Love Is Like An Ocean Current

You've got to go through with it, Susan thought, as she gazed at the young man. Just to see his boyish smile made her spirits lift and had the effect of breaking down her resolve not to cross the busy street and join the throng of holidaymakers, and locals, that crowded the promenade and cafés close to the fishing harbor of Los Cristianos. Her apartment in Tenerife didn't need any more paintings, but what she saw the man talking about in his animated ways, to a couple who had stopped and considered one of his works, changed her mind.

She had stood on the opposite side of the road and watched the crowd pass the displays by artists, images of local scenes depicted on small and large canvasses; gaudy and only too geometric. Others had been carefully crafted, but they were in colors, so bright, that she was repelled by them. It was easy to understand why some chose such works. They served as a vivid reminder of where it had been bought or they brightened a room, on a somber day, back home.

It was only too easy to linger.

The artist stood out from the bartering ways of the painters she had seen as she walked through the throng until she had retraced her steps to where he was. She could only feel sorry for him as it was clear that others sold their work. He had failed to do so, from what she could gather, and she had seen his encouraging smile as he talked, to those that did stop, before it faded as yet another disappointment was met.

The ear-shattering blast of a car horn made him look her way once more. She had scampered across the road when a short gap in the traffic gave her a chance to do that and to be with him. Calm reflection, on what to do, had given way to impulsive behavior. She'd had enough of one; she wished to pursue the alternative.

'Phew! That was close!' Susan laughed, glad to be able to speak in English and not in her halting Spanish. It would improve as the days went by, and she became accustomed to hearing and speaking it. The sign by his work announced his name: 'Patrick Ainsley'.

She thought it an only too refined name. It went well with the man she now gazed at, his manners polite and his voice deep, cultured, suggesting that he was of a good family. She dismissed the notion that any of that mattered.

'You're the first to risk their lives to be here and see my work, so thank you,' he grinned. Pat took a moment to look at the woman before him, at how she brushed her hands over the skirt of her summer dress as the breeze caught it to reveal the tanned skin of her legs. 'You've also been wondering whether to see it up close. I couldn't fail to notice you earlier, standing at that café and looking my way...the lady in her flowing dress with its tropical flower print and the sun in her hair. It's like they say, whoever 'they' are, a picture saves a thousand words.'

'Was it so obvious?' she asked, disconcerted by his directness.

'It seemed that way to me, yes,' he smiled before having to turn away. 'Excuse me for a moment?'

'Sure, don't let me keep you.'

'But I'm in thrall now that you're here...'

'Oh really?' She couldn't help but laugh at their exchanges.

A couple had been seen to linger at a small picture of a fishing boat at its mooring, the buoy it was fastened to covered in algae. His unfussy use of colors, and how he had captured the reflection in the water, made the unframed picture that was no larger than a sheet of paper, a small masterpiece to her ways of seeing it. She might buy the work if others didn't do so.

She was thrilled by his compliment and knew that he had only spoken out the truth. The flirting young artist was clothed in pale blue slacks, a white T-shirt hanging free under a white over-shirt with blue stripes. The long sleeves had been left unbuttoned. His choice of clothes, for a street artist, lent him a smart, casual, appearance. He stood at just over six feet tall and looked lean and fit. He had shaved, she was pleased to see, and his cheeks were smooth. Luxuriant sandy-brown hair was swept back from his high forehead and she saw how animated, and enthusiastic, he became as he talked knowledgeably to the couple and explained where the small boat had been seen. She loved his cultured voice. It was something of a rarity to hear it for, whenever she was out and about, she heard the raucous calls of her countrymen who holidayed here. How snooty to think of that now, when she could devote her attention entirely to him and his work.

Pat spoke in a low voice, as he brushed past her. 'You've brought me luck. They want the small picture I saw you looking at earlier.'

'I'm pleased for you,' she blurted out. 'I'll have to pick another one before it's too late.'

'There are a few left, so you'll be spoilt for choice', he teased, light-heartedly, and at his expense.

He was soon engaged with his customers once more, and she saw how deftly he wrapped the picture in some paper. It was all that the couple seemed to want of him. Money was handed over and pocketed before, on a cheery wave and that winning smile, he bade the couple farewell.

