah, Jeanette! Stop crying or mother’s going to shoot you. Leighton, get the wheelchair on the walk.”

“Righto.” Warlock reached down her body and straightened her nightie, which was semitransparent, so he pulled the afghan up over her bottom.

“You don’t have to be tender. Please just get me out of this goddamn sandbox.”

He lifted her easily and, liking the feeling, carried her up the walkway and into a garden surrounding a swimming pool.

“Here’s okay.” She gestured to a chaise longue. He laid her gently down and made a perhaps unnecessarily prolonged attempt to straighten her nightie and afghan. He had avoided looking into her eyes, not wanting to trip.

“There you are. I better get back. I left my billfold in my trousers.” He looked into her eyes and felt a blush rise. She was onto his lame but excusable nursing efforts.