Firefly Beach

by Meira Pentermann

  “So I can trust him with my ring?”

  “Absolutely. It will be flawless, nothing less. And while you’re in there, treat yourself to a custom brooch or pendant. The man is a genius. See, he keeps a little notebook. When he meets a customer, often times a stranger passing through town…” She swished her hand through the air and said, “I recommend him to all my guests. Anyway, when he meets someone, he looks them over and scrupulously enters notes in a little book, like a journal. Later he delivers a masterpiece so suited for the individual you would think he’d have known them all his life. It is like he can look inside a person, read them, you know?”

  Beth nodded. She pulled her cardigan closer around her chest. She did not like the idea of a man being able to see her with some kind of intimate intuition, making private notes in a little jeweler’s diary. “I certainly don’t need the man to read me, just measure my finger, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m just saying. If you ever want to spoil yourself.”

  Beth frowned and looked away. She certainly wasn’t going to spend her mother’s inheritance on a personal luxury. Her mother never treated herself to anything frivolous. It would not be right. No, she would wait until her own business brought in enough money for such an indulgence, if she purchased one at all.

  “I’ll just get my ring resized, thank you very much,” she said with defiance.

  Mary smirked with an air of knowing something undisclosed. She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of wine.

  Lou popped his head around the corner, a grin upon his face. “My guy in Portland found the parts I need. He’ll be Fed-Exing them to me. I’ll get them in the morning and should have you up and running by noon.”

  Beth looked up. “Wonderful.” She turned to Mary. “In the meantime, may I help you with dinner?”

  Beth followed Mary into the kitchen, feeling a bit out of her element. She never was much of a cook, but she followed directions very well. Under Mary’s careful supervision, a lasagna and a Caesar salad were on the table by six o’clock.

  Mary chattered throughout the dinner, but Beth’s mind drifted in and out of the conversation. Her thoughts were filled with new ideas. She reviewed the day’s sights and sounds as she satisfied her healthy appetite with bites of lasagna and garlic bread. Beth caught her reflection in the window and was surprised at how serene, and even youthful, she looked. Barely a week had passed since she bid farewell to the adobe-dotted hills of Albuquerque, but her journey had already transcended the geographical distance.

  Chapter 4

  Follow Me

  Beth awoke on Friday morning, briefly disturbed by the memory of the firefly racing at an unnatural speed toward her bay window. She glanced around the room for a moment, trying to get her bearings. The bed and breakfast, she remembered, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Brushing away her anxious feelings, she decided to greet the day with enthusiasm. After all, she was eager to set up the studio, paint a preliminary draft of The Virginia Point Cove, and possibly unpack her gardening gear. The pitiful little garden would need attention soon. There were too many things to do.

  After she showered and ate breakfast, she attempted to offer Mary some financial compensation for her stay at The Cove.

  “Nonsense. Just paint me a hell of a picture.”

  Beth bought a few staples at the grocery store on the way home, put away the milk and cheese, and ran upstairs to the studio. The morning sun gave the room a warm and inviting glow. Beth hummed softly and returned to the task of assembling the drawers, which would hold various sizes and types of paper as well as large sheets of canvas.

  Lou puttered around the house clanging tools against pipes, but he did not disturb Beth. She found his presence somewhat comforting. After about forty-five minutes, Lou called up the stairs. “Beth?”

  “Yes?” She jumped to her feet and headed down the hallway.

  “Everything should be good now.”

  “You’re the best, Lou. Thank you,” she said as she descended the stairs. “You will bill Mr. Thompson?”

  “Yes, ma’—” he began. “Ahem. Yes, and don’t you worry about old Rod. He’ll pay me. And if he don’t, I’ll just come collecting a painting or two from you.” He winked at her, waved hastily, and made his way to the door.

  “Thank you for your hospitality the past couple of nights.”

  “Our pleasure,” he called over his shoulder as he walked along the stepping stones leading to the gravel drive.

