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RAINY DAY PEOPLE
By Susan C. Haley Robert J. Delany Infinity Publishing
Copyright © 2005 Susan C. Haley
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7414-2874-5
Chapter One
DO YOU BELIEVE IN RAINBOWS?
Sunday dawned warm, covered with a radiant sky, as was common in April. It was the kind of day that demanded coffee and a read by the shore. Grabbing the book purchased the day before, her thoughts drifted back to the unsettling occurrence at the bookstore.
Still not understanding her reaction to the stranger who shared an interest in Bach, she now felt embarrassed at her fumbling in his presence. What he must have thought at such behavior. Dismissing it, she stuffed a Ziploc bag with Cheerios and headed out the door deciding to walk to the small park by the jetty instead of driving.
Approaching the beach, she saw him. He was sitting on the bench, her bench, surrounded by fluttering seagulls. Instead of the previous irritation felt at the bookstore, an unexplained excitement came over her. But quickly, the embarrassment returned.
"Maybe I should just go somewhere else," she wondered out loud. "Aww, hell, it is my bench and there is an empty other half."
She smiled a greeting as she sat on the vacant portion of the seat where he sat throwing crumbs to the hovering, aggressive gulls. Definitely a tourist, she thought, but herheart sensed an animal lover and her embarrassment was replaced with a feeling of camaraderie. "Good thing you're wearing that cap."
"Don't you people ever feed these poor critters?" He sort of chuckled in that deep voice of his, not looking at her. It seemed as if he knew it was her.
"Just happened to bring their dessert," she answered, pulling the Cheerios from her book bag. Their eyes met again, but this time she didn't look down. Both then turned away and continued to feed the ever-ravenous gulls, remaining strangely aware of the other's presence.
"They never fill up, you know," she said, breaking the silence. He nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the birds. Hesitating, she turned toward him, "Mind if I ask you a question?"
"Yes, but you will anyway." He glanced at her, waiting for a reaction.
"True," she said, smiling to break the ice. He turned back and tossed a bread crumb into the air and one of the gulls caught it on the uptake. "Do you believe in rainbows?"
He was silent for a long moment. "What kind of question is that? Don't you want to know who I am, if I'm married or not, what I do for a living? You know, the usual questions women ask."
"Not really. I just wanted to know if you believe in rainbows."
"Maybe," was his answer, but his tone said otherwise.
"Okay." Rising, she threw all the Cheerios to the birds at once, then turned and walked away without another word.
Almost reluctantly, he watched her go and then turned back to the gulls who were busily eating the crumbs she'd left, and ignoring him. Bothered, he stood and looked to see where she'd gone.
She walked quickly, afraid that if she didn't he might call her back. Or, afraid he wouldn't. She didn't know what she was thinking anymore since this man had so abruptly entered her life, invaded her solitude and loneliness, yet added to it by his unfriendliness. She didn't know, and right now didn't care. She wanted only to get away from him.
She followed the path through the Sea Grapes that would block her view, not wanting to give in to the temptation to look back. Where the trail opened back into the parking lot, she quickened her steps. And there he was, blocking her escape. It startled her. "Oh! Dammit!"
"Sorry," he answered somewhat sheepishly. "I cut across to catch up. Didn't mean to scare you."
She backed away, angry now. "Who are you, anyway? You're ruder than hell to me in the bookstore, then aloof to my simple question. Now you scare the wits out of me."
At this, a slight smile formed on his lips. "I'd say you were the rude one, bumping into me in the store like that. You damn near knocked me over."
"What? Why, it was you who...." She stopped. He was grinning now, an obvious joke on his part, and she'd missed it. Unable to stop herself, she began to smile. They both said the same word at the same time.
"Sorry."
She laughed, he chuckled, both slightly self-conscious. There was a long pause as each fumbled, not knowing what to say next.
"I wanted to tell you something," he finally said, his tone sincere now. "I never talk to strangers. Becoming a habit, I suppose. Maybe it comes with aging, getting cantankerous, I mean."
She guessed him to be not much older than herself, but his face said he was older. It was deeply lined, as if permanently tanned at one time, but more like he'd seen too much too soon, lived too hard, too fast. Or felt too much, maybe.
This is crazy, she thought. He's nothing like.... She stopped, afraid of what she was thinking, then answered, "Neither do I."
"But, you talked to me," he said with a curious tone. "Just now."
She had to admit he was right. She'd been the one to start the conversation.
"But, somehow it's as if you're not a stranger," he continued. "I get this almost eerie feeling I know you, that we've met before."
"Maybe," she said, now playing his game.
"Say, could we just do this over?" he said. I feel responsible for screwing up your plans." He glanced at her book bag. "Here, I mean."
"No, it's not your fault. It was me that interrupted you, and I really must go now." She wanted to go home. She needed time to sort out this strange feeling coming over her.
