I love you oh so madly
But I don't stand a ghost of a chance with you
—Victor Young, Ned Washington, Bing Crosby
I’ve met a beautiful mysterious girl in Florida and already I’m enthralled.
My friend Cat suggested I get away to a romantic locale and fall in love for once in my life.
I took her advice and it looks like her plan is beginning to work, but ironically, there is an ominous-looking storm gathering at sea as we make our way toward our tiny enclave of cottages.
“I don’t think you’ll be toasting the sunset tonight,” the girl remarks and points to a squall heading our way.
We barely make it home before the first black drops begin splattering the paved road leading up from the beach.
“Come inside, and get out of the rain,” she suggests. “You’ll get soaked even walking the short distance to your place.”
I don’t need encouraging. She sits me down on her porch swing with a towel to dry my hair while she goes inside to change.
A few minutes later, she’s back, hair tied up in a colorful scarf and wearing a black cutout sundress with wide straps. She’s brought two glasses of cab sav and sits down beside me on the roofed wooden verandah, smiling at the storm.
Don’t you just love elementals?” she enthuses.
I nod and stare. I am enthralled with the rain—lost in the mist—lost in her.
It seems as if I’m being absorbed into the misty distances when I gaze into her eyes.
She talks about elementals, but doesn’t realize she is one herself.
I could listen to her whisper and gaze into her face for the rest of my days.
"And what happened then?" Cat stares at me, concerned.
I realize I’ve been staring off into space trying to make sense of what happened.
I raise my hands and let them fall in a gesture of futility. “I have absolutely no idea,” I confess.
It's been a week since my experience with the girl and Cat and I are sitting in The Coffee Mill in a chic part of downtown Toronto and the thought of Florida is just a misty blur.
“Do you think you were drugged?” she asks.
“I don’t know—maybe—I have no idea. But then, to what purpose? Nothing was stolen.”
“And nobody in the cottages knew about the woman?”
I feel a fool.
In my mind, I’m again staring at the dilapidated shack I thought was a Craftsman’s Cottage from the Thirties.
“It’s bizarre, Daniel. Why don’t you take a few weeks off? —Tom would understand.”
“Tell Tom? Not on your life—I already feel humiliated—but more than that, I feel stupid—you know, really dumb.”
She gets a fierce look in her eyes. “You are not dumb, Daniel Gregg—you’re one of the sweetest, most romantic men I know—and if you’re dumb, what does that make me?”
“A hopeless romantic like me, I guess.” I smile weakly.
She gazes at me compassionately, and we both look out the window and watch the rain.
“On the plus side,” she purrs, “You fell in love for once in your life.”