Nereids and Neptune (standard:romance, 3146 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Aug 04 2006	Views/Reads: 3594/2360	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The first draft of this story (1st chapter) has already been posted. This is the second draft of the same opening. I'm happy to hear thoughts on editing stories and how different writers go about it.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“Well...” she teases, spreading her arms upwards and dipping her hip in
model fashion, “worth the wait?” She smiles radiantly, blue eyes 
twinkling, the kind of blue never found in a sky. 

His eyes and arms tell her all she wants to know. 

“You're sure you want this, Tom,” she asks, fingering his blond curls,
“we're not doing this just for me, right? I know how your heart, your 
spirit, and your soul live on this island.” 

“Hey, com'on,” he responds cheerfully, “it'll be nice to leave the
island and still call somewhere home. I'm all for it, it was a great 
idea, honey.” 

Even so, Suzie knows in her heart it will be difficult for him. 

“We'll never leave it; Tobermoray, I mean. The island will always be our
real home.” She promises. 

He pulls her in snugly. 

“It's in my blood, and it's in yours, but still, we need to do this.” 

She runs her index finger under his chin and kisses his mouth. 

“Just know, anywhere you are, that's my home. I love you.” 

“Okay, everything's in the car. California here we come!” He says,
fearing her tenderness will keep them from catching the ferry. 

Their first early evening California moon, wearing a gold mask, sails
eerily through a universe of faraway stars heading for the treetops, 
its buttery path shimmering on the wild watery wilderness. Stones 
crunch under tyres as he gently brings the car to a halt at the back of 
their new home overlooking the Pacific Ocean. 

Tom leant across and kissed her cheek. 

“Welcome home.” He says, softly. 

“Is this really ours...all this.” She replies, her voice trembling
delight. 

“Yep, I give it to you. Suzie, please accept the Pacific Ocean as a
token of my love...oh, and the house of course!” 

Her eyes dance over the priceless brilliance, tears of joy glinting on
her cheek, speechless to talk about the beauty before her. 

“Do you think, at night, the moon misses the sun?” He asks. 

“Not as much as I miss you when you go away.” She replies, turning to
touch his face and rest her head on his shoulder. 

“This is a new start, Suzie. That part of my life is finished.” 

The moon's August blushes, Suzie's death, are things he had no control
over.  Unaware how long he's sat in the car, or how many times he's 
swept away the wetness of recalling, he finally enters the house and 
flicks a light switch, then again, and then in quick succession before 
muttering a profanity. He moves uneasily, kicking the leg of a chair, a 
moment that immediately transports him back to the frequent times when 
they both sat bathed in candlelight. A penalty willingly paid for 
living remotely. 

He stands motionless; letting his imagination smell the woman he loved,
picking out the scent of her, the warm and sweet smell of lotions and 
perfumes. 

Somewhere close by are candles, and as his eyes accept the darkness he
goes there. It was just like her to think that candles and matches 
should hang out together. He lights a wick, waits a few moments and 
tips hot wax onto the table, standing the candle in its midst. The 
wheat-yellow walls flicker with light; familiar shapes heighten and 
hurt his senses. He sits on a chair, rests his arms on the table, 
lowers his head, and weeps uncontrollably. 

Katherine Robinson lifts the hood of the rented Mercury and looks
inside, but for what reason she doesn't quite know. It's an engine, and 
right now it's sick. She knows this because the last ten miles of 
coastline have been travelled at little more than walking pace, 
culminating in a complete stop when the car's engine suddenly choked 
and died. 

A scarlet dawn is breaking over the hills, bringing with it a sliver of
silver brilliance. Without hesitation she fumbles in her bag, lying on 
the passenger seat, and pulls out a black Canon EOS digital camera. In 
a flurry of activity she clambers out of the car, checks her settings, 
adjusts the exposure for a sky opening, frames the shot and takes the 
picture. It's a perfect moment. Red hair tied back in a ponytail, she 
takes a long look at the car, deciding that fate has played its part 
and checks her cell phone for a signal. There isn't one. There hasn't 
been a signal for the last fifty twisting miles. A road sign indicated 
that Mendocino I a couple of miles back indicated that Mendocino is 
twelve miles farther. She ponders, pulls her bag from the car, and 
kicks the door shut. 

When Magnus Ferguson, chief editor of National Geographic, finally got
in touch with Katherine Robinson she was in Alaska finishing a six 
month photographic assignment, starting from Point Hope, on the shores 
of the Chukchi Sea, and travelling the breadth of Canada by dogsled, 
following Brookes Range toward Tuktoyaktuk on the shores of the Arctic 
Ocean. 

“How much longer will you be in Alaska,” he asks. 

“Perhaps three weeks, I want to capture the midnight light north of
Brooke's Range, it will help people understand the dynamics and the 
beauty of polar light. Then I'll be moving on toward Tuktoyaktuk. I 
want shots of polar bears, and the bearded seals.” 

