Claire of the Moon

by Nicole Conn

  Amy returned, seemingly miffed. “That damn VCR!”

  Claire smiled for the first time, finally understanding.

  “Noe—uh, Dr. Benedict,” Amy offered, “why don’t I get another one. I could bring it down Monday.”

  “I don’t think the VCR is the problem.”

  “Really, I could take this one back—”

  “That’s quite all right, Amy—”

  “It’s just that I don’t want your work interrupted.” Amy paused, proud and enthusiastic as she beamed from Dr. Benedict to Claire. “Ms is devoting an entire segment to Dr. Benedict’s theory on the relationship of pornography to intimacy.”

  “I didn’t know they were related,” Claire mused.

  “Distant cousins,” Noel responded. “From opposite sides of the closet.”

  Claire reassessed the doctor, and smiled. Dr. Benedict glanced at the floor, suddenly appearing somewhat shy. Claire was surprised; shyness was not a characteristic she would have attributed to the self-possessed doctor.

  “Well, I better get back to it.” Her smile was brief, dismissive as she returned to the room of electronic research.

  ****

  She found his picture lurking beneath the debris of her unpacking. That last afternoon she had attempted to listen as he recited the lines from a commercial for hair coloring.

  “Kevin, don’t you think it’s a tad ludicrous to have someone your age playing the part of a graying fifty-year-old?”

  “Hey, I’m sensitive. What can I say.”

  “No. You’re young. And they expect the rest of the male population will assume they’ll look as sensitive as you if they glop enough of their hair toner on.”

  Kevin wasn’t listening. He was too busy preening, but when he finished he strolled over to her with a cocky grin. “Lighten up, babe. I still got twenty minutes.” He wrestled her to the couch, kissed her right breast.

  She pushed him away, got up and moved to the dresser. On her way she picked up his second-hand Armani silk shirt and threw it at him, indicating their time was at an end.

  “Ya know, Claire. Sometimes you act like you’re about a thousand goddamn years old,” he moaned as he reluctantly put on his shirt.

  She walked to the window, then, more to herself than anyone else, whispered, “I am.”

  Claire studied the head shot he’d stuck in her suitcase as a romantic gesture. Curly blond hair, curly blond brains. She shook her head as she dumped it into the waste can on her way out of her new bedroom.

  ****

  “Are you sure?” Claire overheard Amy’s eager voice. “I can get a place nearby. There’s still so much to do on the surveys.”

  Claire had strolled from her bedroom, which faced north toward the majestic Haystack Rock—icon and hot tourist spot—to explore the interior of the living room/kitchenette of weather-worn cabin four, softly lit by two restored oil-lamps. Mysterious shadows were cast from tokens that lined the built-in bookshelves, yesteryear’s strolls by the beach, a myriad of shells, driftwood, treasures swept up along the tide, and sand dollars wedged between ragged paperback bestsellers for readers with a more discriminating taste. Claire saw The Naked Truth, by Dr. Noel Benedict, propped against a framed photo of what appeared to be an older man, perhaps her brother, bundled in a pea-coat with his arm around her new cabin-mate. Upon closer inspection she realized it was a woman, yes...the woman who ran the retreat. She recognized her now. Definitely a beach relic. She was about to pick up the hardback tome when she heard Noel responding to Amy, her voice strengthening as the two women approached the living room.

  “Amy. It can wait until I get back. Now, I want you to go. Before it gets dark—”

  “Noel—” Amy’s voice was pleading. Then she was blushing as she realized there was another person in the living room. Claire ambled to the window trying to catch the outline of the waves through the fading light.

  “And don’t forget to ring Sam when you get back to town,” Noel said as she steered Amy to the front door.

  Amy seemed unwilling to budge. “Well...” she grappled,

  “... have fun. I guess.” She peered at Claire suspiciously. “If I finish collating the reports—”

  “Amy—don’t worry about it. Thanks for your help.” Noel maneuvered Amy out the door before she could say another word, closed it and turned around with a frustrated sigh.

  Claire turned from the window. “Sounds eager.”

