Page 6 of The Beachgoers
“Darn,” he mutters. “Nothing.” Crossing the small reception area to his metal tanker desk, he sets his papers and phone down. “Dagnabbit. Thought the blessed Board of Governors meeting wouldneverend.”
A noise gets him to look to the floor where Pip is sashaying around the desk. The white cat softly mews as she steps this way, then that.
“Oh, Pip. Nice to be home.” When his cell phone dings, Cliff grabs it up. Andtsk-tsks. “Elsa’s so slow in texting lately,” he distractedly says while reading her words. “All good here. See you later.” He can’t miss the waving hand emoji, too. “No heart for me,” he quietly remarks.
Of course, by now Pip has leapt up onto the big utilitarian desk. She sits herself on the hurricane-planning folder and preens her white fur. Cliff will have none of that. He lifts his old gavel from when he was a State of Connecticut judge and gently taps on the desktop. “Oh, no you don’t! Can’t have you shedding on my papers.”
The cat watches him, then head-bumps that hefty gavel and gives anothermew.
Well. The last thing Cliff has time for this Friday afternoon is putzing around with a friendly feline. Instead, he heads beyond the folding accordion door to his tiny bathroom in the rear of the trailer. A shave is in order, so he takes off his button-down and hangs it on a towel hook. Space is scarce in this hidden apartment, but he makes do. His bathroom medicine chest is actually an over-the-door shoe bag. Each clear shoe pocket holds shaving cream, his razor, shampoo, deodorant, soaps, combs, toothpaste, what have you. All that matters is that it works.
Lathered up seconds later, Cliff drags the razor down his bristled cheek while leaning close to the mirror. He gets off every hint of two-day-old whiskers, including a start of an actual goatee. “You’ll be a late gift for Elsa,” he calls back to Pip while drawing the razor up his scruffy chin. “But as the inn’s mascot, you first need a physical from the vet, and a good grooming, too.”
After rinsing and tapping his razor on the sink edge, then towel-drying his smooth, clean-shaven face, Cliff drapes the towel around his neck. Behind a nearby room divider, he brushes through shirts on a rolling clothes rack. Elsa had requested semi-formal attire for the evening. So a navy-and-white checkered button-down over navy pants will do just fine, especially with those nautical colors. To formalize the look, khaki suspenders and leather boat shoes. The shirt and pants he leaves hanging on the top rack; the suspenders he loops over a side hook.
That done, there’s one thing left on his agenda. He hurries back to his metal tanker desk, where he retrieves a congratulations card from the squeaky drawer. It takes a few moments to get his thoughts together. A few moments of picking up a pen, stretching his arm, glancing to one of the trailer’s sliding windows in the direction of Elsa’s inn. Finally, he moves aside his BOG forms and folders and sets his pen to the card.
Dear Elsa,
You deserve every bit of happiness today, and I’m glad to be a part of it with you. May starlight above the sea drop all goodness onto your beach inn this very special night. Congratulations on the Ocean Star Inn, gift to follow…
“Hmm,” he muses, his pen hovering over the card. “Yours truly?OrTruly yours.” He shakes his head. “Fondly?” He squints at the card. “Or…Love.” As he considers his closing, a noise gets his attention. It’s Pip again, batting at his suspender clips hanging from that rolling clothes rack. That clicking and clacking gets Cliff headed back to his bedroom area—with a stop in his kitchenette first. He pours a glass of cold orange juice to shake off the busy day. Sipping the juice, he watches Pip sitting beneath the dangling suspenders. She stretches up her paw and gives them another swat.
* * *
If there’s one thing Shane Bradford knows for certain this Friday afternoon, it’s this: He’s got to polish up nice for tonight. So after setting two corsage boxes in the refrigerator, he stops in the cottage bathroom for a shower—one far tamer than yesterday’s shower with Celia. Afterward, he wraps a bath towel around his waist and drags a hand across his face in front of the mirror. Turning his head slightly left, then right, he hesitates. And waves off a shave before heading to the bedroom.
Oh, who’s he kidding. Maybe it’s a shave he’s waving off, maybe not. Maybe it’s that one silent question that’s been pestering him all day.
“Nah,” he says, turning to his closet. There, he pulls out a pair of faded black jeans and brushes through a few button-downs—one pinstriped, one tan. And shakes his head as he holds up the jeans, then puts them on. Again he turns to the button-downs, tries the striped one and buttons it in front of the mirror. Buttons it only halfway before unbuttoning it and taking the damn thing off. Tosses it on the bed, too.
Back at the closet, this time he pulls out a simple formal black vest. This could do. He holds it up to his chest and stands in front of the dresser mirror again. Not bad. Hell, it’s warm enough to pull off the look. He slips into the vest, sans a shirt, and buttons that now.
Nope. Not the right vibe. But close.
So he takes off the vest and puts on a very worn and pale chambray button-down first. Leaving it loose at the collar, he then adds the fitted vest and buttons that. Almost there. This time, he opens his dresser and pulls out a black leather belt, puts that on and wraps his braided leather cuff around his wrist.
Busy, fussing, shave, don’t shave, this shirt, that belt. Shane knows what it all is—this showering, and contemplating his face, and changing his clothes from this, to that. It’s all a distraction from that nagging question.
Standing in front of his dresser mirror again, he gives himself a good scrutiny and thinks of Celia Gray. Thinks of how he’ll be seeing her again tonight.
And he wonders that damn question that’s been a thorn in his side all day.
Wonders how a relationship can ever bridge the five hundred miles between their two lives.
Wonders if his words to Celia last night—his,Just live in the moment—were impossible bullshit.
Wonders how he and Celia canevermake things work.
Fed up with wondering, Shane does something else. Alone in the musty cottage bedroom, he squints at his reflection, leans closer to the mirror and tousles his still-damp hair, then turns and walks out of the room.