“Okay, but August third you have to be in San Francisco. The John
Gutmann Fellowship has recognized your work. You've been nominated to 
receive an award. Congratulations. You'll be there for your birthday!” 

“I guess so. Well, that's wonderful, Magnus, I appreciate you letting me
know.” 

Katherine Robinson heads off down the road. Offshore a thin purple haze
hangs like a velvet curtain below a sky that is opening from its 
corners. 

Tom Champion, feeling drunkenness, wakes and stares at two empty wine
bottles on the table. Rubbing the back of his neck and stretching his 
arms wide, his yawn stinks of merlot. He makes an exit out of the door, 
stares to the horizon, and pees over a shrub of wild buckwheat. 

“Good morning!” 

The sudden shock of hearing a feminine voice catches him midstream, not
daring to turn and fumbling for dignity. The woman, suddenly aware, 
shrinks back. 

“Oh, hell...er... I'm so sorry!” She blurts out, turning her head away. 

Tom zips up smartly, too smartly, resulting in a squeal of pain. He
resists looking down at the damage; blood trickling onto his finger, 
and shelters his manhood from the now distraught woman. 

“Who the hell are you?” He growls, biting his lip. 

Katherine is reluctant to look anywhere but at the ground behind her. 

“Really, I'm terribly sorry, my car broke down a couple of miles up the
road. I didn't mean to...er...” Katherine Robinson is seldom lost for 
words but on this occasion cannot think what to say next...though, ‘can 
I help you' crosses her mind.  “...my name is Katherine Robinson.” 

“Well, Katherine Robinson,” he says, knees tightly clamped, not wanting
to release the zipper while attempting to disguise the excruciating 
pain. If you don't mind I'd like you to leave immediately.” 

“Of course...should I can call an ambulance?” 

“Madam, I may be a little inebriated, and clearly in some distress, but
nothing worthy of your concern. Please leave.” 

“Yes...sorry. Goodbye, I hope you can forgive me.” 

“You're forgiven, GO!” 

Katherine Robinson hurries away, not turning back, the sharp stones
hurting her feet through the thin soles of her shoes. She wouldn't 
ordinarily leave a sick animal; especially one caught up in barbed 
wire, but hearing the English accent's haughtiness, lets an impish grin 
cross her mouth. ‘Serves him the hell right,' she mutters. 

Tom Champion was fourteen the last time he'd caught himself in a zipper.
He remembers that momentary flash of pain, which, he considers, was the 
cost of wisdom. Now, twenty years on, that collected wisdom has let him 
down. He has, he considers, two options, up or down, and either one 
will inflict more acute agony. He closes his eyes, prays for direction, 
and tugs. 

The offshore sea haze, a hoary veil of wetness, creeps stealthily over
rocks, slithering up and over the cliffs, covering shrubs in a silvery 
wet film. Its suddenness shades the early sun's heat with its 
nondescript silence. Its powdery wetness alighting on Katherine's 
eyelids, like a dream happening right before her eyes; a dream so 
swift, so soft and intense all it needs, she imagines, is the advent of 
a funeral barge. She snatches her camera from its case, pulls at the 
band holding her ponytail, releasing the long tresses that fall like 
wild flowers about her shoulders, and busily sets about framing and 
organizing the shots she wants to capture.  Minute by minute the light 
is changing; haze becomes fog, and then haze again, illuminated on high 
and running away from the ubiquitous gum trees that lean inland, 
momentarily shrouded in mourning. The bank of wetness mantles the 
harmonic elevations, opening new shot to her lens...a lens that is 
suddenly and mysteriously filled with the shape of a man. A startled 
screech leaves Katherine's throat. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” She yells, trembling with shock.  “You scared
the shit out of me.” 

“I came to apologise...you know, for my behaviour back at the house and
offer to take a look at your car, or at least run you into town.” 

“Apologise or get your own back?” She snaps, trying to find some
composure. “I'll be fine.” 

Tom Champion, nods, turns, and walks away. 

“...Unless...unless you could give me five minutes to finish up here.”
She calls after him. 

Tom Hesitates his stride, thinks for a moment and without turning back
to face her answers. “Sure.” 

The long silence is breached only by the motor action of her camera and
the shriek of enquiring gulls. Tom sits facing the house watching the 
sea fog scurry in and absorbing its shape for long moments. His look is 
distant. Katherine observes him out of the corner of her eye. 

“How long have you lived there?” she asks bluntly, motioning the camera
she holds in both hands in that direction. 

“Maybe I'm in the way here,” he responds curtly, already wandering away.


Katherine, feeling his discomfort, continues to point and click. 

Tom makes his way to the car, left a hundred yards away. Minutes later
he sees her approaching. 

“It's so hard to leave this place, it's beautiful.” She says, turning in
circles with her arms outstretched. 

“Yes. Beautiful. Which way is your car?” He asks abruptly. 

“That way.”  She says, raising an arm. 

“Okay, let's take a look.” 

For a minute or two nothing is said, his head still pounding from a
hangover. 

