“So, here you are,” she laughed—her mouth a dark shadow in the somber light.
I regretted telling Claire the story of my life—she’d use it against me one day I was sure. But we had been lovers, and something was required of me, but whatever it was, she wanted more.
But what did I want? I wasn’t sure. Maybe the same thing that had drawn me here to the Gulf—an elemental—‘a thunderstorm in your hand,’ she joked.
Perhaps, she was right, but something else as well—something intangible and elusive as a naked arm of lightning against a night cloud. Now, that was elusive—something I could never hold in my hand at all.
As for Claire and I, we were definitely winding down, ending inevitably, not dramatically, but gradually, as a candle guttering out. Was it ennui, familiarity, or a dearth of real passion?
Once again, I could never really be sure of anything at all.
I saw her less and less frequently, until finally, one sunny day she showed up at my porch, a pitcher of margaritas in her hands, and we talked it out
“It hasn’t worked for us, has it, Richard?”
I couldn’t lie, “No, I’m afraid it hasn’t worked out at all.”
“Can we still be friends?” she asked it in her little girl voice she knew disarmed me.
“I don’t see why not—we both like margaritas.”
And so we were friends and saw each other now and then, with no uncomfortable silence between us.
And life could have gone on like that—an artist living by the sea – only thirty and never married – a sequestered man who bought the weathered cottage on a whim and now lives there with a cat named Gizmo and a heron named Harry.
It could have gone on like that for eternity for all I knew—swearing off women, vowing to live for my art—shallow and shortsighted as all vows are, but the very next day it came undone.
“A hurricane’s coming, Richard,” Claire shouted, “We’re too close to the sea and need to go inland.”
“You go, I’m staying. If it gets bad I’ll take shelter in the old light house out on the point.”
“Are you crazy? They say that place is haunted, and I’m not sure those crumbling walls can withstand a storm surge.”
“I’ll be fine—we’ll be fine,” I reassured her, gesturing to Gizmo on the porch chair and Harry in the sand.
She just shook her head and handed me a phone number. “It’s my sister’s place in Sarasota—if you change your mind, you can always come—she owns a big bed and breakfast and it’s off season—lots of room.”
I smiled benignly, but she ignored my bravado and hugged me, burying her face in my shoulder and clinging tightly. When she eventually let go, she turned and walked away without looking back.
I shouted goodbye over the wind, but I don’t think she heard me.
That night was filled with shrieks and howling. I brought Harry inside and we all hunkered down.
The following day, the storm seemed to abate and I took my easel out to the painter’s shelter I built on the beach.
I love storms but they seldom ever last long enough for me to capture their essence – so I decided to take advantage of the hurricane to paint as I prefer—out in the elements.
I was awed by the power of the waves crashing and the branch lightning over the sea. I was so preoccupied I didn’t notice the girl who appeared beside me, until she spoke to me.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” she asked.
I turned and saw a bikini-clad girl in her late twenties.
“It is,” I said, more in reference to her than the storm. She had the face of a mermaid you see carved on the prow of a ship, and the same long, flowing tawny hair.
“Aren’t you afraid to be out in this weather?” she smiled.
“I might ask you the same thing. Do you live around here?”
“I do, and I’m not afraid of the elements—I like weather like this.”
I smiled back at her and offered my hand, “Richard Collins,” I said.
She held my hand and I felt a wave of longing sweep through me. I felt all the sadness of sea and sky in her touch.
She stared at me.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“You can call me Elle,” she smirked, as if amused by my formality.
I figured she was one of the free-spirited girls I often saw out riding the waves with their surfer boyfriends—all with bodies like Greek gods, tanned and comfortable to be clothed with the sun.
But she wasn’t tanned and barely clothed and already was shivering, steepling her fingers and holding them to her lips, while water dripped off the ends of her hair.
“You’re trembling,” I said, “ you need to come inside the house and get warm.”
She nodded, and so I quickly gathered up my things and we walked back to the weathered cottage that seemed to be listing in the wind.
The house was listing, the sky was threatening and my lovely mermaid was cold and trembling. There were enough storm signals to deter the most obstinate man.
But then, I opted to stay and outface an elemental. If I cared to think about it, the odds of things turning out well did not look promising.