Love Letters to Literature

Eight

Once in time Clayton Beach was a sleepy coastal town along the eastern American shorelines. It harbored good natured fishermen, the well fed seagull, and two small immigrant families by the name of Shelley and Clayton. There were, of course, other inhabitants of the island. A small horse farm that overlooked the sea, a diner that never seemed to close, and a little white church locals and tourists alike all seemed to get wed in. Some of these things have certainly stayed - Clayton Beach is still sleepy, just slowly yawning and batting its eyes open. It gained a college, a variety of successful downtown shops, and five more diners. 

Now the town can happily boast an increase in population. Newcomers were staying put, raising families, and opening bed and breakfasts. It was the old families of the town that made for question. 

It was rumored that decades ago the once tight clans that founded the town got into a rift. The cause was unknown to every citizen save for the two families, who both packed up and left without word. The stories that survived the event were small, bits and pieces thrown around by 'old family friends' glad a curious visitor was in their midst.

They say there was once a great storm that flew into town that fateful night, a giant compared to the quaint cottage seascape. Most of the townsmen were home, tucked in by their fires, unaware of the storm rising from the east. The rest of the townsmen consisted of the two founding families. Both along the beach, too far away from the town or any home to be alerted to danger. But of course, no one knew of any danger to alert them to.

"Storms always strike when you least expect them, son," Ernest murmurs, gazing off for just a second. He wanted to tell this young man the rest of the story. The parts that no one else knows. He could look into this boy's eyes and see he was different, see the brightness just sitting there and the kindness just beyond that. But as he looked over at him again, all he could see were the times he thought about telling others in this man's place and the decision that he made - not to speak, not a word. In 48 years he hasn't broken his promise. 

Clark watched the old man as he trailed off, obviously thinking to himself and remembering what was. A silent debate was flashing in Ernest's eyes. Clayton hoped he would win that debate out, that he would learn somehow that everything was okay, that this girl wasn't who he thought she was. 

"Who do you think she is?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You are too young to pretend to go deaf Clark, give it another sixty years."

"I...I think she's Rose Shelley." Clark knew that was the wrong answer, in a millions universes that was the wrong answer, but he couldn't bring himself to say. How does someone just say something like that? The amount of disappointment in Ernest's face said one thing: wrong answer. He left quicker than Clark could blink.

-----

It was discovered after the storm that a Clayton was still remaining. He was found out by the docks smoking a cigar, murmuring about flowers. 

Like all small towns, they took this in stride, and soon everything went back to a sort of normal - some never asked what happened and were never told, and those who did ask were met with a cold word or two, quickly quieted. 

Sometimes he still returns to the docks, smokes a cigar, and looks out to sea at early dawn.

Sometimes he hangs out at the local college coffee shop.