Here is the rest of the story which I gave you last week. It was written as a short story, but I wonder if it’s worth developing into something longer. What do you think?
As always, I appreciate your comments.
Reaching Out.
Slowly, she moves from the window. He notices the slight limp in her right leg. On the beach, walking on uneven sand, anyone’s feet could falter. When he had walked into the meeting room last Sunday, she was already seated. He was the first to leave, afraid that if anyone spoke to him the anguish, loss and loneliness would come spewing out.
‘Do you have children, Isabel?’ He tries to keep the conversation general, but how can he get to know her with silly chitchat?
She leans on the table before sitting down and places her mug on the coaster, which he leaves there these days.
Briskly, he gets up, remembering his manners. She does not seem like the sort of woman— those modern, liberated ones—who will object to the chair routine.
‘Thank you, I’m fine,’ she says and sits down.
He notices the twitch at the corners of her mouth. Got that right, he thinks and returns to his own seat.
They sip in silence for a while. She studies the books on shelves beside them. He pretends to watch the ocean, but can’t help glancing at this new friend, He likes the way she purses her lips in concentration.
‘Do you enjoy reading?’ She looks at him, then points to his wife’s collection.
He’s stumped. She’ll think him a Philistine. All that arty stuff—books, paintings, theatre, music—he left to Jess.
‘Well, yes, but not that kind of thing.’ He nods at the bookshelves. ‘I’m more into news, you know, the papers, television. I do a lot of research on the internet, find out what’s happening in the world.’ He hesitates, wanting to be honest but not reveal too much about himself.
‘My wife—she died, you know—she loved her novels. I’m no good at remembering names, but she could rattle off the latest prize winner or some new author she thought worth a try.’
He blinks away threatening tears. What’s wrong with me? Stop being an ass. This woman doesn’t want to know about Jess.
‘And what about you, Isabel? I guess you have favourite authors too?’
She takes another sip of coffee. ‘Yes, and I see that your wife—your late wife—and I have several in common. I still enjoy Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. A bit soppy I suppose and certainly not a man’s choice.’
She looks directly at him, her fingers playing with the fabric of her skirt. ‘You asked if I have children. I don’t anymore. My daughter drowned in a neighbour’s pool when she was five years old. I have a son, but I never see him. He’s a drug addict.’ Her lips tremble and she turns away.
He wants to reach out, to give her his manly protection, but that, he’s been told, is not necessarily what the other person wants. He grips his hands together under the table. How can he help? What should he say? Is there anything he can say that might give this lovely woman some comfort?
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I try not to talk about it with strangers. Friends know how it upsets me, particularly Jamie. Vanessa was an accident. No-one’s fault, although of course I can’t forgive myself for not being more vigilant.’
She pulls a tissue from the pocket of her skirt and blows her nose. ‘Sorry,’ she says again, ‘perhaps you could tell me about you. Do you have children? Yes, of course you do.’ She stands up and walks to the clump of photos on the shelf above the television. ‘And I guess that’s your wife.’
He turns around and sees where Isabel is pointing. ‘Yes. Jess was killed in a road accident. Bloody truck, pardon my French, ploughed into her. She was on her way home from the ballet. It was a wet night, slippery road. The driver claimed he lost control, couldn’t do anything to avoid her.’
Isabel steps away from the photos and holds out her arms. He stumbles into her embrace, clasps her small, rounded body to his chest and lets the tears flow.