  Beth returned to the studio. Once the drawers were set up, she unpacked the remaining things and hauled all the empty boxes to the side of the house. By then it was late morning, but she wanted to get a little work under her belt before lunch. She pulled out her preliminary sketch of the bed and breakfast and arranged it neatly on one of the easels. On the other easel, she put a thick piece of eighteen by twenty-four inch, acid-free paper. After that she mixed colors on a palette and stood back, looking at both the sketch and the empty piece of paper. The first go would be for practice. She would need to visit The Cove again at sunrise, make more details on her sketch, and soak in the radiant colors highlighted by the early morning sun.

  Beth found she captured the light better when she painted from the images she tucked away in her mind. The sketch helped her fill in the details. Her habit in high school had been to make a detailed sketch of the object in the room and then turn her canvas away when it was time to paint. At first it drove her teacher crazy, but as her obvious talent emerged, he allowed her the space to practice her art in whatever fashion suited her.

  That morning in the studio, she planned to experiment with color. On the following day, if she was ready, she would head over to the bed and breakfast just before dawn. Hopefully, Mary would be busy with her new guests and not notice her. Beth needed to focus when she worked, and she did not wish to be hustled in for breakfast with a group of strangers. She made a mental note to excuse herself if invited.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, an exhausted Beth took a long, hot shower. She pulled on her pajamas and prepared to get into bed. As she passed her window, she saw a shimmer of light near the cliff. The firefly.

  Beth’s stomach turned over. “Oh no you don’t,” she said, trying to sound courageous.

  Grateful that she had not yet taken down the old curtains for a trip to the cleaners, she quickly crossed the room to pull them shut. As she reached up to grab the left curtain, the firefly flew swiftly toward her and stopped less than a foot from the window. Beth’s hand froze. She was terrified, yet fascinated.

  “What are you?” she whispered.

  As if in response, the firefly swooped and danced. After a moment, it began to repeat a pattern – up to the window slowly, followed by a swift lunge down toward the large boulder near the edge of the forest. Over and over again it dove, as if beckoning Beth.

  “No!” Beth said firmly, and she drew the curtains closed violently. Unfortunately, they were several inches too short to cover the windows. “Damn.” Beth shivered as a deep chill went through her body. She grabbed her large blue sweatshirt and climbed into bed, leaving her three-way bedside lamp on its lowest setting of twenty-five watts. For a long time, she stared at the ceiling. She pulled the comforter way up to her chin and grasped it like a security blanket. She glanced at the clock every now and again – 11:16 p.m., 12:01 a.m., 12:48 a.m., and 1:19 a.m. Sometime between 1:30 and 2:00, she fell asleep.

  She was beset by disturbing dreams; rapid firing images flashed before her eyes – a car screeching down a country road, a yellow duck, her father’s face. She awoke with a start. Why am I dreaming about my father after all of these years? Don’t haunt me now, Dad, not when I am alone and feeling insecure. She opened her eyes, intending to get up and grab a drink of water. The firefly hovered two feet from her face. She screamed with her full lung capacity for a full thirty seconds.

  The firefly backed up quickly into the corner of the room near the ceiling.

  Beth breathed deeply, he
r heart racing. She pulled herself out of her bed, absentmindedly clutching the comforter to her chest, and she bravely walked toward the floating ball of light. Slowly, the firefly descended to Beth’s eye level. She stared at the curious object, which no longer looked anything like a firefly. It was round, the size of a large marble, and it was pure light – no wings, no legs, no eyes – just a tiny ball of light.

  Beth dropped the comforter to the floor and cautiously lifted her hands to cradle the light creature. She cupped her hands and raised them to within a few inches of the ball of light. Before she could blink, it zoomed straight at the window and through the pane, as if there were no glass. It swooped down by the boulder and hovered.

  Beth clutched the curtains and peered out. She shuddered. The “firefly” seemed to be summoning her. Curiosity overcame her fear. She slipped off her pajama bottoms and tugged on a pair of loose, faded gardening jeans. Still wearing the blue sweatshirt, she hurried down the stairs and out the back door.

