Dolphin Magic

Chapter 3

Royal Tern

When he returned with his groceries and supplies to the dock, he was alarmed to find the cottage next door opened up like it was indeed inhabited. He stopped the bike at the dock and locked it to a wooden post, and brought his parcels inside. He put food away in the cabinets, and stepped back onto the pier.

The waves lulled themselves onto the sand as if they'd not a care in the world, gently brushing the shore like a mother lovingly stroking the hair of her baby. The morning sun was rising toward its apex in the sky, but was still low enough to cast its glittering reflection on the waters below.

He turned his attention toward the small cottage, and took a fresh look at it now that he knew it was occupied. It wasn't quite as desolate as he had first thought. Sure, its teal blue exterior had paint peeling here and there, its wooden siding badly sun bleached, its pale gray slate roof missing in places, but it was far from deteriorated, and with a little TLC and a lot of elbow grease, it could be quite charming.

He did not see a car in the driveway or under the carport, but upon closer inspection, he did spy a ten-speed bicycle, powder blue to match the cottage, a large wicker basket on the handlebars. The bicycle was parked under the carport, leaning casually against the siding. There was a helmet on the ground, but it was not a bicycle helmet. This was more substantial, with a broken visor. He stepped off the dock onto the land, walked closer to the cottage, trying to find the motorcycle that belonged to the helmet. Having had some thrills of his own a lifetime ago on Uncle Don's Harley, he caught a taste for bikes and his curiosity led him onward.

He walked a wide radius, not ready yet to discover the home's owner, nor particularly anxious to be discovered himself. As he circled toward the front door, which faced the gravel road opposite the ocean, he found what he was looking for, and sighed in disappointment. A 1960s Montgomery Ward moped sat on its kickstand by the front door, a fun collector's item for some, but obviously a primary vehicle for this household.

As he looked at the small, red moped, the pots of herbs and flowers flanking the front porch, the freshly painted robin's egg blue door propped open in the sun, he thought he caught a glimpse of movement from within. He wanted to scurry away like a frightened cat, but also like said cat, a part of him wanted to see the person whose primary mode of transportation was a Montgomery Ward moped, and who grew tomato plants in coffee cans. He was not only miles away from home, he was decades away as well.

He hid himself on the side of the carport and watched for more movement from the owner. He did feel guilty, fully aware of the hypocrisy for he himself not wanting to be seen, but either could not help himself or actually believed his motives were noble.

As he watched, a young woman, maybe his age, maybe a year or two older, came into view through the front door. She was on her hands and knees, which perplexed the young man, until he saw the paintbrush in her hand and the can of varnish she dipped it in. Long strands of caramel colored hair hung in her face. She brushed them away into her messy topknot with a naturally tanned hand, but her face was too far away for him to see clearly. She wore light blue denim cut-offs, splattered and stained with paint, and a lemon yellow tank top. As she worked, the muscles in her shoulders flexed and tensed, her defined biceps exhibiting her strength through hard, manual work. She protected her knees with big black pads, her feet covered in plain white canvas shoes. She worked studiously and methodically. The man doubted she would have noticed him even if he weren't hidden.

He heard faint music coming from in the house and strained to hear something familiar. He was hoping to hear something that made him feel at home, like the time he vacationed in the Alps with his father and grandparents.

He was just a young boy and was still adjusting to life without his mother. How he longed for comfort, but as soon as he had begun to feel settled in his new room, in a new house, in a new town, he had been whisked away again from everything he knew, and deposited in a strange country with strange voices in a strange language. He ached for the familiar, and standing on the balcony of his grandparents' villa that first night abroad, overlooking the snow-capped mountain peaks, he heard it, as if drifting on the wings of a dream, the thumping of the bass drum, the picking of guitar strings, the scratchy voice of the song his mother would play repeatedly in the car, in the kitchen, on the stereo. It floated to his young, aching ears and brought with it the comfort and peace he craved so badly.

Oh how he had kicked and cried as Grandfather pulled him away, saying it was not safe for a young boy to be alone on the terrace. How the boy had pleaded with the old man to stay out there with him, but the grandfather muttered something about "the noise" which, although he was young, the boy knew it was an insult to the song, to the song that meant everything to him at this moment. It was as if mother were calling to him, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him near, nestling his sandy blonde head to her heart, sheltering him from this weird, awful world. Grandfather yanked his arm so forcefully he had to see a nurse the next day as the pain had not subsided. That was the day he learned never to disobey Grandfather.

The music from the house was nothing modern by the sound of it, nothing familiar to his ears. Muted horns and popping drums, a male voice singing words he could not understand.

He watched the woman work her way to the doorway and, to his surprise, stand up and step outside. She had apparently come to the end of her work, and stood with her back to the outside admiring or double-checking it. She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, then clasped both hands above her head and leaned back, eyes closed, face skyward.

He longed to see her face, to see the mysterious woman who drove a moped and listened to old-fashioned music on an island miles away from nowhere. She did not give him the satisfaction, however, and abruptly walked toward the back of the home, toward the sea.