O.C. Writers

 

From Chapter Five //

Charles
2007

She reminds me of someone. Someone I know intimately well.  Someone whose shoes I’ve walked, run, and swum in for miles along the coast. (Though I’m largely unathletic and clumsy. Just ask Camilla.) Kindred. 

She reminds me of myself. 

When I take her hand and pull her towards the hay bale that is the running joke of the Perry family (a tribute to their Western heritage, no less), there’s nothing but peace. At least, I think it’s peace. It doesn’t have the narking barking I’m so used to, the agony that tends to reverberate in the hollows of my conscious mind. I know they’re not hollow, but it feels that way, like an evaporated pool of saltwater where nothing remains but the sodium crystals. It’s a struggle to stay hopeful, to keep fear at bay. When fear comes to play, my cave is my sanctuary.

There’s not much to it, only that it’s mine and mine alone. I don’t have that in other aspects of my life. My home is a gilded cage, and I am the voiceless songbird trapped within it. It is a quilted, cool chaos that blankets every aspect of my life, including my upending search for love. A search which, if I had my way, I would maybe table forever. I don’t love. I don’t believe myself capable of loving. I have a tendency to date unavailable women for this reason. It makes me feel safe, protected. As if I live in a bulletproof glass house: I can witness the world from inside, but am hidden from the wind, rain, and women on the prowl. 

“You looked so sad,” she says to me after we trade life updates and other such expected pleasantries. She speaks of my expression while I looked on towards the casket that bedded my dead uncle during his burial mass at the chapel down the street. I didn’t realize she attended. I didn’t see her there. But then, how does one see through a wall of tears? 

“I am sad.” It’s the truth. Probably more than she can realize in this moment. Maybe more than she can realize, ever. I’ve never met anyone so capable, except maybe Camilla. Camilla doesn’t enable me, though. She supports me. She listens to me. I’ve never had her sympathy. 

Diana takes my hand in hers. Amidst the drunken revelers that raid liquor storage and wine cabinets, we share a moment. Perhaps we share something more than that. We share understanding.  We’re cut from the same cloth, she and I. Her dad is a financial adviser for my family’s firm. They golf at least once a week at the club. He’s not an employee, though, which honestly makes it better. We’re more equal that way. 

And she’s hot. I enjoy looking at her, with her platinum blonde hair and perfectly proportioned figure. To touch her all night? What a fantasy. Isn’t that what love means, to have and to hold? 

“You should be with someone who will look after you.” Diana will love, cherish, and obey me, when given the chance. Why? Because she pities me. This beautiful, young (sub-thirty),  smokeshow. My future wife. 

I think I’m okay with that.

Chapter 6 

Camilla
1998 

“Ask me a question.” 

I’ve learned Charles, when left to his own devices, is a bit of a chatterbox. Chatterbox Chuck. He just needs to be nudged a bit.

“What’s your favorite color?” Not what I expected, but at least he takes direction well. 

“It changes, like a mood ring.” I didn’t realize this was an answer until posed with the question.

Funny how that works. “But on any given day, I’d say a turquoise-y blue. Like shallow waters in Hawaii.  How about you?” 

“Mine is blue, too.” 

“What kind of blue?” 

“A dark blue.” 

“Navy? Cobalt? Sapphire?”

“How do you know so much about colors?” 

Finally, a question without being prompted. 

We’re puttering along the docks at the Lido Marina, passing the nautical-themed food establishments on the left and the mooring sprinkled harbor on the right. Sometimes I feel like a tourist in my town, but I don’t mind it. Not when the view looks like this, and my companion looks like that. 

It’s more than his looks, though. I didn’t even find him attractive when we first met at that dinner party. Conventionally attractive, yes. He has the face of a cologne model: an angular chin accented by eyes with the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. Not really my type. My type is more Andrew, the beachy, blonde, surfer-turned sophisticate. It’s that sometimes, Charles’ charm catches me off guard and I forget to breathe. 

“I don’t know, I guess it’s the creative side of me. I like making different color combinations, especially with clothes and decorating.” I pause; do I share more? “I redo my interior decor every few years just because I think it’s fun to try out new designs and combine motifs that may not at first look like they go together, but somehow do. It’s like a treasure hunt, but for a vibe, not a diamond.” 

“I can see that. You dress well.” One of his few spoken compliments. 

“When I was a kid, I used to make lists of what outfits to wear to school each day.” I stop short of sharing that I continued this habit through most of my twenties, and even sometimes revisit it today.  “It quieted my mind, somehow.” Past tense. 

He smiles conspiratorially. “I know how that is.” 

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

“What question?” 

“What kind of blue is your favorite?” 

Charles smiles, smizes, almost. “You see that flag?” He points to the banner waving over the Elks Lodge. The logo on it belongs to his father’s company; it’s a grayish navy. “That blue.”

“How appropriate.” 

We stop at Circle and Hook for lobster rolls. I offer a suggestion. “How about we go to dinner tomorrow night? There’s a great sushi place around the corner that has the best toro in town.”

“Sure, that’d be great.” 

I take this for a plan. I should’ve known better. 

The next afternoon, hours before our planned outing, I receive a voice message on my machine from Charles: 

I hate to do this, but I’m really not feeling well. I just got my face lasered and my stomach hurts. That’s what usually happens to me when I get my face lasered, and not just a small part, but the whole thing. I look like a lobster, probably like one of the ones we ate yesterday before it was seafood salad. Anyways, I hope you don’t hate me. I’m currently accepting all forms of sympathy, including care packages, gift baskets, and good old-fashioned cards. Sincerely, Papa Lobster

Odd. A few thoughts cross my mind, including: 

You couldn’t have let me know earlier? 

That’s really disrespectful of my time. 

If you’ve had this procedure before, why did you agree to meet me today? 

We meet again the next day for what has become our two-or three-times-a-week marina walk. 

I can’t resist asking. “Have you had that kind of procedure done before?” 

“Yeah, at least once a month.” He sips his rosewater fizz. “Well, we could have had dinner another time. I wouldn’t have minded.” 

“But I wanted to.” It’s always about him, isn’t it? 

“Well. In the future, I’d appreciate a little more of a heads-up.  Can we agree to that?” 

“We can do whatever you want.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“So am I.” 

 

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The Crown of the Sea, A Novel was released by The Peacock Pen Press on June 28. You can learn more at https://www.amazon.com/Crown-Sea-Novel-Sara-Salam-ebook/dp/B09674VGJQ.