'I've broken the bad run!' he laughed and met the woman's look upon him. She seemed intrigued, he supposed, by how he had reacted. 'It's been a lean time for me, these last few days on this beautiful island, but it hasn't stopped me from painting.'

'I understand. You follow in many a famous painter's footsteps. It takes time to catch the eye, and then it comes at you all in a rush.'

He met her to look upon him and nodded. This had to be a first; to be engaged with someone in a deeper conversation about his craft and what had brought him here. His solitary existence might even be ended by this captivating, shapely, woman who was almost as tall as he was, her long golden-brown hair framing a lightly made-up oval face. He was captivated by the intensity of her gaze upon him and wondered what lay behind those lovely eyes.

'I wish it was so, but it's fun being here and painting!' He stood before her as the crowd brushed past them, his eyes darting about just to be sure no one took advantage, of the press of humanity, to snatch one of the smaller pieces still on display. 'I'd better introduce myself...Patrick Ainsley...or simply Pat...a visiting artist who paints what he sees and not what people expect to see.'

'Interpretative art as some might say?' she smiled and on a tilt of her head in inquiry.

'That's so, but you're not here to discuss all of that, are you? Has anything caught your eye?'

She met again that teasing smile. His cultured voice was light and easy.

'Why yes, Pat. that picture, ' she told him and pointed at it gracefully. 'The view of the sea and the drift of wispy clouds as a backdrop...the darker clouds beyond them are wonderfully evocative. I also like how you captured the crags and lush vegetation in the foreground. They're plants and palms you'd never think could grow in the soils there. You've caught the natural lushness...the wild improbability of it all...the ever-changing light you often find on this island. There's nothing faux about it. I kept hoping, every time I walked past, that you wouldn't have sold it when I came back.'

'And have I done so now?'

'I think you have, Pat,' she smiled and stepped towards it to take a closer look.

He considered the painting more closely. The women beside him had seen exactly what he had done as he painted. The sky beyond suggested a thunderstorm or a downpour was heading the viewer's way. He was pleased with the result and certainly this woman's opinion of it. His work displayed what his eye instinctively captured in a glance. He worked furiously before the inspiration or insight faded. She spoke knowledgeably or with an art lover's eye.

'It's too big for you to carry back to where you're staying,' he suggested.

Her shoulder brushed his arm as they stood close. 'I thought that too. My apartment's too far from here.'

'The artist delivers, in case you're wondering,' he smiled and saw her look of surprise. 'I'm serious. I've hired a van to get about and I even spend the night in it, sometimes. I can live like a hobo artist when it's too far to come back to my place here. So, I could call by later, or this evening?' he ventured before looking away. 'Sorry, got to go. Someone else is lingering. I'll put them and myself out of their misery.'

'Don't be such a pessimist, Pat.'

'It comes with experience in selling so few works.'

She couldn't help but laugh at their easy ways with each other. It felt disconcertingly real and only too sudden. How the currents of life and love ebbed and flowed like the ocean all around them. You didn't always need to be in control as events and emotions overwhelmed you. They had done, on seeing and then talking to him.

'Put a 'sold' sticker on it, on my painting!' she called after him. 'Susan Prescott!'

Pat turned and gave her a thumbs-up. Susan realized that they had not talked about its price. She moved to stand by the sea wall that marked the edge of the promenade. The mesmerizing rolling surge of the ocean was not far below her vantage point. She heard the slap of the water against the stonework. She found that it settled her nerves, just as talking to Pat for a few moments and their exchange of banalities had achieved the same effect.

She was alone here, now, and had thought about how to make a new start in life. Seeing him she had decided, as she walked past his pitch and had seen the man and artist talking, that she would slowly engage his attention and see where that took her. The painting was very good. She had decided on it being a worthy impulse buy, the cost not of any great concern. Her divorce settlement had seen to that, along with the signing over to her of the apartment set in its landscaped grounds. It was an only too desirable piece of island real estate, but the space was more than she needed. Deciding on what to do with it would have to wait. More important emotions were at work in her right now, brazen as it might appear to him.

