by Alyssa Day
"How would you know?" Meredith, the five-foot-nothing ball of pragmatism disguised as her best friend, said. “He doesn’t even have a phone, you said.”
"I know. I know," she said. "Look. It's just that . . . it's just that today was going to be the day."
"The day? Oh. The day. Oh, wow. And he hasn't even shown up?"
Lyric paced the carefully measured length of her small studio, wondering whether she should go in the back to her tiny apartment and make some tea.
Drink a shot of whiskey.
Or order some mail-order Valium – was that a thing? It should be a thing.
"It's not even … it's not even that I expect him to say it back. It's just that after six years I feel like I need to tell him. Need to find out. Be able to move on."
Meredith walked over and took one of Lyric's hands in both of hers. "He's a fool if he doesn't love you back, and nobody needs a fool. So either way, you'll be better off once you know.”
“I know. You’re right. You’re always right,” Lyric admitted, sighing.
“So smart of you to realize it.” With a quick squeeze, Meredith let go of Lyric’s hand. "Well, whatever is stressing you out, I can see you've been cleaning. It looks amazing in here. When the tourists show up, I predict a sellout in minutes.”
The studio and tiny attached gallery were Lyric’s pride and joy. Luckily for her, Aunt Jean had never subscribed to the theory that you can't make a living in the arts. She’d encouraged Lyric's talent for drawing and then painting, buying easels and colored pencils and paper and paints, going to art shows, driving to special classes.
It had started with art therapy. A way to cope with her loss. Aunt Jean was a big fan of coping and therapy. But it had become so much more. The first time Lyric put her hands in clay; the first time she put charcoal pencil to paper, she knew she'd found something that would give her the world. She hadn’t been blind since birth. The car accident had taken her eyes as well as her family. So she knew color and shadows and light, and she could see the world in her memory and imagination.
All it had taken was for her to build up the confidence to realize that she could draw what was in her mind without seeing what she drew or painted on her canvas. And then the surprise of learning about the insurance money from the accident that Jean had carefully invested for years, just waiting for Lyric to need it.
She’d found the studio with its tiny attached apartment. She’d been ready, and she’d had the money, thank to her aunt’s careful stewardship. She had independence, and she guarded it fiercely.
As for the painting, well, she remembered a lot. She imagined more. And, after all, she wasn't one hundred percent blind. There were glimmers of light sometimes. And lately – for the past six years, in fact – there'd been something else.
Something more.
She'd noticed it the first time she’d had the insane idea to grind up a gemstone into her paint. It didn't make sense. It was a gimmick, her painter friends had told her. But it hadn't been a gimmick at all. It'd been a kind of pathway to taking one more step up the ladder toward the ultimate expression of her talent. Something about the gemstones actually helped her envision the colors of the images she wanted to create.
And there was more. More that she’d never told anyone, not even Meredith, who would understand or Jean, who wouldn't but would pretend to.
When she sang – sang to the gemstones – she somehow felt that the tiny bit of vision she had left was enhanced. That light was brighter and filled more of her visual field. She could almost see colors. Certainly, she could imagine them in her mind more vividly than she'd been able to see them since the accident.
It didn't make sense. She knew it didn’t make sense. But what made sense didn't always matter. What made sense was sometimes a barrier to art.
And barriers were only something to break through. Go around, go through, or jump over. She’d learned that lesson the hard way eighteen years ago, and it wasn't one she was about to forget.
But the barrier of vastly different cultures that stood between her and the Atlantean man she'd fallen in love with? The one who called himself a pirate and said he was no good?
Was that a barrier she could cross? Was that a barrier she should cross?
She's been asking herself the same questions for the past year, with no better luck at finding answers than she was having right now.
Meredith, who'd been setting up Lyric's paints and humming a Christmas carol to herself, finished the task and brushed her hands off on her pants. The sound shook Lyric out of her mental reverie, and she crossed the six steps to her right until she reached the counter. She picked up the plateful of hot steaming goodness and held it up toward her friend.
"You may have noticed that I made gingerbread cookies for you?"
"I was trying to ignore them. You're killing me. I swear I gain twenty pounds every Christmas just from your baking," Meredith groaned.
Lyric put the plate back on the counter. "If you don't want any…”
"Gimme."
They sat on stools at the counter, drinking coffee and eating cookies, and talked about everything and nothing, deliberately dancing around the only subject that held center stage in Lyric's mind.
Where was he? Was he okay?
Would he even come – would he ever come again?
It's not like she could email [email protected] and get an answer.
"He never even gave me a phone number."
"I know. That's just wrong. Are you sure he's not married? The no-phone-number thing is a big red flag to me," Meredith grumbled.
"It hasn't been that long since Atlantis came up from beneath the sea," Lyric reminded her friend. "It's not like they had cell phone service available down there."
"I know, I know. But it’s time to get one now," Meredith pointed out, while taking another cookie.