  The light creature remained at the edge of the forest, waiting for her. When she appeared, the creature leapt and twirled joyfully. Then, as Beth approached, it flew north and disappeared in the woods. Beth followed. She slipped on mossy rocks and almost tripped over a fallen branch. She grabbed a tree to catch her balance. Dawn approached, but in the woods, it was dark except for the light of the firefly. Every once and a while, the creature stopped, as if to make sure that Beth was keeping up. They worked their way through the woods for about a mile before the firefly flew out of the trees and into a small clearing at the edge of a cliff. Then, all of a sudden, it plunged down and seemed to vanish. Beth dropped to her stomach and eased herself to the rim. The growing light of day shimmered on the water.

  At the bottom Beth saw a small beach, no more than ten feet across, surrounded by jagged rocks on all sides. The surface of the beach, covered with sand and small rocks, appeared to be about two stories down. It formed a skewed horseshoe shape, which tucked into the rocks on Beth’s left and slanted down to the bay on her right. The beach dropped off quickly and became rocky near the end of the tiny cove. The tide was receding, within an hour of low tide. One could walk to the edge of the ebbing tide and still not quite see around the jagged cliffs that formed the inlet. At low tide, the beach would be approximately twenty-five feet from the back of the horseshoe to the shore. At an average high tide it would be no more than ten feet deep and probably completely submerged during an unusually elevated high tide.

  The firefly flew up to the edge, paused briefly, and dove down to the sandy shore.

  “No way. I can’t go down there.”

  The light creature came to a rest within a few inches of Beth’s nose. It was beautiful and mesmerizing with a pure, innocent quality to it. Slowly it traced a path along the side of the cliff just a little to the left of where Beth lay.

  “You’re insane!” Beth cleared her throat. “Although perhaps not as insane as a woman who screams at little balls of light,” she mumbled. “Nope. It’s barely dawn. I’ll break my neck if I try.” Flashing a smile, she added, “But I will mark this spot and have a look in the daylight.” After gathering a few stones, she fashioned a six-inch arrow that pointed toward the beginning of the path indicated by the light creature.

  The ball of light jumped back up over the cliff and began racing in a random, agitated manner around Beth.

  “Tomorrow,” she said firmly, and she walked back toward the cottage. The firefly followed her for almost twenty minutes before it stopped. Beth looked over her shoulder as she reached the edge of the forest, and she could barely see the speck of light, hovering in the trees.

  Beth sighed and entered the house. “I think I’ve finally lost my marbles.” Wearily, she climbed the stairs. She gathered her blanket off the floor, collapsed into bed, and fell into a surprisingly restful sleep.

  Chapter 5

  Rip Van Winkle

  Beth slept in until 9:16 a.m. Drat, she scolded herself. She had missed sunrise at the bed and breakfast. She thought about the evening before and concluded that it must have been a vivid and fascinating dream. She remembered seeing images of her father and then following a marble-sized ball of light. It seemed preposterous in the sobriety of day, but she gazed out the window toward the forest and tentatively wondered whether or not there was a secret beach hidden by the rocky cliff. A thin layer of fog lingered in the forest; wispy tentacles slithered in and around the trees. Goosebumps sprinted up Beth’s arms, and she hugged herself, trying to rub them away. Then she headed for the shower, determined to wash away the foolish thoughts. While she dried her hair, her cell phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Beth, it’s Bobby.”

  “Hello, Bobby.”

  “You’ve made your first sale.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. Our resident hermit bought your flower painting. Who would have figured? But he seemed very pleased with it.”

  “Mr. Thompson bought my painting?” she asked, entirely confused.

  Bobby laughed a deep-throated chortle. “Oh, no, no, no. Mr. Thompson is the town grouch. The town hermit is Kenny McLeary, the jeweler.”

  “Oh really? I…I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. “This is fantastic news.”

