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“I need to give you something to work toward.”
Time for another detour, this time to the park. I pull into the loop that surrounds the grassy stretches and the playground.
“This isn’t the beach,” Layla says, looking around at the houses on all sides.
I don’t bother answering, but go over the first speed bump at eighteen miles an hour. Layla once again catches air before her seatbelt brings her down.
The next speed bump is a hundred yards away. We go over ten in the next two minutes as I drive around the park. Layla’s in the air more than the seat, and she can hardly breathe from laughing. It’s worth wrecking the van’s suspension. I’ll happily pay the rental company whatever it costs to replace.
By the time we exit the park, her head is on the back of the seat and she’s huffing in air.
“Okay, okay,” she gasps. “Ten out of ten. I definitely recommend your chauffeur services.”
“We can go around again if you’re not sure.”
“I’m sure. In fact, twelve out of ten. I’ll tell all my friends.”
“I expect to be well paid.”
“Noted.”
When we get to Long Sands Beach, I pull up to the curb to park. From the sidewalk, it’s two steps to the sand. The beach is a mile and a half long, but it’s only one hundred feet wide. This early on a winter morning, there aren’t any people out.
I open the passenger sliding door for Layla. She hops out and pats her stomach.
“I feel like I’ve already had my workout. I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in a long time.”
“If you’re not up for a run, I can always take you back to the cabin.”
“Not if you can’t catch me.” She runs into the sand, her arms stretched out from her sides. She doesn’t make it far before she stops to take off her shoes and socks.
I come up beside her. “Do I need to remind you it’s winter? You’re going to catch a cold.”
It’s much chillier and windier on the beach than I expected. I’m regretting not taking her running through the tree lined neighborhood where houses act as wind barriers. I prefer cold weather to hot, but this is downright frigid.
“It’s worth it,” Layla responds. “I love running barefoot on the beach. And this way I won’t get sand in my socks. Come on. Take your shoes off.”
“It’s winter,” I reiterate.
She shrugs, her lips pursed in a way that makes me think she’s trying not to laugh. “I didn’t take you for a wimp.”
That’s a taunt I can’t ignore. I toe off my shoes and socks and Layla gives a cheer and jazz hands.
The tide is coming in so we run close to the surf where the sand is hard from waves. I’m a gentleman and run between her and the water. She is not a lady and keeps nudging me closer to the surf. At times the water comes up the shore farther than I expect and gets the side of my feet. It’s freezing and I can’t help but yelp.
Layla laughs.
“That’s not funny,” I say. “It’s cold.”
“It can be cold and funny.” She raises her arms and waves at the sky. “Besides, who says I’m laughing at you? The sun is up, and it’s a beautiful morning. It’s the eve of my favorite day of the year.”
I could get addicted to her enthusiasm for life. It reminds me of when she plays the piano for the residents at Brock Pine. Her love of music is contagious, just like her joy at being alive this morning. A few icy waves will not sweep away the grin that takes up residence on my face.
When we reach the end of the beach where the sand gives way to rock, we turn and head back the way we came. I move once again closer to the water, as if it’s a road and I’m a barrier between her and oncoming traffic. She speeds up to pass me and swaps me places.
Fine by me. Brady said that a gentleman listens to a lady. My toes are frozen anyway.
At the last half-mile, she runs purposefully through the surf until the hem of her running pants are wet. She doesn’t care about the cold which makes me feel like a pansy for complaining earlier.