  “She’s brilliant—but too goddamn much energy.”

  Claire smiled, and followed that with a stiff silence.

  “You’re from L.A.?” Noel asked.

  “Hmmm...but only bred there. Self-made nouveau chic.” Claire felt slightly defensive. She thought how she must appear in what she referred to as The Uniform; faded holey jeans, a white T-shirt with the inscription, Give Me Coffee And No One Gets Hurt, covered by an oversized, black tailored blazer rolled at the sleeves, complete with her black shit-stomping boots. “And you...you’re from...

  “Portland.”

  “Beautiful city.”

  “If you don’t mind the rain.”

  Claire stared out at the ocean. “I adore gloomy days.”

  Silence.

  Noel said, “I’ve...uh...heard your name, but I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work—”

  “Dr. Benedict—”

  “Noel.”

  “Noel. You know, I’m really lousy at small talk.”

  “Yes.” Noel leaned against a worn mahogany hutch that housed additional sentimental beach memories, old photos and an antique blue and white Wedgwood tea service with one cup missing. “I suppose it does seem rather absurd when we’ll be spending the next month together.”

  “Yeah.” Claire strolled to the refrigerator, removed a bottle of Chardonnay. “Anyway, don’t take it personally.” Claire held up the bottle in invitation. Noel declined with a head shake. “It’s just...chit chat bores the tits off me.”

  ****

  Claire’s body moved seductively to the rhythm of a sensual ballad as she put the finishing touches to her fingernails. Paris, a black model who had made it big on Italian runways, had told her once, over double cappuccinos, that she possessed the compelling trait of self-assurance. There was no more attractive trait, he pronounced with utter conviction as he gracefully lit her cigarette. Self-assurance directly led to power. He should know. He was on his way. Paris had taught her a lot back in those days, when they were both struggling. Now that they had made it, they didn’t see much of each other anymore.

  Claire pumped up the volume. She remembered the last time they had gone dancing. Catch 1. Hot. Humid. Sweat-gritted floors as she and Paris swayed rhythmically to the incessant pounding of the generic club beat. He was teaching her the latest in Eurocool club moves. Tall, handsome, glistening Paris gliding with the grace of a modern Adonis. She appreciated him on an aesthetic level. But what she really found intriguing was the woman in the corner, who danced by herself. Her white tank top contrasted with her dark olive Hispanic skin, and her body was fluid, sensual, inviting. Claire was a little drunk. She wanted to dance with her, but something held her back. She knew now that she had been intimidated. An emotion she rarely experienced. Now the woman’s body floated dangerously near...

  “Excuse me!”

  Claire jumped from her reverie.

  “Excuse me—”

  Claire turned down the music.

  Noel towered above her. “I never was any good with loud music.”

  “Sorry...I thought you had left.”

  “No.”

  Claire twisted the cap onto the nail polish bottle. Noel was looking at the discarded cotton balls, nail file, paraphernalia of the vain, cluttering the dining room table. “Well...I should get back to it.” She began to retreat.

  “Unless you want to tag along tonight.” Claire was flip. “I thought I’d check out the local color.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “You’re dedicated, upright and disciplined.
” Claire sighed for effect. “So am I. Can you believe it? But...only when the mood strikes me.”

  Recognition lit Noel’s eyes. “That’s it. You wrote Life Can Ruin Your Hair.”

  “Yeah.” Claire’s enthusiasm was hardly overwhelming.

  “Yes. I saw you on Oprah.”

  “Sells copy.” Claire was defensive. “Did...you read it?”

  Noel shook her head.

  “No. No it wouldn’t be your genre.”

  “Great title.”

  “It was appropriate at the time.” Claire lit a cigarette, and said, her voice adopting an insinuating tone. “I was deeply miserable at therapy.”

  “It has been known to have that effect.” She stared at the smoke rising from the cigarette.

  Claire took a deep drag. Not taking her eyes off Noel, she went to the ceiling fan and pulled the chain. They merely stared at one another as the blades went round and round until Noel backed down and left the room.

