A Cape Cod Love Affair

A Cape Cod Love Affair

by

T. J. Robertson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2007 T. J. Robertson

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I saw her for the first time down on Cape Cod on one of those lazy, hazy days of summer from which tourists and locals alike seek relief by heading to the nearest beach. In my case it happened to be the one at Paine’s Creek in Brewster, one of those rare gems on the Cape that the hoards of summer visitors have yet to overrun. I had just come back up to the parking lot from taking a swim and was toweling myself off when I happened to glance up.

She was sitting on a lounge chair, gazing down at the beach below. Long black hair cascaded over the back of her chair and the pink ribbon on her broad-brimmed straw hat and the hem on her light summer dress fluttered seductively in the gentle summer breeze. Even though I didn’t know what she looked like--aviator sunglasses and the brim of the hat hid her face--there was something about her that drew me irresistibly to her. Suddenly, as if sensing my scrutiny, she turned and, for a fleeting moment, our eyes met before hers broke away and resumed their watch upon the beach below.

Since that July was warmer and drier than usual, I would bicycle down there every day between one and three as much as to catch another glimpse of her as to take a swim. Because she, like me, had fallen in love with the place--even if it was, as I was later to learn, for different reasons--she could be found sitting on the same chair at the same spot during the same hours.

While I was trying to find a way to wangle an introduction--without, of course, making a fool of myself--Mother Nature gave me the opportunity that I was looking for. It came in the form of a gust of wind which picked up her straw hat and carried it down to the beach below. Instinctively I was on my feet and racing down to retrieve it. When I got back and, breathlessly, handed it to her, she pushed aside an errant strand of hair and looked up at me over the top of her sunglasses. Thanks, you didn’t have to do that, she said in a soft, sincere voice.

Oh, no problem, I replied with a pretense of nonchalance. After that I don’t know how long I stood there, tongue-tied, before I broke the awkward silence. My name’s Jack Roberts, I said, extending my hand which she took like a present she didn’t know what to do with. I’m down here for the summer.

The pregnant pause that followed made it obvious she had no intention of giving me her name. Nice to meet you, she replied and, with those words, got up, folded her chair, and turned to leave.

I took a step toward her and, then, thought better of it, saying feebly, Perhaps we’ll see one another again.

Perhaps, she replied with a fleeting backward glance.

The lack of enthusiasm in her response didn’t go unnoticed but I shrugged it off. I don’t know how long I stood, rooted there, and watched resignedly as she wended her way down a well-worn path and disappeared among the sand dunes. When at last I climbed onto my bicycle for the return trip home, I found myself taking one last look at the dunes but she was nowhere to be seen. At least I got an introduction, I murmured, pedaling slowly away, and one thing’s for sure: she’s staying in one of the summer homes nearby.

The following day all I got from her was a nod. The next one wasn’t much better; for, I had to settle for a terse Hi.

When it comes to looks, I’m neither a Brad Pitt nor a Danny DeVito. I’m somewhere in between the two. If I have a crooked nose--thanks to an errant hockey puck--and big ears, I’ve also got curly blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a humorous, kindly mouth all of which rest upon a trim, muscular frame that I’ve always meticulously maintained by jogging, bicycling, and swimming.

At the risk of appearing to brag I can honestly say that, whenever it came to social events like dances or proms, more often than not, I was the hunted, not the hunter. So it goes without saying that if her rejection of me didn’t shatter my ego, it certainly damaged it. All the more so because intuitively I felt that she was someone special--perhaps even the one I had been waiting for forever.

If I wasn’t exactly a disbeliever in the role that fate or destiny plays in our lives, I was at least a skeptic. However, several days after she had given me the cold-shoulder--or at least what I perceived to be such--an incident occurred which would forever turn me into an ardent believer. That afternoon--another in a string of July scorchers--I had gone into the water for my daily swim. Since I was an accomplished swimmer, it wasn’t unusual for me to end up fifty feet off shore. On this occasion I am sure I was beyond even that when suddenly I heard a voice off to the right of me, hollering, Help me; somebody, please help me!

I turned and saw the head of a sandy-haired, freckle-faced teenager bobbing up and down as he whizzed past me. Realizing the seriousness of his plight--he was caught in a rip tide--I quickly swam over to it and soon found myself also within its grip and being swept out behind him. Swim sideways and you’ll get free of it! I yelled.

Either he didn’t hear me or, in a panic, was too busy trying, in vain, to get back to shore, his arms all the while flailing away like a windmill gone amok. I knew only too well that all this effort would soon exhaust him.

Fortunately, just as I was getting close to him, both of us were thrown free of it. Okay, I said, trying to reassure him, now let’s start swimming toward shore.

