Courier of Love

by Della Kensington

  As their bodies rose within an incoming wave and as quickly as they had first touched moments before she found Clay’s mouth and his body moving away from her. Leaving the sanctuary of his lips and feeling the pressure of his body retreat, Christina was jolted back into contact with the water. It was surging ever higher and up and between them.

  She simultaneously heard Clay speak almost inaudibly over her increasing awareness of the water around them, “No, no. This isn’t right.” Clay was moving his head from side to side, an expression of self-admonishment hardening his expression, salt water breaking up and over both of their bodies. “Christina…, we can’t…”

  Christina’s right hand reached through yet another wave and across the growing space between them. In a gesture of holding him, of searching for the meaning behind his words Christina spread her fingers wide across one side of Clay's upper chest. Her breathing was heavy and the waves were beginning to rise higher against their sides. They were no longer steady against the ocean’s force but being pushed awkwardly towards the beach almost touching but being pulled apart by Clay’s current resolve and the force of nature.

  His eyes searched Christina’s face as if for solutions, for agreement to his statement. “Arthur,” he uttered, “Arthur is my friend Christina…we can’t.”

  In sudden realization of Clay’s lack of awareness of the understanding that she and Arthur had reached, an inviting smile softened Christina’s expression, as the rise of another wave moved up and between their bodies. With her hand that was not yet on Clay, Christina moved her hair back and away from the water strewn position it had taken on her cheek, the taste of salt washing the taste of him from her lips. She began to assure in warm amusement, “Oh Clay, don’t worry about Arthur finding out about this. He won’t…”

  Clay interrupted her explanation with instantaneous anger crossing his face and shoving her hand electrically away from his body he stepped backwards and uttered in disgust, “Well, forgive my sense of morality, Miss Weldon. You’re obviously more experienced at these matters than I.” Another wave interrupted him before he continued, “I haven’t learned to handle guilt with such ease.” He was spitting salt water from his mouth and his expression was accusatory and judgmental.

  Realizing the depth of Clay’s assumption and suggestion Christina felt white hot anger rise within her chest. The tears that had started flooding her eyes were now mingling with the sea water that was tracing patterns down her face. “You have the nerve to question my morality,” she paused as the implication of his words rushed through her sense of disbelief. Her voice rose against the sound of the surf against their bodies and in its rush onto the shore. “You arrogant, self-centered hypocrite. Who followed who here and which one of us has a little someone in town, probably pining away for him this morning while he’s out amusing his hormones on the sand?”

  At her words, rage flooded Clay’s face with such intensity that Christina felt a tug of fear within her stomach. She was in an instant gravely sorry for her statement but at the same time angry enough to dismiss an impulse to retreat or apologize and explain his mistaken conception of her relationship to Arthur. With her teeth clenched, her pride prevented her from stopping this misunderstanding.

  Clay’s forearm came up and wiped savagely across the water on his chin and mouth. “Don’t mix your childish fantasies up with my life and in matters that don’t concern you. Do you understand me, Christina?” Clay’s voice and emotions came now under careful control and his words were delivered individually. Upon saying them, he turned and his legs lifted against the waters resistance as he moved determinedly towards the beach.

  Tears and saltwater filling her eyes and nose, Christina shouted after him, “Do you want to know what I’ve learned about you?” A wave pushed her body down and her face forward into the water. She struggled up. Her emotions were now heightened by the forward fall and her hair tangled and dripped over her face.

  “I’ve learned that you are a big, over-grown and muscle bound beach boy, who has all of the sensitivity of an ox. A psychiatrist would probably say that above water, out of the company of porpoises and the shelter of a camera, you are an emotional illiterate.”

  Clay’s stride continued angrily out of the water. Her words and the sound of her tears had struck what she felt was the unfeeling granite of his back. Regret and need rocking her impulses Christina began to struggle through the water toward his retreating form and as she did and with the sound of remorse in her voice, she called out, , “Clay…please let me…”

  He had reached the beach and had now turned back towards her, the sun illuminating his body like that of a god. She looked for some sign of hope in his eyes, some clue of forgiveness, some need that would over- power his resignation, some sign that what had just happened between them could be resolved.

  But it was over. She could read that in his stance; she could sense finality even before words were to leave his lips. From the distance of about five yards she could see that his anger had hardened over with an expression of indifference and pragmatism.

  “You’d best be served by finding another instructor. I am aware that given your timeline that won’t be easy. If you wish to continue towards your diving certificate with me be at my boat at eight sharp tomorrow, no earlier, no later. No need to call Miss Weldon.” His stare was cold and uncaring and the dryness in his tone cut through her.

  The surf strained against her ankles as she watched him turn, cross the beach and step into his car. She felt bolted to the sand, anchored by pain. Christina burned from the effects of the salt and the sun and the hard texture of the man whose body had sanded away her resolve; the man who was now disappearing from her tear-struck eyes.

  With the sound of the jeep backing away Christina moved mechanically out of the water and toward the lonely island of her blanket. Upon reaching it, she fell weakly to her knees and buried her face in her trembling hands, hands that now felt as empty as her soul.

