...

We fell into a predictable arrangement once we arrived in Galveston. Girls on beach chairs, lathered up with sunscreen and trying to prematurely age our skin in the name of beauty; guys down by the water, inventing new ways of playing Frisbee. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath; I love the smell of salt water, and today that earthy aroma was joined by the smell of charcoal, burgers, and that unmistakeably summery and cocunuty scent of sunscreen. Laughter drifted across the wet, salty breeze, and the sound of the surf began to lull me into a stupor.

Eventually, my rumbling stomach responded loudly to the burgers on the grill, causing me to finally open my eyes and check on their progress. As I stood up and stretched, I took in the picture: Tod manning the grill; Kathleen arguing with him about a movie they’d seen last week; Grant and Maria listening with their arms wrapped around each other, despite of the heat; Peter and Phil standing close by, listening to a story told animatedly by a tall blonde guy

Wait a second.

I walked over to the group.

“You’re new,” I said with a smile. “I’m Gia.”

“Grace of God.”

“Excuse me?!” his comment startled me, but he just laughed, deep grooves appearing around his green eyes.

“It’s what your name means,” he explained. “Grace of God. It was my grandmother’s name.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to look like I wasn't thinking 'weird' -- which I was. “But you don’t look Italian.”

“My grandfather was German. "

Phil finally stepped into what was turning into a very odd first conversation. “This is John,” he said. “We met him down by the water; he’s been camping out for a few days.”

“Cool,” I said. “Where are you from?”

It wasn’t a hard question, I thought, but he took his time answering.

“Nowhere really. I grew up in New York state. But now, I’m not really from anywhere.”

“So what do you do?”

“Little bit of a lot of things. I’ve built houses, painted houses, cleaned boats, mowed lawns, waited tables, loaded moving trucks, demolished buildings. I was just telling these guys about the time I house sat for three months Alaska.”

“What?!”

He laughed again. It was a nice laugh. Made you want to laugh along. “This couple was getting ready to go visit family in the lower 48 and were going to be gone for three months. I was eating breakfast a diner and heard them talking about it to the cook. They said they hadn’t been able to find anyone to watch their house, and were worried about wild animals or squatters if the place appeared too abandoned. I offered to live there while they were gone.”
“And you didn’t know them,” I said in disbelief.

“I guess I have a trusting face,” he replied. “Plus, they figured I couldn’t do anything worse than the wild animals or squatters. This way, if it worked out they came out ahead, if it didn’t they weren’t any worse off.”

I shook my head. “Unbelievable.”

“It really was.” Yeah. That wasn’t what I’d meant.

“Burgers are ready,” Tod called, holding up a full plate. I took the opportunity of activity to study John a bit more. His hair was long and bleached, pulled back into a ponytail; his skin was bronzed and weathered, and his body had that lean but strong look -- like a long-distance runner, or this cross-country skier I dated once. I watched him laughing and joking with Maria and Grant as they loaded their buns, and marveled at how at ease he seemed with a group of total strangers.

The Beginning

Kathleen always says that if you can't feel the air, then it's not summer. In July, in Houston, it's always summer.

It was one of many weekend trips to Galveston, maybe not an award-winning beach, but it was our beach. And like Tod says, you don't need powder-white beaches and turquoise water to grill hamburgers and drink beer. Or play Frisbee and football and get a tan.
When we hit the Gulf Coast freeway at 10 a.m. on the dot, the sun was already a golden ball of fire, the temperature hovering just below 90 degrees. I was driving my S-10, Tod's beat-up charcoal grill strapped down in the back with a couple of hand-me down coolers. Peter rode shotgun while everyone else followed in Maria's Civic. It was the first time I'd seen Peter in about two weeks and after several minutes of silence I said so.
He shrugged. "I've been around. Where have you been? Avoiding me, perhaps?"
"No, that was six months ago. Keep up."
His dark sunglasses hid his eyes. More silence.
"Do we have to listen to this crap?"
"The Eagles are not crap."
"Whatever," he said, leaning over to look under my seat. "Do you have any other CDs in here?"
"Sure." I pulled the case from underneath my side of the bench seat and handed it to him. "But you always put up with them before."
"Yeah, when we were dating."
Not much to say to that; but the words only felt like they brushed up against my bruised heart, rather than full-on attack. I was pleased enough at the progress to ignore the fact that Tod had taken over my CD player.
"So, I'm guessing a new girlfriend?" I said, wondering as I did why I kept harping on the subject.
"Do we have to talk about this?" he asked.
"Peter!" I said, my radar buzzing at his avoidance. "Are you spending time with the Millers again?"
"Last time I checked, I don't think it's any of your business anymore who I spend my time with and what I do every night." his voice hardened with each word.
"So yes, then." Why couldn't I let this go?
Peter sighed, his tense body easing slightly, but not relaxing. "Gia, let's not okay? I'm tired and this..." he gestured between us, "...just makes me more tired. We're friends and we're with friends, headed to the beach. So could we just not? For today?"
I nodded and we sat and I wondered why we couldn't have a normal conversation and why he'd jumped in my truck anyway.

something different

Well, friends. Originally, I began this blog as an experiement in keeping in touch with friends, but it seems that I'm a pretty inconsistent blogger :) I think I'm as effective at staying in touch with "old-fashioned" email as I am with blogging. So, I've decided to try and adjust my use of this blog. Background: I am an undisciplined writer (some might argue that that makes me a non-writer, but I'm going for optimism here) who wants to be a consistent, "writing" writer. So I'm going to try a little exercise: turn this blog into a story, reminiscent of old-fashioned magazine serials. We'll see how it goes! The first installment may take a week or two to go online, so be patient but stay tuned.