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He saw the cottage, a proud slate roof from the last century. The stonework weathered silver subsiding into angles in a bed of lichen-smeared rock. Bushy hedges bristled on the windswept remote isle. The stone cottage whitewashed against the pewter sky. The saltbox cottage stood with weathered shingles against stripped blown trees. Two hours ago, when she called on the phone about selling, sharp crackling jolts of static kept her crying to a murmur over the line. His voice creaked like oarlocks straining above the bay’s tempest. She needed to sell her home. His unpacked trunk rode in the back seat, garlanded with yellow travel stickers. A scarred leather attache bounced with all the paperwork. He feared nothing, and she felt a failure, once. The water chopped from the cold wind. Rocky Graziano sat in his car with the engine-running, heater full blast while the ferry slammed through the seething white roil of waves. The island thrust a craggy face into the hostile boiling waters. The rain spattered up, moving a scrim spray over an opaque windshield. The pitch of the deck lulled him with hazy light.
The bottom of the bay dropped into a tangle of spars and timbers, memories of ships wracking hundreds of years. Lobstermen dragged lines in the tangles of swirls and foam. The island bloomed refulgent slabs of granite all seasons. Crosscurrents swallowed the ancient sorrow of the drowned many. The moaning ferryboat deposited him on a road pockmarked and lined with yellow scruffy moss. The pulsing hard driven rain sheathed the car and ran slick over the pavement. It gleamed like the sea beyond. Rocky Graziano parked under a gnarled oak, marched up the stone steps sanded smooth by the grim gales. The steel skies spread out the bay in a graceful arc. His feet felt the fortress of the rock island. He banged the brass knocker on the front door.
Her body squeezed into a luminous silk dress, and a hand pressed lips in a flurry of painted nails and tears. The flagstone entry framed by oak walls lead into a main hallway. Museum bronze art mounted the mantel while the fireplace rumbled. A cream colored cat curled up on a hearthrug. Two lamps, their shades thin as skin, glowed over the overstuffed leather couch. Her figure flexed the silken wrap while lounging down into the pillows. Light through the windows hazed through like concrete, like shale, the whole room hardened into its sediments. Something tumultuous moved between them that he failed to understand. The shifting gray deep hinted a catch of breath, forbidden and emotionally wrought.
“Missed you about ten years, but not too late,” her hand touched his, a scintillating arc passed between them. A shorebird cried far away. The creep of the wind and surf hushed her other words. “You okay? I mean, you know, you are not at fault for his death. I understand why you feel so much despair here,” he smelled the sweet heat rising from her. Pulling her into him, everything new and soft, no bones to her body. Then, the lightening split the night, flashing endless futures as the past faded. Aspirin scorched stomachs eased while heartthrobs went to their toes. In the dead of night, they left by the ferry smiling into the darkness. Swept away from the rock for good. The deal consummated at a handsome price, he only margined a few of his stocks. Long ago never brought inspiration such as this. He knew that he never failed at anything, ever. Even when he went down, he wondered who moved the floor.
Joseph de Beauchamp can be reached at joedebo@wfnn.info
