Mermaid

by Judy Griffith Gill

  However, she definitely was feeling exhausted enough to be paranoid, she decided several minutes later, when, having made the three customary turns that would lead her home, she saw the same set of headlights behind her. They were exactly the same distance behind her as they had been when she first noticed them as she’d left the club’s parking lot.

  No matter. She was nearly home and would be safe inside in another thirty seconds. As she turned into the narrow driveway, the other car caught up to her. She shut off her headlights, keeping her doors closed and locked and watched the other vehicle slow to a crawl then stop across the street by the fence that surrounded a small park.

  It was a large white car. An Oldsmobile, she thought, and this year’s model. Not the kind of car normally driven by someone from her neighborhood, but the kind any of the club’s customers might have driven—and a lot of other people as well. Had one of the customers followed her, or was it simply a coincidence that she had noticed it behind her as soon as she’d pulled out of the I parking lot?

  Quietly she opened her door and closed it, heading for the front porch. Of course she hadn’t been followed. The other car had come the same way for reasons that had nothing to do with her. They were probably a couple of kids looking for a quiet place to do a little making out.

  She smiled as she crossed the veranda and glanced across the street again. Yes, that was it. The headlights of the white car went off, but no one got out. She wondered for a moment what kind of parents would lend a kid a car of that caliber and not enforce a much earlier curfew.

  Then, just as she unlocked the front door, a truck came around the corner, its headlights illuminating both sides of the road, and she couldn’t help stealing another look at the car across the street. She froze as did the occupant who was luring at her, and even over the distance, now that her contacts were firmly in place, she recognized him at once.

  Mark Forsythe! Her heart lurched inside her chest and she stared for another second or two, wondering why?

  Suddenly she had to know, but before she could even start across the street, he put the car in gear, turned on the lights, and was gone, leaving only the imprint of bright red taillights flashing green on her retinas as she closed her eyes.

  It was a normal Monday, Jillian thought, if Mondays were supposed to be blue. She hugged Amber to make her feel better, wishing she had someone to hug her and make her feel better too. Why she felt so down was a mystery to her.

  It wasn’t as though she had expected Mark to call or show up on Sunday. It wasn’t that she was really disappointed that he hadn’t made any attempt to talk to her after following her home on Saturday night. It was just...Darn it, she didn’t know what it was, but she’d better get over it before she had to be back at work, smiling, cheerful, performing for a club full of guests who wouldn’t expect a down-in-the-mouth mermaid.

  By Tuesday she was fine and did her three shows with full enthusiasm and energy. It was in the water, under the water, that she felt best. There she was aware of no awkwardness, no lack of grace. There, she knew she was, to her audience, beautiful. She wondered if, when he had watched her last Saturday night, he had thought her beautiful.

  As she showered and changed after work, she wondered if he had been in the audience. She had gazed as best she could into the crowd on the mezzanine, but unless he’d been fairly near the front, she knew she’d never have spotted him. Yet as she pulled out of the parking lot, a car followed her home, pausing half a block away as she got out of her car, went up onto the porch, and unlocked the door. When she opened it again quickly after entering to peek out, the car was gone.

  It hadn’t been a green Mercedes nor had it been a white Oldsmobile. It had been a taxi, and it was here on Wednesday night, too, following her home like a faithful shepherd. She watched for the headlights again on Thursday, saw them following her and smiled, but when they turned into the driveway behind her, she realized that her taxi driver escort was not with her that night.

  Mark was, in the Mercedes.

  She opened her door and got out as he did the same, and they stood looking at each other in the dim light of the yellow bulb over the front door of the house.

  “You followed me,” she said softly, the statement clearly a question. “Last Saturday too. And you’ve had me followed home by a taxi ever since.”

  He nodded. “It’s so late when you leave work. Do you always drive home alone?”

  “Of course.” She seemed surprised he would think otherwise.

  “It’s a dangerous practice, Mermaid. Cars can break down.”