She saw Pat turn towards her. He rubbed his hands in evident glee.

'How long can you stay here with me, Susan? I've just sold another picture! Who are you, my lady luck by any chance?'

'I'll tell you later, Pat, okay?'

Susan took the small card that he now held out to her, and she saw his eyes drift to the people waiting to settle their purchase. She knew that few words were needed. Brazenly, a woman of forty-five had acted out of character, or maybe she had found her real self; a woman confident and self-assured who was finally in control of her circumstances and where choices could be made that touched her life and hers alone.

You made your luck in life and love, and she ached to follow a new path and find out where that took her, with Pat Ainsley.

'Let them think what they want,' Pat muttered as he slowed to a stop.

Any security camera would pick out the small delivery van that was his beast of burden. Since signing the rental agreement, the vehicle had served as a studio, sleeping quarters, and as an only too dependable runabout that even had aircon.

He pressed the intercom button and waited at the security gate. The driveway up to the apartment complex, an architect's only too minimalist dream of a design, rose and snaked through landscaped grounds, the palms and shrubs discreetly lit and taking nothing away from the views over the bay and the starry heavens above. He'd poked his head out of the driver's side window just to take in where he now found himself. The woman he had met on the promenade had not deployed any airs and graces on him, nor put him in his place; far from it.

She knew little or nothing of him. He felt much the same about her, now, but one thing was certain, Susan Prescott lived well here on the island. He'd be thought of as an interloper, despite his skills that were to be seen on the painting that was laid out behind his seat; cardboard strips and brown paper laced around it to lessen the risk of tearing the canvas.

'Pat is that you?' he heard over a clear link. 'You're right on time!'

'I have every reason not to be late,' he said lightly. 'Give me a minute or so...'

He did not need to fret about finding her. Susan was seen standing by the front door as he approached, and she pointed to a visitor's parking slot. He gaped on taking in the glaring white sundress that shaped her. As a man, not an artist, he gloried in the swell of her breasts and the sight of her legs that the frilly hem of her skirt, finishing just above her knees, could not fully conceal. She had dressed for him. He found that her smile was even better than he had seen earlier in the afternoon.

'You look simply wonderful, Susan,' was the only thing he could say as he stepped from the van and closed the door.

'And you're complimenting me, again,' Susan answered. She felt flattered that Pat should have changed out of what she had seen him wear on first meeting him. His pale cream linen suit was a perfect complement to a sky-blue shirt and his engaging smile accompanied his gaze upon her. 'Just bring the picture inside and we....'

'And we can then go out...have supper and a drink somewhere if you don't mind being seen with me in my van?'

'Don't tease me,' she whispered as he was seen to tug open the loading doors and eased the picture from under its cloth wrapping. The paper covering it rustled in the evening breeze. 'I thought of it too and so I decided to book a table.'

'Wow!' he laughed on standing up, the picture held in his hands. 'Yes, wow! First, it's the dress and now what you've just told me. Sometimes events overtake you.'

'That's true, Pat...so true.' She had felt it too, but Pat had found the words to express what had been at work in her.

She loved his teasing ways but sensed that there was a genuineness in what he had told her. He had to be someone else, and not the street artist with his captivating ways; the seducer with fine words but no real substance behind the man she now saw as the door to her ground floor apartment was opened.

'Come on, I want to see the picture in the room I've decided to hang it in.' Susan said it nervily on clutching his arm for an instant. 'I hope the afternoon carried on as it began for you?'

'It did,' he replied, glancing at her for only a moment as he walked awkwardly through the door she had pointed at, 'and for you?'

He took in the glaring whiteness of the walls, the blues in the fabrics of the curtains and seat coverings, in the lampshades, and even in the heavily embroidered rugs on the spotlessly clean marble floor. It was modern styling at its best and so in keeping with the culture of the island; its vibrancy.

'I wondered what you would make of the place I call home and live alone in, now.' Susan was seen pointing to a wall over a low sideboard, fashioned out of what he took to be reclaimed timber and even driftwood, but beautifully crafted. 'I thought of hanging it there, out of the direct sunlight. I can look at it whenever I'm at the table. Dinner guests can do that too.'

