Fleeting Comfort And Pleasure

Lucinda felt an overwhelming rush of relief that her long car journey would soon be over. Familiar sights came to the eye wherever she chose to look, and the traffic allowed. She had toiled with a sense of guilt that Tom would be left behind in a care home; a temporary arrangement, at best, and one that they had followed every year since his stroke had wrought its debilitating and destructive effects on his once agile mind and energetic ways. He spoke to her with difficulty; was confined to a wheelchair if he was to be moved or they went out for a walk along the lanes of the village where they continued to live.

She read to him, or encouraged this in him, whenever it was possible and a thin beam of acuity had Tom do this for himself; only for the efforts to exhaust him along with her. She cooked for and bathed him; she was grateful that in matters of personal hygiene, she was present but took no steps to intervene. Their home was a haven and kept spotlessly clean; the tended garden a refuge for them both, and in their ways of drawing upon its color and restful setting.

Things had not degenerated that far, yet; but the emotional and physical toll upon her required that she stepped off that ever-revolving track, one that friends who lived close by to them were only too aware of and sympathized with. She was never heard to complain but many saw the toll that caring for Tom had upon her.

Was it too much to ask that she be allowed a week away and to use the time to pursue, as best as she could, the rest of body and mind that she needed? It was not to be so generously expressed by her children, Rebecca and Tom Chapman. There were no words left for them to tell her how they felt when she had announced, as she did every year, that she was taking a week's break in Devon. There, she would lodge in her favored apartment complex with its views over the English Channel and the cliffs bounding its shores; the base of the cliffs, or the wave-cut platform, surrendering the treasures that were to be found along this part of the Jurassic coastline.

She never failed to bring back a small memento of her stay, a fossil of some kind with its beautifully preserved coils and exquisite detailing; an item that never failed to brighten Tom's eyes with the glimmer of recognition of what had once been a regular trip for them. Then, they would call in to see their closest friends who had retired to this part of the country, Peggy and Charles Sanderson.

They had finally accepted that she wished to spend time on her own and not be beholden to them or anyone else. It did not mean that she would become a recluse. Far from it. She would engage in conversation with those that she met on the cliff-top walks or down on the beach, especially along the shoreline, when a mutual interest or her little book of identifying what might lie at her feet had been revealed after the practiced tap of her rock-hammer failed her.

Such disappointments were few. The sight that now greeted her as she entered the small hamlet and saw the glaring brilliance of her rented holiday apartment block, lifted her spirits; it made her sing out in uncommon frivolity.

The cares of being Tom's wife and nurse could be put to one side for a few days. The weather forecast was set fair. She hoped that her stay would be restful and free of the turbulence that was often encountered at home; the drain on her physical and mental resources and the toll that had been wrought on her body and mind; in a woman aged only sixty.

She had abided by the wedding services' saying, 'in sickness and in health'. It remained to be seen if she would be richer from the experience of being here once more.

♥

Aiden put aside his brushes; wiped his hands on his short tunic and leaned against the railing. The balcony of his small apartment was a sunny vantage point. He could gaze down at the crowds that sauntered along the pavements to each side of the roadway as he painted. He could also see the comings and goings over the small, private car park where he had seen a familiar car draw to a stop, not so far below where he now stood.

A woman that he remembered from two years ago was again to be seen. She stepped somewhat stiffly from the car, smoothing her thin summer skirt over her thighs and brushing away at the tumble of silken ash-grey hair that fell lazily to her shoulders. A multitude of colored baubles hung from a strand and onto her breasts; others slid over her arms, snagged on the frills of her cropped-sleeved blouse that she wore. He took in every detail with his artist's eyes, and he liked what was to be seen.

There had been no time to engage in any conversation the last time that he had seen her. Then as now, he noted, the woman was alone. A straw beach bag was reached for, and the woman was soon seen stepping towards the block's main entrance; holidaying residents being asked to walk along a balcony, set at the rear of the block, and thereby gain access to their apartment's front door.

'I remember you from two years ago...it seems we can't stay away from this place,' he called out to her as she passed below him.

'That's true,' she acknowledged on glancing up at him, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand, though startled that he should speak to her and so directly.