  “Not mine,” she said. “It may not look like much on the outside, but I’m careful to keep it well maintained.” That was something she was always very careful of; women who worked late at night, and traveled home alone had to be confident that I their cars weren’t prone to breakdowns.

  It wasn’t, however, good enough for him. “A tire could go flat.”

  “I’ve known how to change a tire since I was sixteen years old. My dad wouldn’t let me get my license until I could.”

  “And what happens if some creep comes along when you’re out of the car changing that tire?”

  She smiled at the vehemence in his tone. It was touching. Nobody—nobody but her mother—worried about her. “If I’m changing a tire, I’m likely to have a lug wrench in my hand or at least nearby. But thank you for caring.”

  He didn’t speak, just lifted a hand and brushed her hair back from her face, lightly stroking the healing cut on her temple. He remembered his first sight of her, the elation he’d felt as he gathered her up and held her out of the cold water, the magic, their kiss. He ached to repeat it but...

  “You were—are—so beautiful, Jillian. Every man there tonight wanted you.” She knew that meant he had been there, and her heart beat high in her throat even while she felt ill with disappointment. He was one of those men. One of the customers. One of the fantasizers. Only...wasn’t it best for him to go on seeing her as a mystical being rather than a real woman, when the reality was so much less?

  “I hated them all for their thoughts,” he confessed. “Even though I was sharing their thoughts. What are you doing to me, Mermaid? With your magic, with your beauty? I’m supposed to be in town, but I hired someone to stay with Chris and drove up after work because I had to see you again.”

  She wondered if he was going to kiss her again, and if he did, what would it be like? She remembered the way his lips had felt—hard, almost bruising in their urgency—and deep inside her something grew hot and liquid. But fear rose up as she thought of trying to cope with the kind of relationship Mark Forsythe probably had in mind. Oh, who was she kidding? When she thought about a relationship with him, what he had in mind was exactly what she did too. But it wasn’t to be.

  But oh, how she wished it were otherwise.

  “I had to see you again,” he went on, breaking into her thoughts. “I had to see if you were real or I had only imagined you and your incredible Beauty.”

  “It’s not real. It’s only an act,” she whispered. “A fantasy I create for my audience. And only there in my tank am I beautiful.”

  She wasn’t asking for compliments. She knew her own limitations. She had a nice nose and mouth and an ordinary pair of eyebrows, but her eyelashes were much too pale. When she wasn’t working she wore mascara, but even the most waterproof product she could find couldn’t withstand the test she put it to each night, so she didn’t wear it at work. She knew that without it, other than when she was in her mystical mermaid environment, her eyes looked almost lashless, unfinished, plain.

  “You are beautiful in or out of the water, in or out of your costume.” His voice was soft. His eyes held the same look they had when he had gazed upon her mermaid shape by his pool. He had wanted her then, too, even as realization dawned that the whole thing was a hoax. She had been aware of his wanting her, but she knew it was because he didn’t know. He may have visualized her without her costume, but his vision was so te
rribly, horribly wrong.

  He didn’t even know what he was seeing now, as he looked at her, as he touched her. His hand as it slid down the side of her face to her neck was warm and ruggedly callused. His nails, she had noticed earlier, were neatly cut and were pale against his skin. He had nice hands. She liked the look of them. Even more, she liked the feel of them—on her.

  “I want to see more of you,” he said, and she shuddered at the thought, nearly weeping at the feeling that welled up in her.

  Why? Why? Why?

  She was certain he could feel the pulse hammering hard under the heel of his hand. How could he not be aware of it? How could he not be aware that his touch was the cause of her increased heart rate? She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself, shaking her head. “No.”

  “I passed an all-night restaurant not far back,” he said. “After all that work, aren’t you even a little bit hungry? I remember your saying last week that swimming always makes you hungry. What about some bacon and eggs? Or a sandwich, or whatever?”

  She smiled, remembering her thoughts in her dressing room the previous Saturday when she had expected—no, had yearned for—a note from him. Even while she knew she should turn, say good-night, and go inside, she said, “I was going scramble some eggs myself. Would you like to join me?”