Stepping aside so she could go on, he said, "I hear coffee and sunsets go well together."
She pretended not to hear him and kept walking.
"I like vanilla in mine," he called after her.
"Vanilla, huh?" she said, but didn't look back. Instead, looking at her watch and continuing on.
He watched her walk away and then turned back toward the flock of gulls, wondering at his feeling of attraction to this woman. Was it because she was so different than most he'd known? Or, had he known her for a long, long time? He made a mental note about the time of sunset.
Walking home, Amber regretted her decision not to drive to the jetty park. The sun was hotter now and she was eager to get home into the cool solitude that had become her haven. Her reaction to this man, this strange encounter, was unsettling. Something rumbled underneath the surface of it all and she couldn't put her finger on it. It wasn't your typical movie plot, lonely woman meets handsome man, stomach ties in knots, and romance bursts forth from bud to flower, kind of a thing for sure. No, it was something much deeper than that, almost as he'd said, eerie.
She opened the door to the rush of cool air in the house and let it soothe her flushed face. The grove of old trees overhead was a canopy of shade, keeping the house comfortable as well as private, and how glad she was now she'd insisted on the trees staying when the house was built.
Kicking off her shoes, she walked over and pushed a CD into the player and threw herself on the couch. She felt safe here, safe in the solitude and the music. Music was to her ears what flowers were to her eyes. Peace.
Pondering the events of the last couple days would come easier now. In the two years since Jeff had passed, she'd pondered much on the workings of the scheme of life, its purpose and meaning. The pain endured then, the pangs since, had forced her to look at things differently in his absence. She no longer held a surface view of life. Now, she was aware of the subtleties, the shadows, not just the apparent. Oh, how she missed him. How often she wondered if they'd ever meet again.
Of one thing she'd become certain, to pay close attention to reactions within herself as they were usually revelations of higher things. The something rumbling deep inside, the intuition, was often more profound than the situation that triggered it. And this man had, indeed, triggered a reaction that she hadn't felt in a long while. It scared and intrigued her at the same time.
She sensed the stranger was as much in the dark about his own reaction to her. She found herself looking forward to the possibility of seeing and talking to him again, exploring this new feeling no matter her previous insecurity. She wouldn't run away again. Sunset, did he say? How did he know sunset was her favorite time of day?
Ben returned to his son's apartment thinking about the encounter. She's odd but interesting, he had to admit. Not many interested him anymore. He wondered at her age. She certainly made no excuses ... no makeup, lipstick, or fake eyelashes. She was dressed simply in sandals, shorts and a halter-like top. Her skin was as bronze as her auburn hair. What you saw was what you got, and he liked honesty. The only flamboyance he'd spotted was the gold of her toe rings.
"Hi, Dad," the voice said, breaking into his thoughts. He looked up to see his son entering the room.
"Oh, hi, son. Hope I didn't wake you. You know me and my weird sleeping patterns."
Still only half awake, the younger man went to the coffeepot and began to make coffee. "Nah. Slept like a log. Where'd you go, out to eat?"
The small talk continued. He told him of sitting and feeding the birds, but left out the part about the woman, not knowing how his son might take it. Since the divorce years past and his growing up without him, he wasn't really sure where he stood with this boy. Boy? He's already in his thirties; why am I still calling him a boy? But he knew. Children would always be children to their parents, and parents always parents to their children.
The divorce had been ugly and he knew his son had been affected. Would, perhaps, always be affected. It was part of the reason for his being here in Florida now, to somehow, some way, see if he could right what had gone so wrong long ago. Yet, in the few days since his arrival, no opening seemed to present itself and he felt awkward and sensed his son did as well.
There had been the visits over the years, the birthday and Christmas gifts, the phone calls and letters. But they were always initiated by him, not the other way around, so he knew there was hurt there, and probably resentment. Still, he had to try and he didn't even know why he did, but he did.
"Working today?" he asked. He'd forgotten what day it was, but didn't want to admit it. No, he didn't like getting old, older, as he called it. It meant there were spaces of time, chunks, out of his life that he couldn't re-do and he regretted it deeply. Time that should have been spent while the boy was growing into a man.
"Uh-huh," the young man answered, "and I'll be late tonight as well. Will you be okay? Being alone in a burg like this, I mean?"
He had to laugh at his son's innocence. Alone? He'd always been alone. "Oh sure. I always find things to do. I walk the beach, go to bookstores, read, rob banks, armored cars, and old ladies' purses. You have to be careful with those purses. Most have Mace or a .45 inside."
The boy laughed and that made him happy. There was more small talk and then, like young men everywhere, he was out the door on his way to work. The closing of the door felt like the closing of a tomb.
