—Michael Ondaat
Cat
My own seaside cottage at Holmes Beach on Ana Maria Island—it seemed a dream come true.
When Harry phoned me with the news my offer to purchase was accepted, I was over the moon with joy. Of course, I’d have to wait for a lull in business, before I could go down and spend a few weeks by the shore.
Tom Eaton, my partner, thought it an excellent opportunity for me to get entirely out of publishing and write.
“Frankly,” he reminded me, “the publishing trade is a failing enterprise”. He paused and arched an eyebrow as if expecting my objection. When I raised none, he went on: “vintage houses like ours are slowly going the way of the dinosaur, and isn’t that just the case?”
Tom had a number of quirks and I had no idea why he ever partnered with me, but we made our share of money over the years and I wasn’t worried in the least if the bottom eventually fell out. Mind you, that’s me—I’m a dreamy romantic, in love with the Thirties and rainy days and sappy romances like The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.
Cat—that’s Kate Eaton, his wife—well anyway, Cat and I are on the same wavelength and watch all those old films. I call her Cat because she has these amazing green eyes that remind me of Kim Novak in Bell, Book & Candle—actually, she looks like her—purrs like her too, but don’t get me wrong. I’m a confirmed forty-year old bachelor and will probably stay that way until I die. Subject to change, if I meet the right girl.
Cat thinks it’s a wonderful idea—just the thought of sitting on the shore with a glass of wine at sunset, or sitting on the porch during rainstorms. That’s right—she’s a hopeless romantic like me and wants nothing more than for me then to finally meet Mrs. Right.
“She’s out there, you know, waiting in the mist,” she purrs, eyes staring off into space. I can almost see her, the girl of my dreams, but I’m as likely to end up with Mrs. Muir as Mrs. Right—in other words, it’s not happening anytime soon, if ever at all.
But just thinking about Gene Tierney makes me misty eyed—all those black and white vistas of her walking by the sea—it’s enough to make me mad with longing for a life that will never be.
About six months later, things slow down—it’s the worst November Tom and I can ever recall. He suggests—no, actually ‘orders’ me to go south.
“Go to the Island—put your feet up—enjoy those Gulf breezes,” he intones.
“Go Daniel—fall in love, just once in your life,” Cat whispers, as if it were a real possibility.
Mind you, looking into her lovely face and the far off look in her eyes, I half-believe it too—but then, I am a hopeless romantic—more hopeless than romantic, I concede.