  His wide grin was her reward as he took her land and walked with her on tiptoe up the creaking steps to the even creakier porch. In the kitchen they whispered and laughed like giddy children as she made coffee, scrambled eggs, and buttered toast. Then, with their midnight feast piled on a tray, they went downstairs into a finished basement, “my cave” as Jillian referred to it. The room was straight out of a movie set depicting the 1960s, complete with fake wood paneling on the lower two-thirds of the walls, cork on the upper third, and vinyl furniture under a low ceiling with acoustic tiling between darkened beams. Indirect lighting gave off a soft glow.

  Mark laughed as he set the tray down on the table beside the coffeepot Jillian had put there. He laughed in delight. “I love this room! It makes me feel like boy in high school again, visiting a girlfriend and sneaking around hoping her father won’t come down and order me out because it’s past his daughter’s bedtime.”

  Jillian put a tape in the cassette player, keeping the volume low so as not to disturb her mother and Amber, who were asleep upstairs. She smiled as she passed him a plate of eggs and toast and poured the coffee.

  “Did you do a lot of that as a teenager?”

  “What? Keep girls up past their bedtime?” He grinned, creases bracketing his mouth, fanning out from his eyes. “I guess I did my share of it. What about you? Did you ever have to have your boyfriend kicked out because it was too late?”

  “Oh, frequently, at least until my dad came home one night when I thought he was already in and caught me on the living room sofa with a boy he didn’t like. After that, I was a lot more careful, and besides, soon after I went away to college.”

  She didn’t add that her father had died of a massive and unexpected heart attack that same year. Seated side by side on the couch, they ate until their plates were empty.

  Sensing Mark’s gaze on her, Jillian looked at him, trying to read what was in his eyes. Whatever it was, it spoke to something vital far down inside her soul, and it was asking questions for which she didn’t think she had any answers.

  When his hand reached out, large and capable, to cover hers, she turned hers under it and clasped her fingers around his. She turned his hand over and traced the hard calluses there with one fingertip.

  “What do you do to get these?” she asked.

  His glance flicked over her face almost shyly. “I build trucks.”

  “Really? What kind of trucks?”

  “Logging trucks,” he said.

  “You own the company that builds them? You don’t do it yourself, personally, do you?” she asked, thinking again of his “weekend cottage” and wondering what kind of house he had in the city. Mark Forsythe was no factory employee.

  “Me, personally,” he assured her, smiling. “I even provide the logs. I build fire trucks, too, with ladders and hoses and firemen, and pickup trucks with campers on the back, or canoes or dirt bikes. I build moving vans with loads of assorted furniture in them, and houses to put the furniture into once it’s delivered. Right now I’m working with a designer toward moving out into the world of boats. Ever heard of Elfshop Toys?”

  “Elfshop Toys!” Of course she had heard of them. Everyone had. “You make those? Why, they’re wonderful!”

  “Do you think so?” He looked at her as if he thought she was wonderful, and the world slipped into slow gear for several minutes while she wondered again whether he was going to lean forward kiss her.

  He didn’t.

  She swallowed hard and said, “I really think so. I bought Amber one of the logging trucks for Christmas last year. She loves to spill the logs off and then scramble around finding them, stacking them up again and fastening the chains over them. I like wooden toys. They seem so...so much closer to nature—warmer—than plastic. I haven’t seen the moving vans and houses yet though.”

  “They’ll be on the market by Christmas, but there are a few prototypes ready now. Would you like a set for Amber?”

  She thought of how much pleasure Amber would get out of a toy like that, but shook her head and said with a smile, “Thanks, but I’ll wait and buy her one. When do you expect to have your boats in the water?”

  “In time for next summer,” he said, and went into an enthusiastic description of what they would be like. They both agreed that kids would love them.

  “How did you become a toymaker?”