"Well, maybe it's no good to him. After all, he's a ship captain. Maybe there's no service on the middle of the ocean. How would I know?"
"They did have Wi-Fi on the cruise I took," Meredith said.
"I don't really get the feeling his ship is a cruise ship. It's more like a cargo ship. He transports things."
"Aha. Listen. You already told me, that night we went out for cactus margaritas, that the man calls himself a pirate. He doesn't even have a last name, or so he claims. I don't think this is the kind of guy you need to get involved with, whether he shows up or not. Whether he says he loves you or not. It scares me."
Lyric could hear the sincerity in the troubled sound of her friend’s voice. She nodded, but then shook her head. "No. I've been talking to him for six years. Granted, only a few times a year and then only for a few hours at a time. But he's not secretly married. He's not hiding something evil. He's not a criminal. He's ... special. Kind of funny and brilliant and –"
"I know, I know. He's all that and a bag of chips," Meredith said. "I hope he shows up. I really do. Do you want me to stay?"
"No ... no. I'm fine. You got all the new paints set out?"
"All set out in the proper order," Meredith confirmed. "We didn't get the yellow ochre that you wanted, but it’s supposed to come in next week. Hey, I gotta run. Things to do, yada yada."
"Why don’t you take some cookies with you? Take lots."
Meredith laughed. "But my ass will never fit in my jeans again if I eat one more cookie. You keep them. I bet pirates love gingerbread cookies."
Meredith leaned in and gave Lyric quick hug, and then headed out, whistling as she walked. Meredith was someone who always lived in the moment, and sometimes Lyric wished she could be more like her friend.
She stood up, taking a cookie with her, and walked toward her easel. The painting was nearly finished. She’d had thoughts the night before about what she might do next, and thinking about it carried over into her dreams, which wasn't all that unusual for her. She dreamed of visions of bright vibrant colors, as if the moonlight gave wings to her imagination and offered her the gift of wh
at the day had stolen from her.
Almost Christmas. She’d had to smile and evade with so many people. She had an amazing group of friends whom she loved and who loved her. She'd received a multitude of invitations to spend Christmas with this family or that; with this couple or that group of singles. She would have no lack of choice for where to eat her Christmas goose, if anybody even ate Christmas goose anymore outside of the Dickens tale. But she hadn’t wanted to commit to anything, because she had The Plan.
Christmas was her favorite time of the year, and it had been the week before Christmas six years ago when she’d first met Dare. He’d barged into her studio, larger than life, blocking the light and taking up more psychic space than was possible, as if he defied the laws of physics themselves. He'd been rude, surly, and fascinating.
"Are you the artist? And what kind of name is Lyric for an artist? You should be a musician with that name." The surly voice that asked the question was rich and deep like honey poured over melted chocolate. A tiny shiver went up Lyric's spine at the sound, and she turned toward the visitor, paint brush in hand.
"No, I'm the cobbler," she said brightly. "Do you need shoes?"
He laughed, but she could hear the note of surprise in his laughter. Maybe he wasn't a man who found much humor in life.
"Point to you. You're the painter, I’m the pirate. I've got your gemstones. Do you have my money?"
"I have your money. If you're a pirate, what are you doing on land? Do you have the habit of making all your deliveries personally? Even I have an assistant. Maybe you're not a very good pirate."
She brushed her hands off on her skirt and then put them in her pockets to hide the fact that they were trembling just a little. She didn't know why, but she instinctively knew she didn't want him to see it. She needed a strong front with this one, she could tell already.
She walked over to the counter and reached underneath for her purse. "How many gemstones, what kind, and what do you want for them?"
She raised her face to look in the direction of where she knew his was, and ignored his sharp inhalation.
He’d just figured out she was blind. They all took a moment or two to get used to the idea.
She waited for the questions, sighing a little to herself. Here we go.
How can a blind person be an artist? A painter?
Or the false flattery – the condescension. Oh what a nice painting you have there. (For a blind person was always implied if not outright stated.)
She wasn’t some kind of trained monkey or an oddity for people to stare at. She turned down any media requests that had the slightest hint of being about how good she was--for a woman painter. How good she was for a blind painter.
She just wanted to be a good painter. Period.
“So, I have a question," he said.
Lyric took a deep breath and steeled herself for the stupidity, knowing it would ruin the incipient fantasy she had going about him just from the sound of his voice.
"Is that a cat or a footstool with feet?"
She laughed a little bit at the memory. He’d caught her off guard and made her laugh then, too. Made her smile. Made her want to talk to him. They’d talked for hours, and she'd even invited him to dinner, which had been a bold move for her. She was a homebody, and he was a man she'd never met.
A self-proclaimed pirate.
She'd been exhilarated by her daring – ha. Daring. She was making stupid puns now.