“How long have you lived here?” Katherine asks, eyes scanning the
rapidly changing scenery, and with a gentler tone. 

“Awhile...how much farther?” 

“Let's see...I probably walked two or three miles.” 

“Must have been tough going in those shoes.” 

“I was hardly expecting to walk.” She replies, looking down at them. 

“I don't think little feet in expensive shoes ever walk very far in this
kind of terrain.” 

“Is that so? And what do you base that masculine assumption on?” 

“Well, for one, seeing you walk. It's merely an observation, not a
scientific fact.” 

“It's a scientific fact that a man who zips himself up too quickly, not
taking great care, can find himself walking weirdly himself. Doesn't 
mean he walks that way all the time.” 

Tom Champion lets a smile light his eyes. 

“Touché! So, what brings you to these parts?” 

“I'm on my way to San Francisco.” 

“Not the most direct route.” He says, surprised. 

“I'm booked in at a Mendocino hotel for the night.”  She responds,
offering no more information. “If you don't mind me saying,” she 
continues, “your home is in a dream location.” 

“We should see your car real soon.” 

Katherine feels distanced, irked by his ego, yet at the same time
considers him kindly, strong, with good-looking features... too good 
looking, she thinks, like an artist has chiselled the perfect bone 
structure for a jaw. Intelligent blue eyes, soft and deep, and with 
wheat textured hair worn scruffy over the collar of his crumpled shirt. 
The third finger on his left hand is adorned with gold. Such a man does 
not walk alone in the world, she knows. 

“Oh, there, the blue Mercury.” She calls out, pointing her finger. 

Tom laughs aloud, and it feels good. With only one car abandoned on the
side of the road. It hardly warrants a description. 

“You're sure...blue, we don't want to be fixin' someone else's car?” He
jokes, bringing the car to a halt. 

She grins sardonically, opens the door and leaps out. 

“I'll release the hood.” She yells. 

It springs off its catch and Tom releases the safety, checking in the
engine compartment for any obvious complaints. He sees nothing that 
indicates what the problem is. 

“Turn the key, let's see if there's any sign of life.” 

Katherine turns the key. Birds, less courageous than gulls, scatter as
the engine whirs and backfires.” 

“Well, it's terminal for sure. I'll drive you into town. The local
garage will tow it for you. Do you have luggage?” 

Katherine goes to the trunk and struggles with a large suitcase. 

“Better let me get that for you.” 

“Women with little feet have been known to lift great weight, a
scientific fact.” She says, hauling it out and carrying it to his car. 

Tom shrugs, smiles, and follows behind her. 

“How long to Mendocino?” She asks, heaving the case into the back of his
car and wiping her forehead. 

“Fifteen minutes.” 

A silence descends as they drive. Five minutes pass. 

“How long have you lived in America?” She asks. “You're English, right? 

“Most Americans believe I'm Australian. I was born in London, but lived
in Scotland.” 

“Scotland! I know it well.” 

“Really, so you've been to Edinburgh.” 

She half expected such a comment. 

“Yes, I've been to Edinburgh, but other places, too.” 

“Glasgow?” 

“You truly believe I'm a city girl, don't you?” 

“Aren't you?” 

“From time to time, there is an excitement to living and working in the
city.” 

“Really, then you've lived in different cities to those I know.” 

“Would those be Edinburgh and Glasgow?” 

“They would not.” He says, tasting her sarcasm. “So, tell me, did you
have a favourite haunt in Scotland.” 

“Favourite? Well, let me think, my ascent of The Clisham was the
cruellest. It was clear when I arrived, the views were extensive and 
most of the main island's archipelago could be seen,  the stacks of St. 
Kilda away on the western horizon, and I remember the bitter cold 
snapping at my ears. I started outside Tarbert, close to Loch na Ciste. 
I remember the slopes of wiry heather giving way to a rockier cap, 
guarded, as you surely know, on the east by decaying crag and scree.. 
Then of course there are the views from Mullach an Langa overlooking 
the watery waste of Loch Langavat, and the mosaic of lochans in the 
moorland stretching to Lewis. But of course there are so many places, 
and as of yet, many more to see.” 

“And you...what part of Scotland is your favourite?” 

“Tobermoray. What's the name of your hotel?” 

“Larkins...it's on main street.” 

“I know it.” 

Within moments Tom pulls the car to a halt outside the hotel. 

“Thanks for the ride. Tobermoray...on Mull, right?” 

“Across the street,” Tom lowers the window and points to a small car
repair shop, “Jimmy, he'll tow your car in and fix it up. Ask for an 
estimate first.” 

“I appreciate what you've done for me.” Katherine opens the door, and as
she is getting out, pauses and turns to face him. 

“Can I buy you a drink this evening?” 

‘Do you need help with the luggage?” 

“I can manage.” 

Katherine slams the trunk closed and with a simple raise of his arm out
the window Tom Champion drives away. 

“Maybe some other time...” she murmurs. 


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