Short Story Sunday: The Lighthouse

Sarah tried to ignore the wind and focus on her sketch. She'd clamped the pages down to prevent them fluttering, but she was having a hard time keeping the book still. The light was just right and she wanted to capture the moment before the clouds saturated the view with grey. The water was calm, save for the wake of small yachts or adrenaline junkies skimming the waves with their kites. Behind her, local dialects and raucous laughter spilled out of the waterside pub and skittered across the street. She hooked her left ankle around the railing, willing the wind to give her respite.

"You might want to move."
She assumed the voice was directed at someone else, and continued shading.
"Excuse me? You might want to move."


She looked up and saw a two men guiding a trolley with speakers and a drum kit in her direction. The stranger had his hand on the railing, as though steadying himself. 
"Oh, right." She glanced at the bus stop across the street and nodded at him before skipping out of the trolley's path. She watched him perch on the railing and mentally tried to erase him from the view so that she could continue with her sketch. Every time she looked up he was there, grinning at her. She kept her head down, waiting for the trolley to trundle past, and tried to recall the way the light glinted off the lighthouse. 

Ten minutes later, he was still there, his hair thoroughly rearranged by the wind. She decided to escape the shelter of the bus stop and venture further; perhaps a slightly different angle would make the finished product more interesting. It wasn't necessary to look up to know that he was tracking her with his eyes. The sky began to rumble in the distance. She estimated that she had about fifteen minutes before the downpour started. Abandoning the finer details, she tried to capture the ghostly outlines she would have to fill in later from memory. 

"Do you always frown when you're concentrating?"
She tightened her grip on the pencil.
"I know you can hear me."
"I don't have much time," she said, jabbing the air with her pencil. "Storm's coming."
He peered over her page. "You've got it. Mostly. There's just a gap..."
"Thank you." She snapped the book shut and tucked her hair behind her ear. She turned her back on the view and walked towards the church just as the bells began to toll and a cheer sounded. What she thought was rain was actually the sound of rice falling on the bridal pair as they made their way down the stone steps.
"Beautiful, isn't it?"
Sarah started. 
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He lagged behind her so that he was just out of her line of sight. "My name is Louis."
He'd forced her hand. She stopped and allowed herself to look at his shoes. "Sarah."
"I know. I recognise you from this." There was a crumpled flyer in his hand. It advertised her show from last year, the one she'd been trying to forget. 
"Ah. It's always good to meet fans." She increased her pace.
"I'm not a fan. Well, I wasn't." He was shouting into the wind. "I'm Louis Macmillan. The art critic from The Times."
The thunderclap foretold a heavy downpour. "You."
"Yes. I think I've been credited with destroying your career."
"Why are you here?" The drizzle made the ends of her fringe curl up in the wind.
"I want to apologise."
"It's a bit late for that," she bit back, just as the heavens opened. 

The nearest shelter was a tree, and they both made a run for it. Now she was trapped with Louis bloody Macmillan, the man responsible for the scathing review of her work that had forced her exhibition to close after only one week and had led to the galleries of this, and all the surrounding provinces, to refuse to show any of her new work. She'd been forced to adopt a pen name and do illustrations for a new series of high school textbooks. Textbooks! At least the sod had the sense to keep his distance, though she wasn't sure if the steam she saw rising was coming from her or the ground. Fortunately, the rain was so loud that it made conversing impossible. She wiped the cover of her book, hoping the rain hadn't seeped into any of the pages. 
"The thing is," she heard him say, "I was in the middle of a terrible divorce. Seeing your work made me feel things I wasn't ready to feel yet. I took it out on you. And I am truly sorry."
She turned her back on him, despite that fact that it angled her face into the driving rain.
"I have been making enquiries and I was told that you usually come here on Saturdays. I've been here every Saturday for the past month, hoping to find you. I have a proposal I would like you to hear."
"Why should I listen to anything you have to say? I've been reduced to an anonymous illustrator thanks to what you wrote. And your paltry apology cannot undo..."
"You're right."
She stared at him.
"Everything you said is true. Which is why I am here to ask you to let me make amends." He looked across the water. "It looks like we might have a gap long enough to go to that café down the road. Let me buy you some tea. Please?"