Aiden soon heard the development's owner talking to her and knew that the formalities of a handover, and the production of a front door key, would soon follow. Like him, she would soon be left to her own devices. Unlike him, she was seen to be reserved, even closed in on herself. The artist in him, the portraitist first and foremost, saw the look of disbelief that a total stranger had been engaged by her appearance and had chosen to speak to her.

'How strange,' Lucinda said to the owner as the keys were held out to her. 'A man in a painter's smock greeted me...saying that he'd seen me here before.'

Tina, the woman's badge announced, smiled. 'That's Aiden Prescott. He's here twice a year, summer and winter. In the summer it's the scenery, in the winter it's portraits. There's a display of them, some of his latest works, in the Tourist Info center.'

'Thank you,' Lucinda smiled. 'I'll bear it in mind and go and have a look sometime while I'm here.'

'Aiden sells and he sells well...'

'I'll bear that in mind too.' Lucinda clenched the keys in one hand. 'Do I make my way, or do you show me around?'

'Make your way unless you tell me otherwise? You know the place as well as anyone, don't you?'

'Almost as well as Aiden Prescott, it seems.'

Tina laughed. 'He's been no trouble and he works hard at those paintings of his. He looks a bit wild with that mop of hair and stubbly beard, but he always leaves the place spotless, which is more than I can say for some who stay here.'

Lucinda knew at once that her week's stay would be like no other that had gone before. Tina had told her to look out for the blue and white glazed pot that stood by the door to her apartment. She had failed to tell her that it was next door to that man, Aiden Prescott's apartment; rooms that she had heard were also his studio.

She thought of asking whether she could have a different place but that might serve up more problems than it would solve. Besides, it was nearing the height of the holiday season. Would any be vacant even if she did ask?

She met his smile and suppressed a gasp of wonder that he should be standing there at his door to greet her again. The man looked wild; his grey-blue eyes seemed to, overtly, take in every detail of her appearance. It was behavior that needed no words as they told an only too obvious story. He was taken by her appearance, and she suppressed the instinct, or compulsion, to feel the same about him.

It was utter madness for her to feel this way about him on a first meeting. It was wonderfully refreshing to have a man look at her in the way that Aiden had done, when was seen looking down from his balcony, and again now as he stood close. She was gripped by a sudden and inexplicable attraction to him and was equally dismayed to feel an unmistakable ache of longing. It had been so long since anyone had looked at her in quite that way and now she was in the grip of wishing to know of a man again and for him to know of her. All of that had been denied to her for some time and with Tom...poor Tom.

The tunic was gone and the faint whiff of turpentine rose to her nostrils as he drew near and greeted her again. A denim shirt flapped loosely over some chino shorts. He was barefoot; his toes long and thick; Aiden's wavy black hair, with streaks of grey, was brushed back from a wrinkled forehead. That, and a greying stubble beard, made him look older, but engagingly so. She found him ruggedly handsome and could not help but feel that her plans had been turned over or might soon be if he continued to look at her in that way of his.

It was madness; it would be a holiday madness, but it was also a state of mind that might help to refresh and make her feel alive again, and not an automaton with the unrelenting toll of caring for someone she loved but was broken; a husband, a man, who was beyond repair and a man who had once possessed an agile mind. He now lived in a husk, a broken shell.

Old as he was, and disconcertingly attractive and flirtatious, Aiden confounded everything she knew in her bounded world at home.

♥

'Hello again. I'm Aiden Prescott. I'm sorry to have startled you, by saying what I did, uhm...?'

'Lucinda...Lucinda Chapman. Many call me...'

'Elsie,' he grinned and was too quick to let her finish what she wanted to say. 'It's the El and the Cee...'

She laughed and was engaged by his look upon her, and Aiden's deep voice that she found almost musical, lilting, unthreatening, and utterly persuasive.

'I do believe that I've heard that before...somewhere.'

'I'm sure you have, but I'll keep that as my name for you.'

'Really, will you really?' she answered as if to dismiss the very idea. Lucinda was only too aware of his look upon her as she put the key into her apartment's door. 'You'll have to excuse me, Aiden, but I need to unpack the car and settle in.'

