CHAPTER I. THE DECK.
Your hero paints the picture.
My name is Anselm Merrywood. And I answer to a call—from a woman! One invitation remained behind, in a cluttered drawer, the envelope of forwarded address. Another was fully on display, atop a spacious deck. You too would find the girl inviting. At least you should.
A fine painting? You have come to the right place! The girl has blue eyes, a button nose, and bantam figure. The picture was mounted on a craftsman railing, framed by cloudless sky and sea. Her wine shone in the sun, hair spiraled over slender shoulders, bare feet toyed with a planter pot, and loose skirt teased your painter, wind-billowed at her knees. A slight smile posed a puzzle, and she knew.
Like what you see? Please join the party, the picture had peekers aplenty! An unholy stained glass door slid open to a spacious patio, where seasoned redwood made the decking, purple parasols plumed the porch, white-jacketed waiters welcomed the revelers, and a kaleidoscope of goblets studded the ring of tables. My mezcal packed a punch, loose laughter lent more warmth, and a little industry furthered the festival—bees dotting a swath of pink petals, a tranquil hum arriving on the gentle breeze. A bluebird flitted from the fence, goldfinches livened the bushes, and a splash of red flamed across the flowers—a carmine-throated hummingbird darting past the jasmine to hover by a rarer nectar. A flower girl has an attraction.
Let us kneel? The young goddess looked over her garden. And she saw that it was good. The free bird commended my cowboy cool, I have every confidence. She could also observe some opulence: a tall man in tuxedo, his wife in strapless gown. The couple were delighting in a dance of love, to the timely encouragement of Mozart and bare batons of the conductor’s feet. Our angel also swayed in sympathy, her blessing backed by a further beat, the breaking of the surf.
We spoke too soon. Does the weather ever change?! A scowl withdrew the invitation. No more pretty picture, I have to drain the canvas, dull the plumage, cloud her eyes to gray. And I will turn her wine to water, the minuet to a dirge. The winds had picked up, bending boats at sea and fogging out the sun. But the gales of laughter had died, the dropping temperature driving merrymakers inside, a remnant shivering in a silent vigil.
The party was over. Well, the house might still be hopping, who knew? The sliding door, through which boozing butterflies had flit, was now a barricade, the glass discolored. I might also remark the rebuff of a cold metallic chair, the distress of an empty glass, the indifference of the decking. A sentinel stood sullen in a corner, alone on her feet. Her lighthouse beam swept past my mooring, interrogating my witness, exposing my guilt. I could not avert my gaze, pulled to her rocks over an abandoned table where a shabby starling was stabbing a plate of pastry shards. The stony edifice ignored my stillborn greeting, as attainable as Olympic medal to a bedridden invalid. A wisp of smoke wended over the railing, conspiring with the fog. But no warm bonfire beckoned, the changeling waving a cigarette. Her inconsideration imposed before a wind dispersal, though her lips saw little of the vice. I presumed a provocation; my fellow sufferers pretended not to care. The delinquent took a last drag, lost the litter, glanced at the glow, and took care of the business. With her foot. We could pretend no more.
A teenager tosses some trash. So what, you say? I will tell you what: I expect you to pay more attention! A foot trod on the glare. A foot twisted on the smolder. A foot trampled out the fire. And the foot was bare, as I already told you. I caught the eye of a neighbor, his cocktail in suspension, his arm around his date. The well-heeled executive had ignored my shabby insurrection, now we had a bond. What is a man to do?
Merrywood! . . . Some advice? . . . No, you are doomed.