  “My family owned a large logging operation. You may have heard of it,” he said with a wry grin. “Corville-Forsythe.”

  He clasped her hand harder, and said sternly, “Now, you quit looking at me like that. None of it’s my fault. I didn’t earn any of the money C.F. makes. I simply inherited some of it.” Before she could comment that inheriting even some of it put him in a financial bracket she couldn’t even begin to imagine, he went on.

  “When I was a teenager, my dad sent me out to a different logging camp every summer so that when I took over the business and had to deal with the workers, I’d have some idea of what they were doing and what problems they had. During one of those summers, an old fellow taught me to carve wooden animals, and I discovered a talent I never knew I had. Since then I’ve loved working with my hands making toys. After college, when I declined my father’s offer to take an active part in the company, my dad and his partner, Jason Corville, who had no one to take over from him either, very sensibly decided to go public. When my dad passed away a few years ago, I inherited this half of the business. But fortunately for the stockholders, I didn’t inherit the responsibility for running the company.

  “Fortunately for me, too, as I’m able to indulge myself. I do what I want to do and that is make wooden toys. I have a small company in Seattle where I employ close to fifty people, and we all work together. As the market expands, we expect to expand. We may not make a lot of profit, but we all like what we’re doing.”

  “And that,” she said softly, picking up her coffee to sip, “is very important, isn’t it?”

  For several minutes he didn’t reply. He sensed her understanding of the grief he had experienced as well as caused in turning down the opportunity to take over his father’s business, that it had I pained him deeply to disappoint the old man. Her compassion, he thought, would be equally shared between the two of them.

  “Very important, Jillian,” he said finally. “I know that very few people are given the options I was given, and don’t think I’m not aware that it was my father’s hard work which enables me to indulge myself the way I do running what almost amounts to a nonprofit organization.”

  She smiled. “I think I knew that without being told. Your work is important to you for more reasons than just your own personal happiness, isn’t it?”


  Her understanding touched him deeply. He wanted to gather her into his arms and hold her, to thank her for not judging him. So many people had considered him ungrateful and lacking in filial duties, but he thought what he was doing was as important in its own way as carrying on his father’s empire would have been. There, in the quiet room with only faint background music and dim light surrounding them, he wanted to tell her about his company, about his workers, about the pride he felt in their every accomplishment. But he didn’t want to appear boastful. It wasn’t false modesty, though, that kept him quiet; even as he longed to be able to talk to her about it, he felt that the friendship between them was too tenuous yet, the building trust just a small, fledgling thing. And there had been those who’d scoffed, who’d assured him he was wasting not only his father’s hard-earned money but his own precious time.

  “Do you like what you’re doing, Jillian?” he asked, knowing he had to change the subject before he gave into his own impulse and spread all his hopes and dreams before her, babbling like a fool and asking for her approval.

  She hesitated as he had done, and then said, “In many ways. It’s not much of a mental challenge, I admit, but I do enjoy most of it.”

  “But you’d rather be back working in the school system.”

  It wasn’t, she recognized a question. “I did love teaching and counseling,” she agreed carefully. “It’s—it was—what I did best.”

  He looked at her over the rim of his mug as he drank another mouthful of coffee, then set the mug down, leaning back on the couch. Rolling his head sideways to look at her, he asked quietly, “Why did you leave it?” He knew he had asked her before, but her answer hadn’t satisfied him. This time, in the quiet of the night, with the beginnings of an aura of trust wrapping around them, he thought he might get the truth.

  But she, too, seemed to think that it was too soon for confidences. He found her answer evasive. “There were several reasons. I got sick and had to stay home for a while. When I was better, I discovered that I couldn’t...handle...a full day in a front of a class. My school didn’t have a full-time counseling position so I did the next best thing, took the job at the club. Besides, just about then, my mother started suffering from angina attacks. The doctors said they weren’t life-threatening, but I didn’t—don’t—want to leave her alone. And I do like my job at the club. Swimming was my avocation, as I said. I simply turned it into my vocation.”