'Of course, you've had a long car journey.' Aidan saw her lift a hand to brush away at her hair; noted the wedding ring on her finger. He had failed to do that the last time they had seen each other. He couldn't decide which name he preferred for her; the one only too formal, the other failing to do her justice. He wanted to paint her; he wanted to be with her as often as time allowed; he already knew and felt that he wanted her, the woman with her graceful step and how she had been seen sweeping back her beautiful hair. First impressions always worked with him. 'I'd better let you go and not keep you.'

'Best not,' she smiled as if to console him that she would not linger and talk some more. 'You have your work to deal with.'

'And so much more, now...Lucinda...or is it to be 'Elsie?''

'You'll have to wait and see,' she laughed brightly and pushed on the door of her apartment. It took her out of his sight; it did not take the man out of her mind. What would have been the odds of this happening to her, of meeting a gifted and attractive man, if she had been persuaded not to go away?

♥

He was perplexed by the effect that she had upon him. The fact that this careworn woman was alone, and again here in the resort, also intrigued him. The man and the artist saw her aging beauty; a still trim figure on a woman that he thought to be about his age of fifty-five or so. She didn't look the kind of woman who was here intent on a fleeting liaison, were it to be offered; one who had traveled to a place frequented by couples and families. She was modestly, and tastefully, dressed and not in a place, as far as he knew, for no strings and spontaneous sex with someone who was always to be a stranger.

He was here to paint and walk on the shore and swim; to laze on the sand or the small foreshore with its rocky outcrops, and with his sketchbook in hand. He was here to draw whatever caught his eye or engaged his attention.

Elsie had certainly done that. It would be his name for her, even if he didn't speak it out in her company if that was the way it went between them. It was certainly what he hoped for. If anything did come of it, he thought of her as a woman who wanted the times spent in his company, perhaps even in his bed, to mean something. He wanted to be the one to smooth those careworn features and see the wonderful woman, she undoubtedly was, again.

He'd been taken by that smile and Elsie's wondering look in her eyes upon him. He traveled light and did not set great store by the clothes that he chose to wear when down here. What mattered played out inside any person. It was what he sought to bring out in his work on the canvas, in the rough smears of color and variety of tones.

Beauty was only skin deep, and he wanted to discover that with her, with Elsie. She, the woman that he again saw by her car as she unloaded what she had brought with her.

Arrogantly, perhaps, he hoped that she had also brought a mind open to living a little differently while she was in the apartment next door.

♥

Lucinda was stopped in her task of unloading her car. She had felt her iPhone tremble against her thigh and took it from the patch pocket of her skirt. She leaned against the car to answer it as she saw who it was calling.

'Hello, Jenny...yes, I've arrived. I'm just in the process of moving in.' She knew the reason for the call and was discomfited by a reminder of what she had left behind for a few days.

'Tom's been asking after you,' his carer said.

'I thought he would. Tell him everything is fine and that I'll call in the morning.'

'I'll tell him,' Jenny said lightly, 'but you know how he can fret about changes in his routine. I hope that I, and the night staff, won't have to disturb you. I know, for one, that you need a break. It's what we advise all relatives of people who are permanent residents with us...also people like you. It's full-on work.'

'Yes, it is and I'm glad that you understand.'

'Yes, now I'll leave you in peace, Lucinda.'

'Tell Tom that I'm sending him a kiss...'

As the call ended, she saw a movement on the balcony of Aiden's apartment; took in, soon enough, the man's appearance once more. This time he held up a beer glass, as if in a toast to her. It was mid-afternoon, too early to be doing that, surely? The man beckoned and held out the glass and pointed to it. He then seemed to grab for something and was lost in her view for an instant. He then reappeared holding up a painting.

'Just what am I do about this?' she whispered as she drew closer and looked up at him. It felt as if a kind and trusting nature was to be tested once more. 'Yes, Aiden, what is it now?'

'This is a sample of the work I do and that you can see at the Tourist Info shop.' He glanced down at her for an instant. 'I...I could walk you there?'

'I know where it is, Aiden. I've been here before, remember?'

