Rooms - James L. Rubart [16]
“Lived here for a little over a year.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, take walks on the beach, read good books, love watching old movies on rainy Saturday nights. And I still run or mountain bike three times a week, even at my age.” Rick stood up straight and pulled his sweatshirt tight against his stomach and smacked it twice with his palm. “Have to fight to keep this thing under control.”
Rick didn’t look like he was rolling in cash and couldn’t be much past fifty. “You’re retired?”
“No, still gotta work for another decade at least. I own the gas station in town. Mostly I bang away on the cars in back while the kids out front pump the gas. We’re one of the few stations that still actually work on folks’ cars. But I get out front every now and then to squeeze out a gallon or two of the octane. Can’t pump your own fuel in Oregon. Gives me a chance to see friends and meet the tourists.” He squinted at Micah. “You haven’t been gassing up in Seaside, have you?” His eyebrows furrowed in a deep, mock frown.
Micah chuckled. “Not anymore.” He glanced at Rick, then turned back to the sheets of rain sweeping over the waves. “Um, when I asked you what you did, I meant . . .” He stopped. It was obvious Rick knew exactly what he’d meant.
Rick dug a trench in the sand with his shoe. “Pretty sad that we define each other by what we do to put bread on the table rather than what makes us come alive.”
Come alive? What was that supposed to mean? It sounded like a line from one of those self-help gurus he was always being subjected to at national software conventions. Micah was silent as the rain continued to hammer the sand in front of the cave. Good thing Rick didn’t ask what made him come alive.
How would he answer the question? No idea. In that moment he realized something inside was very, very dead.
Rick broke the silence first. “So you here on vacation or a new resident?”
“Neither. I inherited a house. I’m kinda blown away. Nine thousand square feet, right on the ocean. I’m here to check it out, check out the area, then get the thing on the market. Should get some decent coin for it.”
“You don’t like it?”
“Love it.” Micah coughed. Where did that come from? He’d never even admitted it to himself.
“But you’re selling it?”
Micah wiped the combined sweat and rain off his forehead. “Probably going to. Haven’t made the final decision yet.”
“Ah.” Rick took off his Windbreaker and tied it around his waist. “It’s a wonderful house.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“If I’m thinking of the right one, I watched it being built. Just a few houses south of Arcadia Beach State Park, right? Finished a month or so ago?”
“That’s the one.”
Rick smiled without a hint of jealousy. Intriguing. Micah had gotten used to those around him smiling on the outside while the green monster of envy inside them snapped at his money and fame.
“I’ve looked forward to meeting the owner.” Rick smiled his massive grin again, his eyes almost disappearing. “Small-town ocean life agreeing with you so far?”
“It’s turned out better than I thought it would.” Micah rubbed his cold arms and gazed at the surf. “Even with this kind of weather.”
Rick nodded. “There’s a saying around here about the beach:
Where ocean breezes storm the soul,
Where love of strife grows quickly old,
Where the touch of God is beheld in power,
Where the spirit finds rest, in its darkest hour.”
Micah wasn’t into poetry, but that one struck a nerve. Rest. Simple word. So elusive. And his hours? They certainly seemed to be moving his spirit toward darkness, thanks to Uncle A.
Silence.
He looked at Rick out of the corner of his eye. There was an intimidating confidence about him, and Micah was never intimidated. He easily spotted people’s insecurities hidden under their posing and posturing. Most of the CEOs he dealt with, no matter their age, were scared little boys inside who covered themselves with a false confidence. Rick? His self-assurance was genuine.
Three minutes later the rain stopped. Rick shook Micah’s hand,