But Dare had declined. He’d said he had other engagements to keep. She’d fancied that she heard a little regret in his tone, or so she comforted herself later.
But he came back. He came back the next month, even though she hadn't put in an order with the intermediary for more rare gems. Only gemstones from the Fae lands worked as a catalyst for her paints, and they were very hard to get.
But Dare came to visit her, anyway. He brought a few stones, and then a month later he brought a few more. These were from Atlantis, he’d told her. From his personal collection.
He wouldn’t let her pay for them, and he’d told her some crazy story about how she could cause an international incident between Atlantis and the United States if she refused his gift.
She'd been about ninety-nine percent sure he was full of crap, but that one percent had made her stop arguing and accept the gems as graciously as she'd known how to.
And so it went. After a year of sporadic visits, he finally went out to dinner with her.
By the third year, he’d trusted her enough to tell her about Atlantis.
By the fourth year, he’d finally allowed her to touch his face and learn what he looked like from her fingertips – and the sensation of his skin, warm beneath her hands, had gone straight to her soul.
The touch had lingered on the tips of her fingers for months.
By the fifth year, she knew she'd fallen in love with him. This man she’d never even kissed had a claim on her heart. She just didn't know how to tell him, so she didn't. And then…well, then his visits became more sporadic.
He came once every three months or so instead of every month. Also, he seemed increasingly abrupt and on edge. She didn't know why. When she'd asked him, he’d said only that he never signed up to be an ambassador. All the hoopla surrounding Atlantis finally rising from beneath the sea had been hard on all of them, he said, and he was definitely getting his share of problems from the people he usually did business with. They all wanted something from him. Access. Partnerships. Sales channels. Black-market goods from Atlantis.
It was too much, and he was sick to death of it.
Enough that you’d give up going to sea, she'd asked him once.
"Never." He’d sounded shocked at the thought. “Being a sea captain isn’t only what I do, Lyric. It's who I am. Without the sea, I’d be nothing.”
A shiver snaked its way through her at the memory. Really, could anything have been a more clear warning to stay away? Without the sea, he’d be nothing. Where was the space for a quiet homebody of an artist in that life?
Her watch chimed out a lilting melody, telling her it was seven o'clock. An hour past time to close. He hadn't come. He wasn't coming. At least not now. Maybe he’d arrive later in the week or after the new year. She could talk to him then. She could tell him…
Or she could not tell him.
She was starting to feel like not telling him might be the wiser choice. She needed to accept that it was time to move on. Time to get thoughts of the honey-voiced Atlantean pirate out of her mind and out of her heart, before she had a chance to fall any further.
"All I need is you, Picasso. Right?"
Picasso arched his back under her hand and purred as she stroked his silky head.
"Time to close up shop." She turned toward the door, but before she even took a first step, it crashed open.
"I think I need your help,” a man groaned. It was Dare; she knew him instantly. She could smell the sharp scent of wind and sky and saltwater that was uniquely his; she could pick his voice out of a thousand others.
"Dare?" She started toward him. “Are you hurt--"
"I think I need –"
A heavy thud was the only conclusion to his sentence. He'd collapsed. She rushed over and knelt down beside him. She reached for his pulse, her fingers finding their way to the spot. It was there; strong and reassuring. He was soaking wet, though; his skin was icy cold and he was shivering violently.
"Dare? Dare? What happened?"
He didn't answer. Maybe he couldn’t answer. And of course she couldn't see him, so she couldn’t even guess how badly he was hurt.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and told it to call Dr. Miller.
No. She pressed END CALL.
"Call 911."
No pirates were going to die on her watch.
3
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Chri
stmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
-- The Gift of the Magi, O. Henry (1917)
Dare was pretty sure he was dead.
Or at least deep beneath the ocean and about to be dead. He tossed and turned, fighting the shards of pain ripping up his head and lungs. Fighting to break through the darkness surrounding him. He had flashes of awareness – flashes of color and light. And each time, the beautiful face of what must be an angel was right there looking down at him.
Individual words pierced the haze of his mind. Geometric shapes of language that stabbed him and prodded him with sharp edges but had no meaning to the chaos in his brain.
His head hurt like it'd never hurt before, and he'd certainly been a victim of many mishaps considering his calling. Life on the high seas wasn't exactly designed for the faint of heart—or the fragile of bone. But this was different. His brains – if he had any left – were surely leaking out his ears.
Someone or something opened his eyelids, and the light from the lamp spiked into his eyes. He tried to remember how to form words but managed only a harsh grunting noise that he hoped to the nine hells somebody recognized as the word stop.
The light went away, at least, and they let him close his eyes, but that's when it occurred to him that he might not be dead after all. Unless he was in fact caught in the first level of the nine hells; trapped for eternity for a life filled with misdeeds and self-absorption.
A gentle voice that rang with an undertone of silvery bells spoke next. "You're going to be fine, Dare. It's only a concussion."