He held it up without being prompted. 'If you've got a hammer and a picture hook, I can hang it up while I'm here...'

'And before we go out. Don't forget that, will you?' she replied, again touching his arm for an instant. He met Susan's appraising look upon him. 'I...I've wondered who you are and I'm doing that again now when I see how you are dressed and speak to me. You're not just a man living off his art, are you?'

'No, I'm not, Susan, but the story is for the telling over supper. Now, about that hammer and picture hook?'

'Okay...okay...I'll get them. My ex left a toolbox in the hall cupboard. I meant what I asked, though.'

She had volunteered some more information about herself.

'I know that Susan...you lovely lady in white. You'll get an answer, but it will be over supper. I can't just look at you and say nothing, can I?'

They were oblivious to all around them, their table for two sets at the edge of a terrace that left ample space for diners to walk to the railing and gaze down at the ocean below or the remains of the sunset, the surface of the sea like a sheet of wrinkled silver foil. The candle, in its fluted glass, flickered and flared in the breeze; its glow, along with others on tables nearby, offered a mesmerizing sight. They hardly had breath to eat as they chattered and disclosed so much more about themselves; did so if this was the only opportunity to do so and every moment not to be wasted.

Susan felt him clutch her hand as she chose to rest it on the table close to his.

'There's nothing else to tell,' he confided. 'I got out and decided to live a little differently. I have the money to do that...live small back home and still have space enough for a studio. Our lives have followed similar tracks although I haven't been through what you've told me about. I still find it hard to believe that you were treated so badly...'

'My ex played away but I got the last laugh.' Pat heard again the bitterness in her tone; squeezed Susan's hand in comforting acknowledgment. The lovely woman seated beside him was as free of cloying commitments as he was. 'And you?'

'I never came close to that...'

'You didn't like to feel closed in?' she prompted, wiping at her lips with the starched napkin. Their meal was over so they could talk and; decide on where their impetuous ways with each other would now lead them. She had control; had persuaded Pat that they drive in her car to the restaurant after his van had been safely parked. Whatever happened between them, discretion was at the top of her list, but Pat's ready acceptance of what she had suggested confirmed that he realized that too.

'No, it's not a fear of being closed in. How could you feel that if you loved someone or had struck gold...so to speak, with the person you were with. No, I never met someone whom I felt that I'd clicked with and who gave me space for my work, then, and now my art. The last one I was with, a few months back, had other ideas. They have all ended the same way. And now here I am.'

'And now you're in control?'

'Yes, Susan...as far as you can ever say that where someone else is involved, or when you meet someone who changes that.' Pat looked at her in the half-light and he saw Susan nod. 'What we're doing here is rather off the wall, but it also feels right.' He leaned in closer and squeezed her hand tightly as he kissed her lips in the briefest of touches. 'You might be the person to have gotten through to me as no one else has done.'

She heard the certainty in his voice. 'We're saying quite a lot for a first date...'

At length, Pat broke the silent spell that they had fallen between them.

'I'm doing a lot of staring and touching. You make it difficult for me not to. Tell me if I should stop?'

'No, I won't do that!' Susan answered in a low confiding voice, her smile lingering upon him before she turned away. I want to keep his attention on me, she thought. There's an intensity that I want to hold onto, now that I've discovered what he thinks and feels about me and all that he has confessed. The gifted artist was only a part of the man she was seated next to.

'Are you okay with what I've said?'

'Yes, sudden as it is,' she chose to admit. 'What will you do when you return to England?'

Pat pressed his fingers to her lips to silence her questioning. He then felt Susan kiss them.

'I want to live out what I've found while I'm here, first.' He pulled on her hand. 'Let's see where that takes us. I might even persuade you to let me paint a small portrait of you...my lady in white.'

She had laughed in dismay at what he had said, Pat's touches to her thigh exciting a sudden riot of emotions and the ache of longing in her belly; the soft skin of her thighs caressed when Pat thought it safe to do so. The flurry of uninhibited kisses they had shared in the restaurant's car park had been but a prelude to this moment.