Had it not been for the fact that her feet were cold and wet, she might have declined. But the warmth of the café was infinitely preferable to cowering under a tree. He came back from the counter with pastries that smelt of chocolate and cinnamon. He set the plate between them and peeled off his jacket. The waitress arrived with an oversized teapot, mugs, sugar, milk and spoons as he sat down. 
"Great timing. Thanks, Janet."
Louis poured the tea and she coaxed her hands out from under her thighs and warmed them on the mug. He shoved the plate towards her, indicating that she should help herself.
"Why are you doing this?" she said, spraying him with pastry flakes.
"Because I was wrong to write what I did. Your work was good... Still is, based on what I saw earlier. I just think you could stretch yourself more. No, wait. That came out wrong." He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm no good at expressing myself unless I have a pen in my hand or I'm writing at my computer. And you are so much more intimidating in person."
She sipped her tea. "Then it's probably a good thing that you didn't read your review to my face."
"Although, it probably would have stopped me from publishing it if I had."
What she said next surprised her. Perhaps the pastries were to blame. "You've grovelled enough, Louis. What is it you want?"
"I want you to give me another chance."
"How? No gallery will touch me with a bargepole and I've hardly had a prolific year with all the textbook illustrations I've had to do to pay the bills."
"My friend is opening a new gallery. He owes me a favour."
"I don't see how this benefits me."
"You will produce art around the theme 'Sailing City' and I will redeem your reputation with a glowing review."
She snorted. "People will see through that."
"Ok, not 'glowing' then. Favourable? How's that?"
She chewed on her lip. "If I agree to this, I'll need to see the space."
"Yes, of course."
"And I want forty percent of every piece sold."
He choked on his tea.
"You said you wanted to make amends. Work it out with your friend."
"Fine." He put down his mug. "But then you had better make a collection that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. It should be like Ennio Morricone turned his hand to painting and everyone who sees your work is moved to tears."
"Consider it done."

For the first time in months, the prospect of a blank canvas did not intimidate her. And it was as though all her pent-up creativity finally found an outlet. She finished six new pieces in four days. At the end of the second week after her meeting with Louis, she received an email from him.

How's the work coming along?

She hammered out her reply. Why don't you come and see for yourself?

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. 
"This is Freddie," he said. "I've brought him for protection. And because he wants to see what you're working on for the gallery opening."
"Nice to meet you," she said. "Come on in. My studio is through there." She deposited them at the door and took orders for tea. "I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready." 

She hated hovering around while people scrutinised her work. Fortunately, the kettle was loud enough to mask any conversation that she might have overheard.
Louis joined her and mumbled his thanks when he saw the steaming mug. "Freddie'll be here in a bit. He's just using the facilities."
"Someone said my name?"
Sarah grinned. "So, Freddie, what's the verdict?"
He sipped his tea slowly. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way," he said, turning to Louis, "but my good friend here was an idiot to denigrate your talent. I can't wait to show your work. And I think you should also let me sell prints of the series of lighthouses you have done."
"I didn't realise they were a series."
"Oh? They look like one to me, especially because you've captured the same lighthouse at different times of the day, in different kinds of weather. The one where the beam is cut short by the thunderclouds is my favourite. It seems hopeful. It seems to say 'keep shining, whatever the weather', you know."

After Sarah had shown Freddie out, she came back to the kitchen to find Louis washing the cups. 
"You don't have to do that."
He looked sheepish. "Sorry. I was nervous."
"About what?"
"Well, you know Freddie's verdict. But I don't know yours."
She slumped against the counter. "I don't hate you, Louis. Not anymore. I mean, I did when I thought you were some braindead writer at The Times. But now it's more like mild dislike."
"That's more than I deserve," he said, drying his hands on the dishcloth. He moved to where she was standing, close enough for her to see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looked as though he might say something, but then lost his nerve. He sighed and headed for the door. "Freddie will let you know the details about the opening," he said, without looking back.
She heard the front door close, and suddenly the kitchen felt cold.

*

In her dream, the telephone was ringing, but no matter how many times she tried to answer it, it wouldn't stop. She woke up to find seven missed calls  and five text messages on her mobile from Cilla, her agent.  

HAVE YOU SEEN TODAY'S PAPER?? WHERE ARE YOU!!!

Cilla said she typed in caps because it saved time. She said it couldn't be helped if other people thought she was perpetually shouting. Sarah heaved her body out of bed and went to retrieve the newspaper from her doorstep. She waited until she was back in the kitchen to take it out of its plastic wrapping and spread the pages on the counter. She wasn't prepared to see her face or one of her lighthouse paintings on the front page. Cilla may as well have typed the headline.  

NEW GALLERY OPENING A TRIUMPH!  

She scanned the article. Louis had kept his word; it was more than favourable. When the telephone rang again, she answered it.

"What's the verdict?"
She smiled. "I'm not sure. I haven't actually seen the paper."
"Liar. I can see your kitchen window from the street."
She spotted him at her back garden gate."Then, in that case, you'd better come in."
"No, I'm all right out here."
"I promise you that it's favourable."
"For you or for me?"
She chuckled. "There's only one way to find out." She ended the call and watched him. His face displayed the stages of grief from surprise and denial to anger, bargaining and finally acceptance. 

He unlatched the gate. She met him at the kitchen door. He began to speak, but she covered his mouth with hers. 
"I think that means I'm in the clear."
She kissed him again. "For now."