What the hell am I trying to prove, he wondered. The kid's got his own life now, so why am I trying to get back in when I wasn't in before? Where was I when he was a teen? Off doing my thing. And when he was in his twenties? Off finding myself. What crap, he thought angrily. How much I lost out over all this ... this shit. How I wish now I'd never gone to the Coast. How I wish I had stayed home and grown up with my son.
He thought of all the wasted years, the endless ups and downs of his life, and the god-awful people he'd met in his travels because of it. And he wondered why it had turned out this way, since it was the opposite of all his plans and dreams when his son was born.
But he knew why. Alcoholism. The same alcoholism that had ruined his parents' lives had ruined his as well. It had taken him from airline pilot to the bars and dashed all his dreams. It had taken him into divorce court and losing it all, and then sent him away, far away from his family. It had carried him on its broad and ugly back into the world of publishing, to fame of sorts, to Hollywood. The gold and the glitter. What bullshit.
And through it all, through the bars, the women, the endless financial and health problems, somehow he thought he was still doing the right thing. That, one day, all would be right in his world again. The Great Lie, it's called in certain circles.
But someday never came and now he was angry and disillusioned. Angry at himself, disillusioned with the world. Money? What did that mean to him now compared to his losses? Here he was approaching the autumn of his life sitting in a one-horse town a continent away from his home, trying to fix things with his son. To recoup some of his losses, or perhaps, to assuage his guilt. And it wasn't working. He could feel it. He'd beaten the booze, he'd managed to escape the clutches of La-La Land with some semblance of his sanity intact, but what good was it doing him?
His thoughts drifted back to the woman and why she had come into his life now, and this bothered him, too. Another groupie out for herself? Another one night stand? He'd come to rewrite an important chapter in his book of life, and found instead another about to open. He knew it. He knew because he knew life now and he knew himself.
Yet, there was something different about her. A sort of sadness of her own, a worldliness to her that asked what she was doing here, in this burg, instead of in one of the world's capitals. And something deeper. It was the "something deeper" that intrigued him most. No, this was no groupie, no ordinary woman, for that matter. Hell, she might be an angel for all I know. Or a demon.
Whatever she was, whoever she was, she had his attention, no doubt about it. He looked at his watch and wondered what time sundown arrived on this coast. Then he made his mind up not to meet her, picked up his new book and began to read.
Chapter Two
CRAZY AS A LOON, HE SAID
Pouring the coffee into the thermos and remembering she had to stop for a container of vanilla cream, Amber grabbed ice from the freezer and broke it into the small Igloo cooler. She plucked a small cluster of grapes from the fruit bowl and laid them on the cubes and on impulse, tossed some cookies into a Ziploc and put them in, too. If nothing else, the gulls would enjoy them, she thought absentmindedly.
Stuffing the thermos, cups, and spoons in her book bag, she looked around to see if she was forgetting anything. Satisfied, she changed into fresh jeans and a sweater and quickly braided her long hair. It was a beautiful evening, perfect for putting the top down and feeling the wind in her face.
The drive over was pleasant. Spotting a parking place exactly where they'd parted earlier that morning, she smiled to herself. Never a front row at sunset, why tonight? Coincidence? No, she didn't believe in coincidence. And look, a vacant picnic table sitting at the edge of the sand facing the sea. The sun was beginning its fall into the water, and suddenly, she wished she'd thought to bring a table cloth.
His voice from behind startled her. "You drive that thing or fly it?"
She turned around to see him standing there, watching her. "Fly it when I can," she answered with a smile.
She got out of the car, reached into the back seat and lifted the bag and the cooler at the same time. He made no move to help her.
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she headed for the table not waiting to see if he followed, assuming he would as he was, after all, there. "Rude bastard," she whispered just beyond earshot, but found herself amused. She brushed the sand off the table, emptied her bag, and started to pour coffee in her cup without looking up. She felt him walk up behind her. He reached over and placed the other cup next to hers.
"Not too heavy on the vanilla," he said, moving around her.
"Vanilla? What vanilla?" She could play the game too.
"This vanilla." He grinned, opened the cooler, and removed the container.
Feigning annoyance, she grabbed the creamer from him, poured his cup a quarter full and topped it off with coffee. "Suppose you want a cookie, too?"
"Well, I sure don't want one of those grapes," he said with mock distaste.
She handed him the coffee and the Ziploc. "Help yourself," she said, moving around the table to sit facing the sun. She watched from the corner of her eye as he sipped his coffee, his eyes not on her but on the Gulf.
"So, what's brought you to our little South Florida beach town? You don't strike me as a tourist in the real sense of the word. Course, we're all tourists in that sense, the real sense."
"I'm visiting my son for a few days." The tourist remark caused him to turn toward her.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from RAINY DAY PEOPLE by Susan C. Haley Robert J. Delany Copyright © 2005 by Susan C. Haley. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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