  ****

  The vigorous twirling of a spoon in a teacup splintered the silence of the still, blue dawn. Noel peered out the center of the large picture window at the very spot Claire had occupied the day before. She gazed out at the ocean, caught by its infinity, its never-ending possibilities, its evocation of memories. She took a delicate sip of tea.

  “Do you always drink tea?” The voice still haunted. The exact timbre, the tone...the eyes, skin, taste. All of it, flooding over her, her senses assaulted, until she felt she could actually smell the light muskiness of chamomile lotion mixed with sweat on Erika’s softly flushed skin after she had worked out.

  Noel had been attending a conference on panic disorder. A gray-clad colleague’s abysmal approach to desensitization droned endlessly; a certain cure for insomnia. She sureptitiously slipped from the last row of the Southend Suite in desperate search for the cafeteria and Earl Grey. As she paid the cashier, the woman with the cashmere sweater and leather brown skirt whispered behind her, “Tea. Every break.”

  “Not always. Mostly.” She had been so deeply immersed in her own approach to the previous topic discussed, it took her a moment to get her bearings.

  “Was a bit tedious, wasn’t it?”

  Noel detected a faint accent. Not quite British, but a hybrid mixture of back east and abroad. She wasn’t in the habit of judging academics on performance but she did not want to appear rude. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  The brunette extended her hand. “Erika. Erika Morgenstern.”

  “Noel Benedict.”

  “Yes. I heard your dissertation on intimacy.”

  “And how did I rate?”

  Erika Morgenstern’s eyes brimmed with electricity. “Oh...very well. In fact—” Erika Morgenstern leaned to throw her Sweet ’n Low into the trash, her soft shoulder-length hair just brushing Noel’s cheek. “I’d like very much to hear more.”

  Noel shivered as she felt the chill in the cabin. She pulled her flannel robe tight, continued to stare out at the breaking waves and took another sip of tea, hoping it would thaw the chill inside.

  ****

  Claire stumbled out of her bedroom into the kitchen lazily clad in a maroon pin-striped robe she had picked up at an estate sale in San Francisco. It looked like something out of an old Clark Gable movie, was far too large but she loved the silk against her nude body. Her hair tumbled carelessly about her shoulders as she knocked around the cupboards and freezer searching for one thing, and one thing only.

  Then she searched diligently for a grinder. Rotely and without regard to her surroundings she dumped the dregs of some long lost Colombian beans in the grinder and pulverized them to a fine, silt-like powder. Dripping a trail of water behind her, Claire clumsily plopped the kettle on the burner and turned it to high.

  “You’re up,” Noel not so politely inferred.

  Claire jumped. She had no idea how long Noel had been standing there. “I’m...upright.” The air lay still between them. “Uh...did the noise bother you?”

  “I was about to take a break.” Polite.

  “Been at it long?” Nonchalant. Claire took a moment and glanced with pseudo-interest Noel’s way. Her impeccable attire was perfect for the tightened shoulders, the stress-lined jaw of someone who was taking her work entirely too seriously.

  “Since five.”

  “Jesus! That’s obscene.” It came out before Claire could stop herself. The steam whistled. Round One, to the sloppy blonde in the corner.

  Noel began to walk away, but then stopped and threw over her shoulder, “Perhaps you might grind your coffee at night.”

  Maggie gazed at the rather motley group of eight women for whom she would play hostess, housemother and confidante over the next four weeks. They lounged informally in her spacious living room that contained her favorite memories, some best left forgotten. History. The place had history and character. Even if there was need for a little repair here and there. It hadn’t escaped her that it was more work and less fun. Just couldn’t keep up the way she used to. Even that poor damn piano needed tuning. But she had her bears. Polar bears. Twenty original polar prints. Painted them herself, and they were damn good if she didn’t say so herself. The rest of them...the stuff her friends gave her, all those silly little polar bear gee-gaws, salt and pepper shakers for christsakes...well, it was just plain goofy, but what the hell.