  Chapter 11

  Slipping into the silken warmth of a bath, Christina’s eyes closed against the view from the window and against any beauty of this paradise lost. She longed to be in the soft security of her bed in Seattle surrounded by her books and pictures and the quiet comfort of her dog, the two of them curled in a circle against a chilling rain. She clenched her eyes to hold the imagery but she could not. Crowding the sanctuary of home from her mind’s eye were images of Clay, the feeling of his flesh against hers, the sound of his voice ringing through her senses, “I want you Christina.”

  Her legs and back stretched through the water and she tilted her head against the cooling marble of the tub. Beads of perspiration gathered at her temples and traversed the long smooth column of her neck on their way into the honey-scented water. Her hands, resting against her upper abdomen began to move upward, her fingertips slowly traversing her ribs and coming to rest tentatively across her breasts, her fingertips forming a stethoscope against her heart. It was straining hard against the images in her thoughts, the feelings that had remained in her loins.

  How could she make him understand when she did not comprehend her relationship to him herself? His words of an hour before had been harsh and painful and the beauty of the moment that had carried both of them into a well of passion and disclosure was now lost; torn beyond repair. The feelings in her heart, the desire in her blood however, remained. The longing, the craving for Clay’s touch was continuing its pulse within the deep passages of Christina’s limbs. It was beating against the recesses of her very existence.

  Leaving their allegiance to her heart Christina’s fingertips continued their journey upward crossing the cords of her neck, dividing beneath her chin and tracing through her hair before spreading from her body and into the moistness of the air that surrounded her. He breasts raised above the water as she arched and stretched more deeply into the bath. She had to make Clay understand. Her lips murmured “Please.” Her mind held this word in its grasp for several seconds before
she would let it go, before she would open her eyes, look out the window and down into the harbor of the sea edged town.

  …

  Christina passed the remainder of the afternoon lazily. She chatted with Agatha and Arthur as they carefully and lovingly tended the garden, Agatha sharing with both of them a surprising knowledge of plants and the island’s botanical history. She sipped orange-spiced tea by the fountain and ran her fingertips over the backs of the large, multicolored fish as they tamely surfaced in the pool and waited for bits of biscuit that Arthur fed them.

  Inside of the house, she studied the stern faces in the portraits of Arthur’s ancestors and listened with only partial interest as he showed her artifacts he had already discovered in nearby reefs. In her thoughts however, the encounter with Clay, like the fish, kept surfacing. Fighting off her feelings was a slow motion process that clouded her attempt to hear and think of anything else.

  …

  By dusk, thoughts about the morning held less emotion for Christina and she busied herself preparing for dinner in town with Arthur. Afterward they were to attend the Queen’s Festival which would be highlighted by a parade that would encompass people from all of the nearby islands. It was an annual, quasi-religious event that had its roots in African folklore and its crown in lucrative tourism. The promise of the event resonated within Christina like needed diversion and in anticipation of the evening her newly negotiated friendship with Arthur gave her both a sense of belonging and a semblance of courage.

  By seven o’clock Christina found herself in town and casually happy in Arthur’s company. Arthur’s manner had become easy and casual. Relieved of her expectations, the charm and humor she had seen in Seattle returned and holding hands, Arthur in the lead, they bumped their way through the crowded streets of town. Its residents were dressed in colorful costumes, its buildings and shops adorned in flowers and lights.

  The restaurant in which they were to eat was to offer little more space than found on the street and a spirit of celebration permeated the small bar in which they waited until their table was ready. Christina watched Arthur move carefully through the crowded room holding two glasses of wine high above the festive group. She felt a feeling of pride in their ability to have resolved their misconceptions so openly. Now they were friends. They had not had to say good-bye with feelings of anger, regret, loss or resentment. They had taken what was good from their relationship and were nurturing it, saving it, as two adults should. With Clay, there would be no easy resolution. Even if they could erase the memories of the morning, Penny would still exist as would her two sons, who Clay had so lovingly and pridefully held several days earlier. A relationship between Clay and she would be impossible now. Events had placed her in a line waiting anxiously to become a part of a wonderful play to which she would be offered no part. She could dream about the marvelous sets and actors and events but she could never have a role in the actual play itself. Her life had been like this always, she thought, and as she looked across the crowd and towards the comforting, yet empathetic, approach of Arthur, tears suddenly welled within her eyes.

  Chapter 12

  “I hope you are not too hungry because we may not be seated for some time.” Arthur was laughing and removing small packets from his dinner jacket. “This may be all there is between us and starvation.” He produced three packages of nuts that he had obtained from the bar and he placed them between their wine goblets that were now resting on the small table which Christina had saved for them.

  “Arthur, old chap, how are you?” A middle-aged man had approached Arthur and was slapping him on the back. An attractive woman was standing patiently behind the man and as the exchange of greetings and introductions was taking place the jubilant crowd jostled forward and the woman’s drink was lightly spilled onto the floor. She rolled her eyes good naturedly and grimaced a smile in Christina’s direction. Christina, in an attempt to hide the tears that had formed a moment earlier, was touching the corner of each of her eyes.

