Strands of her hair and tendrils of wind
spin into nothingness memories of that day...
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 publishing 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 going. 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 my meeting a girl is 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 for me than to finally meet Mrs. Right.
“She’s out there, you know, waiting in the mist,” she purrs, eyes staring off into space, but I have my doubts.
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.
But 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.
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 phrase 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 two twenties 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.
“I don’t think you’ll be toasting the sunset tonight,” she 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 colourful 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 swing, 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.
"And what happened then?" Cat stares at me, concerned.
I raise my hands and let them fall in a gesture of futility. “I have absolutely no idea,” I confess.
We’re sitting in the Coffee Mill in the chic part of downtown Toronto and the thought of Florida 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 knows 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 smiles 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.”
