A week later, I’m sitting at an umbrella table eating lunch at The Sandbar Restaurant at Holmes Beach, watching the lonely white waves come in, and letting the wind punish my hair.
“Mind if I join you?”
I look up to see a girl in her mid-thirties, tanned, with sun-bleached hair, smiling down at me.
“Of course,” I stammer, “please, be my guest.”
Already, I’m feeling like a jerk—be my guest—who says that? Me—that’s who—I just did—what a klutz.
“I’m in the cottage just down from you—I recognized you and thought I’d take the opportunity to meet you and chat. Are you renting, or are you the new owner?”
She’s incredibly beautiful—I love staring at her like I do the waves.
“Actually, I’m the owner,” I hear myself telling her, as if one part of me is on auto-pilot and the other part just wants to sit and stare.
“So, are you intending to live in the cottage or just use it as a vacation home?”
“I haven’t really made my mind up yet—it’s fully furnished—I really wouldn’t have to touch a thing—it’s perfect.”
“It is,” she smiles.
And so are you, I want to say, but instead I just nod and look out to sea.
“You really love it here, don’t you? I mean, I see you each night at sunset taking a glass of wine down to the beach.”
“Guilty as charged,” I say, and wonder why the hell I said that.
The waitress brings two identical meals—hamburgers, onion rings and vanilla shakes. I look surprised, but the girl laughs, a gentle musical giggle, that reminds me of a glass wind chime.
“I saw you order and asked the waitress to bring me whatever you were having.”
“I hope you weren’t expecting anything exotic,” I say lamely, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
“Oh no, I’m just a country girl at heart—I love simple food—and I like wine with sunsets too.”
She looks directly at me then and I feel everything inside me melt.
I seem to be under a spell—the sun, the wind, the waves—her.
“Well, aren’t you going to eat?” She teases, and again the musical laughter seems to rob me of my senses.
I pick at my food, but honestly, the last thing I want to do is eat. I just want to stare at her—all afternoon, all night and frankly, for the rest of my life.
Fall in love, just once, Cat whispers inside my head.
“You haven’t told me your name,” she giggles.
“It’s Daniel,” I say “and yours?”
Damn! Why did I ask it like that?
“Lucinda,” she smiles. “Oh, I know it sounds so formal—so, you can call me Lucy.”
I feel the wind disorienting me—as if my hearing is lost by the constant shudder of the wind. She seems to sense my distress.
“It’s very windy here—maybe we should walk back to the cottages,” she suggests.
I nod and leave a twenty on the table safely tucked under a milkshake glass.
As we start back up the beach, the wind buffets us, and she leans in and loops her arm around mine.
“Musn’t get blown away,” she laughs.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci has you in her thrall, I muse grimly to myself, and half-believe it, but don’t care.
This is my time to abandon myself to the wind, sand and the sun, come of it what may.