  Hoping her tears were not evident Christina returned the woman’s smile and wanting to shift any attention away from herself queried, “Did that spill on your lovely dress?” The woman looked quickly down towards her feet and answered, “It will be fortunate tonight if this is the only thing that gets spilled on this dress.” During the exchange another couple, who Christina imagined were in their late fifties, arrived at their position at the crowded space. They were terribly well dressed and friendly but in the noise Christina missed their names.

  “Lovely,” she heard the man saying as he extended a hand in Christina’s direction.

  She mouthed, “Thank you,” over the noise and smiles and nods that were being exchanged as a variety of Arthur’s friends presented themselves ever so briefly.

  Color and music and laughter were everywhere and as the wine began to seep warm relaxation through Christina her maudlin mood began to lift. Arthur was good company and he easily amused her with his facile expressions and comments about different people who crowded past their small table. The evening was turning into an event and instead of dining inside they soon found themselves holding napkins and sharing delicious pieces of rum flavored chicken outside in the carnival atmosphere of the street. She was laughing and moving to the blended music from the restaurants, street musicians and the advancing parade. It was dark now and everywhere magical lights were greeting her senses and illuminating her golden tan as it lay in contrast to the navy blue caftan that she was wearing. Arthur had put white flowers around their necks and several in her hair. The flowers were defining her features and giving her an outer glow she did not entirely feel, but despite the remnants of an inner darkness Christina found herself laughing and dancing and becoming a part of the moving body of people around her. She was turning and moving in the moments that she first became aware of seeing candles, dozens and dozens of candles, each lighting the face of a small child, their eyes lit in merriment. The children were dressed in spotless white shirts and blue shorts, their darkly hued skin iridescent in the flickering candlelight. They were singing a native hymn and their eyes were anxiously scanning the crowd for approval and for the faces of family.

  “They’re wonderful,” Christina exclaimed over the shoulder of someone in front of her. “Look, look Arthur, at him, isn’t he adorable and here look at her face, Hello there. ” She waved at a small child as the sound of tin drums and brushing costumes replaced the children’s song.

  Young adults in brightly tinted dress were now marching by, each of these late adolescents carrying colorful hand-made birds high above their heads, the birds sporting long feathers that were moving and flowing through the breeze.

  There followed male dancers, their muscular dark bodies glistening and straining against their scant costumes. Christina’s eyes were studying their sensuous moves, exploring the veins of their arms, looking for any traces of Clay’s strength in their legs when suddenly a group of beautiful young women in brilliant dresses surged through the dancers and began moving seductively in front of each of the men.

  From behind the sinuous bodies of twelve men on stilts appeared and towered on past as the crowd of onlookers took up the pace and rhythm of the parade, some joining spontaneously along the route, others clapping and singing. As two people in front of them moved into the parade themselves Arthur and Christina took up a front row position and Arthur began an attempt to tell Christina about the symbols and costumes they were witnessing. Over the noise Christina was straining to hear what Arthur was saying when her eyes caught sight of a hand waving from across the street. The hand was being raised high into the air by the power of an arm she had seen earlier in the day as it had raised against the barrage of sea water she had launched against the owner of its sun toned strength. Christina’s senses began to fall from the platform of attention to anything and everything around her plummeting her into deafness and still-frame awareness. Instead of movement she was witnessing the frozen images of dancers in the street
. Arthur’s face had stopped moving and his words were falling silently from his lips. A child dropped a toy that began to fall in slow motion toward the pavement and a dog dressed like a clown held motionlessly in the air as it jumped in front of her and the muscular image of Clay who was waving and smiling and signaling to her from across the street.

  Christina’s breath became a hostage within her chest and she raised her own hand slowly across the flowing crowd of dancers and musicians and towards Clay’s smiling face.

  For a moment the events of the morning had not occurred. Clay was smiling at her. He was waving; the light from passing torches playing across the contours of his broad and welcoming face as the simple tropical shirt he was wearing was being pulled tight against the pressure of his uplifted arm. Things were going to be all right. She had exaggerated her fears about his feelings.

  Biting her bottom lip, a smile easing her inward pain Christina had just started to raise her hand to return Clay’s signal when someone from behind her crowded through the space between her and Arthur and said, “Excuse me…excuse me please.”

  The voice was that of a young woman who, pausing briefly for parade participants, quickly proceeded across the street running in the direction of Clay. It was the girl from the cottage that Clay had talked to while Christina had waited in his car.

  Christina felt disappointment rush through her very being. Clay had been signaling to Penny and not her; perhaps he had not even seen her. Embarrassment and overwhelming hurt swept through Christina as she watched Clay embrace the young woman with an air of intimacy. The girl brushed long black hair from her face and turning to watch the festivities her arm locked tightly around Clay as his arm draped possessively over her shoulder. Penny was laughing at Clay’s words and looking lovingly up into his face. Christina felt a surge of jealously along the entire length of her body, a floral-covered float passing before her eyes the only relief and then, in a blink, it was gone, as were Clay and Penny, their position at the curb now taken by two overweight tourists in silly hats. She looked up and down the undulating crowd before her, but they were gone.