'I do remember.'

She was startled by her iPhone trembling once more. 'Penny! Yes...I'm here...arrived half an hour or so ago!' She listened to what Penny said, yet still glancing in Aiden's direction now and then. Infuriatingly, the man seemed to be making a point of paying attention to her. 'Yes, I'll be there...seven thirty...and, yes...I do remember the way!'

Friends, who lived nearby had invited her to dinner. Her first evening of the holiday would fill her mind with other things, she hoped.

♥

She unpacked and washed off the fatigue of the long journey, of carrying her things and shopping, the barest of necessities, into the apartment. It was modern in the choice of décor and furniture; all of it robust but attractive in its brightness; the choice of colors on the walls; modern pictures that had been studiously placed to make her holiday quarters feel bigger than they were. None of that bothered her. She knew from past times of staying here, what her money could buy.

But her neighbor, Aiden, was quite another matter.

She changed into the clothes that would see her through an evening with her friends and, with a last look in the mirror, and dispelling any lingering doubts, she decided to knock on Aiden's door. Words to settle things might be easy to find, but what might ensue would be harder to deal with.

It was crazy! There was no reason for her to behave in this way, she was a woman of independent thought and spirit. She did feel, however, that the cold utterance of instinctive words of caution directed at him, had to be corrected.

She received no answer to her knock on the door, then again and with a pause in between them. Aiden had gone out and she had failed to hear him go.

She found him in the Tourist Information center, in the cramped exhibition hall that was linked to it and that Tina had told her about when she had registered. Aiden had his work on display. Many of his paintings were to be seen in his distinctive style and it soon revealed the gap between his undoubted skills and those of others.

Intrigued, she looked at them all, and it was an image of a young woman that held her attention the longest. Doing that brought him to her side, like the moth to a candle flame.

'Are you still angry with me for what I said just now?' she ventured.

'No, not at all,' he said looking from her to the picture and back again. 'You look as though you're about to go out somewhere...'

'Dinner with friends who have retired here. They live not so far away.'

'So, you'll be gone for most of the evening?'

'Yes,' she couldn't help but laugh softly, and in reply. His over-familiarity on such a short acquaintance was muted now. 'You'll be working, I presume? What's on display here doesn't just happen...'

'It certainly doesn't, and I make time to unwind in all sorts of ways.' He moved and guided her away from all the exhibits. 'The beach and the cliffs, the dawns and sunsets are something special and that people buy. You...you,' he hesitated, 'you could call in on me one day and see me at work.'

'Haven't I done that already?' she smiled, looking unwaveringly at him now.

Aiden brushed a hand through his hair and laughed. 'Okay...okay. Have a drink with me now, out there on the terrace? We can talk and begin again. I'd like that and if you have time?'

Lucinda saw him fidget with a small drawing pad that he had shoved into a cream linen jacket that fitted his bulky frame. It was in stark contrast with an open-necked denim shirt and faded jeans. She thought the man carried it off so well. She was, also, disconcerted to feel that she could so easily be thought of as a companion to him.

'Yes, I can do that. I'm not expecting until seven thirty for eight. It's supper with friends...'

'That's a while off then. Go see if there's a table and I'll bring out your drink, Elsie.'

'Lucinda,' she corrected.

'Much too formal,' he answered with a shrug, 'but so be it, Elsie.'

'Drink? Mine's a lemonade...pressed, if they still do such a thing.'

'They do,' he said and on the point of leaving her. 'Not everything around here has changed, but the company I keep has.'

♠

Lucinda soon discovered that under the bravado there lurked a more sensitive man, one who spoke of his work simply, and not out of arrogance. She mentioned a likeness in the application of paints, in a portrait they had spoken of, to the work of Lucian Freud and Sir Stanley Spencer.

'Clever men and gifted ones. I can't bring myself to be too hard on those who sit for me and what I see of them...as they once did,' he told her.

'For some the unpalatable truth is there for all the world to see?'

'Yes, Lucinda, there is that too.' He pointed to her hand and the wedding ring to be seen upon it. 'What's the truth of you wearing that, your reasons for being here and alone?'