  “So...if there’s anything you need, just bellow.” She scanned the eight faces. Oh, Jesus, this was going to be good. Thank goddess Noel was here. And, of course, her dear BJ. “But make it in the afternoons. I’m a late riser.” She watched Noel and the blonde exchange looks and then sever contact simultaneously. Maybe sticking them in Cabin Four hadn’t been such a good idea, after all.

  “All the cottages on the east side are retreat cottages,” Maggie continued. “The others are private. This is our tenth year and most of the locals know we’re just a bunch of crazy broads writing our guts out, trying to find the meaning of life.”

  “Anything of cultural merit in town?” Adrienne was a reed-thin, straight-backed poet from New York. Her esoteric haikus had been the rage last year and when she had applied Maggie thought the publicity might do the writer’s retreat some good.

  “Yes. Do tell,” a soft chubby southern voice chimed in. It belonged to a rather campy and plumper version of Blanche DuBois.

  “If you want recreation, you’ll find it at the Humpwhale Inn, along with Hemingwayesque provincialism. Plenty of stories there, and...” Maggie peered at them warningly, “...trouble. As for culture—” She strolled towards Adrienne. “If you’re talking about Broadway plays, you can forget it. But they have a great bookstore, damn good local theater, and hey...plenty of fresh air.”

  “Just what I aspire to.” Adrienne sighed.

  “Try and remember, when you’re having one of those blocks, girls, we are here to work.”

  “All work and no play—” the southern belle intimated.

  “—usually gets published!” Maggie dismissed her and walked to the front of the fireplace where she grabbed her beer. She watched their reactions. This was the first year the retreat hadn’t maintained a theme. But after last year with all those crazy sci-fi chicks running around the place, Maggie had lost it with their ramblings, their runaway imaginations concocting the ultimate in ookey-pookey! Where did they come up with that stuff? And the year before that—eighteenth century poets. Get thee a life! So let’s just throw them all in together, add water, stir ’em up...see what develops.

  Maggie’s favorite pastime, next to sipping a vintage Bordeaux, was studying human behavior, and though she had become a bit dispirited about the human race on the whole, she still believed that every single soul on the planet had some good, even if it might only be half a kernel. And, every so often she was still surprised. Like by this mix. There couldn’t possibly be a more incongruous group. The blonde. She was the one to watch. Very to herself. Very L.A. Kneeling next to her, Indian style, was a woman who was either brave or bizarre enough to wear a tie
-dyed cotton rainbow dress with black leggings and a yellow scarf wrapped around her frail mid-section. BJ sat between her and the housewife from hell, whom BJ had insisted she allow into the group against Maggie’s better judgment...some long lost friend of a cousin who thought it would be good for her. And then the damn poet and the silly southern thing. Of course, Noel was imitable. Noel and Maggie found a great deal of comfort in that.

  Maggie took a sip of her beer and then continued with her pat speech. “If you need a sounding board for plot, theme, what the hell you were writing about in the first place, I’ll gladly lend an ear. Or you can use each other. Tuesday and Thursday nights are the infamous ‘trash’ meets...discussions on everything from syntax to Playtex. Optional of course, but I’ll tell ya, everyone starts to look forward to them...” Maggie continued, mockingly melodramatic, “...after the lonely solitary hours of neverending toil.”

  Well! That about wraps up this initiation thing. Any questions?

  The women glanced about themselves with anywhere from blank to amused expressions on their faces. Maggie sidled over to Noel. The southern belle and Adrienne gathered around the shy slinking naturopath, Shilo Starbright, who was writing a book on the history of herbal medicines. Lynn, the young but ragged housewife, aspiring to science fiction—probably because she lived it, Maggie thought not unkindly—stood quietly on the fringes blocked by the sheer presence of the grand dame of pulp fiction, Miss Tara O’Hara. Noel and Maggie spoke in low tones as they leaned over the large stone hearth several feet away.

  “Quite a gathering you’ve collected here,” Noel commented. Maggie watched her eyes follow the blonde who was sharing a brief exchange with her very own BJ Thornton. Ah, Beej...what a woman. You would never know she was a well-known historian. She was too sexy to belong to the halls of academia, and those eyes, as wise and lively as they were kind and sincere. And sexy. Damn sexy.