He took a few strokes and, then, glassy-eyed and dazed, muttered, I--I can’t go on.

The sound of resignation in his voice alarmed me. Of course, you can, I urged. With those words I reached across with my right arm and seized him by the neck, all the while holding his chin above water, and with the other one struggled to propel both of us shoreward.

After what seemed an eternity, a lifeguard along with some swimmers reached us and, pulling his limp body from my grasp, managed to get him onto a floating sled and drag him back to shore. When at last my feet touched bottom, I staggered onto the beach and dropped down onto my knees, exhausted and gasping for breath.

Meanwhile a bunch of good Samaritans had crowded around the teenager who was lying down, motionless, on the sand across from me. Foremost among them was the pretty brunette, who, in an uncharacteristic way, had cast aside both her hat and glasses and hurried over to take matters into her own hands. On her knees, leaning over him, she was administering mouth to mouth resuscitation and, at that moment, I think I would’ve willingly changed places with him if only to feel the caress of her hair upon my chest.

When, at last, I saw him moving, I breathed a sigh of relief. Not long afterwards an ambulance arrived, took him aboard, and raced off toward the Cape Cod Hospital. Still weary, I lay down on the beach and closed my eyes. When at last I opened them again, she--her sunglasses and hat back in place--was hovering above me. Are you okay? she asked.

I’ll live. As I struggled to my feet, I could feel her hand on my arm and, as if touched by a magic wand, I immediately felt better. How’s he doing? I asked, gesturing to the spot where he had lain.

He’ll live, too, she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, thanks to you.

From what I just saw, you’re the one who deserves the thanks, I replied, returning her compliment.

Unfortunately our conversation came to an abrupt end as a roly-poly man with bulbous eyes and a scimitar-like nose--the latter made to order for sticking into other people’s business--came waddling over. What you two did today was wonderful, he gushed, trying in vain to loosen the string on the bathing suit that was much too small for him. I’m going to see that you get the recognition you deserve in the Cape Cod Times. Brandishing a small notebook and pencil, he turned to her and said, Now what’s your name?

She froze but quickly recovered, replying, There’s no need to make a fuss, I only did what anyone else would’ve done in a similar situation. The important thing is that the boy’s going to be all right.

With those words she turned and walked briskly back to her lounge chair, leaving him bewildered and disappointed. What’s her name? he asked, turning his attention to me.

Beats me, I said, throwing up my hands, I wish I knew.

She’s either a nurse or a doctor.

Oh? My ears suddenly perked up. What makes you say that?

She sure as heck knew what she was doing over there, he said, successfully loosening the string on his bathing suit and giving his stomach more breathing room.

Yes, it appears she did, I murmured, glancing up and catching sight of her stealing away once again, chair in hand.

She was so camera shy, she ran off and left her towel there, he said gesturing with his hand. As I moved off to retrieve it, he demanded, Where are you going? When I didn’t answer, he hollered after me, Hey, you haven’t given me your name, either.

Just call me Sir Galahad, I replied, picking up the towel and glancing back at him in one motion, I’m on my way to do a good deed.

But you’ve already done one.

Ah, but this one involves a fair damsel. With a mock bow, I, too beat a hasty retreat.

Up in the parking lot I searched the dunes for another glimpse of her--all in vain. Once again she had vanished as quickly as she had appeared. As I climbed onto my bike and began to pedal away, holding on to the towel for dear life, I couldn't help but chuckle at the roly-poly one, who remained back on the beach, shaking his head and brandishing the pencil. Cinderella and Cinderfella--a plague on both your houses, he fumed.

That night I washed and folded the towel and, on a whim, neatly wrapped a pink ribbon--identical to the one on her straw hat--around it. Since I had been unsuccessful so far in gaining her favor, when I returned it to her the next day, I would try to do so once again. Only this time with a touch of humor.

The next morning, however, because of a faulty circulator and heavy carbon buildup, what I had thought would be a routine service call to inspect my furnace turned out to be an all-day affair. So, late that afternoon I found myself pedaling furiously down to Paine’s Creek. Arriving there just as she was leaving, I bounded over and handed her the towel. Your towel, my lady, I said with a sweeping bow. I should’ve known by the look in her eyes what a terrible blunder I had committed but, instead, made it even more so by going on in a falsetto voice:

"Have no fear, Lady Guinevere,

Sir Galahad’s always near."

She burst out laughing and, mistakenly assuming that my humor had been a roaring success, I joined in with her. But so heartily and so long did she do so that I found myself saying self-deprecatingly, Apparently I’ll never make a living as a poet.

It’s got nothing to do with your poetry, she replied,