  “Congratulations. Come on down and collect your commission any time.”

  “I’ll be there this afternoon,” Beth announced, and she grinned when she hung up the phone.

  Hmm, the jeweler. She tapped her fingers on the edge of the sink. Perhaps it’s time to get Mom’s ring resized.

  * * * *

  Beth approached the jewelry shop a little before noon. At first she was hesitant to go in, but then she gathered up the courage. The door jangled as she entered.

  Inside, the small shop was painted a very bright, pure white. A long oak counter separated the waiting area from the remainder of the store, and a small glass case displayed several rings, pendants, and bracelets. To the right of the door, under a spotless window and next to a small table, stood a comfortable couch in earth tones. On the far wall, Beth’s flower painting hung proudly.

  Behind the counter, a large oak file cabinet stood on the left, and a door on the right led to a workroom. The workroom, in sharp contrast to the pristine waiting area, was a disorderly configuration of workbenches and scattered tools. A nerdy, forty-something gentleman wearing a pair of thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, sat hunched over one of the benches. Untamed, greasy black hair covered his head. Under a stained blue apron, he wore a rumpled flannel shirt and an old pair of jeans. He stooped over something small, looking at it very intensely through a jeweler’s loupe.

  After a moment, he looked up, acknowledged Beth’s presence with a nod, and walked slowly to the counter. He said nothing but looked at Beth expectantly.

  Beth, eager to fill the silence, rattled through her purse. “It’s my mother’s ring,” she stammered, as she dug randomly through an assortment of personal items. “Oh, look. Here it is.” She pulled out a small box.

  Beth placed the box on the counter, removed the lid, and carefully freed the ring from the soft blue silk in which it was wrapped. The jeweler picked it up gently, handling it like a newborn chick. He turned it slowly in his hands and nodded with appreciation.

  “You would like it appraised?” he asked quietly, so faint Beth could barely make out what he said. She caught a hint of a southern accent. He made her feel uncomfortable for some reason. She shivered subtly.

  “Oh, no,” Beth replied. “I would like it resized…to me. I mean, I’d like to have it. I mean, of course, it’s mine. I…I’d like to wear it.” Beth’s stomach turned. She knew she sounded hideous, and she wondered why this man made her feel so flustered. She cleared her throat, determined to take control of the conversation and stop babbling. “Can you resize the ring for my finger?” she asked clearly and assertively.

  Kenny McLeary did not respond verbally. Instead he unlocked a drawer behind the counter, reached in, and pull
ed out a ring-sizing tool – a large silver circle with over thirty loops dangling from it, rings of graduating sizes. He glanced down at Beth’s hand and flipped through the smaller rings. He separated one from the rest and reached for Beth’s right hand. Beth pulled her right hand away and handed him her left hand. If he noticed the awkward movement, he showed no sign of it.

  His hands were rough, but his manner gentle. He carefully tried to push the selected ring onto Beth’s left ring finger. It was too small, so he did not force it. He chose the next largest ring. It slid on smoothly.

  Kenny pulled a small notebook out of the drawer and began to take notes. Without looking up, he said, “Name?”

  “Uh, Beth. Beth LaMonte.”

  “Address?”

  “Oh my goodness. I should know that, shouldn’t I?” Beth laughed nervously. “I just moved in. I live in Rod Thompson’s cottage,” she said, gesturing in the general direction of her house. “I’m an artist. I painted this picture you purchased.” Beth pointed to the flower painting and smiled awkwardly.

  Kenny looked up at the picture, and then he stared at Beth for a moment as if he saw something beyond her physical presence. Beth looked down and away. He unnerved her. The silence was unbearable, and yet she could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  Finally, Kenny broke the silence. “Nice painting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Phone?” He continued to make notes.

  “Area code five-oh-five…”

  Kenny looked up at her, suspicious of the non-local area code.

  “It’s my cell,” Beth explained. “I don’t have a new number here yet. I’m sorry. I can just drop by if you’d like, so you don’t have to call.”