The corners of her mouth tipped up. “You’re not mine yet, but I came to see you. I needed to know you were all right.” She pulled the sheet from the floor and slipped into the bed. She pressed her body against his side, and he rolled toward her.
“I’m a hallucination,” she said. “Go back to sleep. Don’t remember me in the morning.”
“You’re my dream,” he said, but his words slurred. His thoughts bumped into one another. “My heart is always chasing you,” he sighed.
When Gaire’s fingers fluttered across his middle, the edges of the room twisted inward. The scent of saltwater, coconuts, and jasmine grew stronger, clouding his mind until his thoughts turned silent, swallowed by the warmth of her gentle lips on his.
She murmured something against his mouth. Maybe he tasted the ocean in her tears, but he could no longer understand the words as he drifted in the confusion her nearness wrought.
Calder snorted and threw back the sheet.
“Gaire,” he bellowed, already understanding. Afterward happened the same way every time. Perhaps it was foolish to call after a dream, but that truth never stopped him.
She’d made him drunk on her nearness and left him alone with the hangover. How a figment of his imagination pulled that off, he hadn’t been able to figure out. She had to be a real being. If he told, docs would have him committed, so Calder kept Gaire to himself.
Squinting against the beginnings of a headache, he glanced at his familiar surroundings. The glaring sun streamed through the open sliding door. The white chiffon curtains fluttered in the wind, but no other movement in the room and no response to his call. When he propped himself up on his elbows, bits of sand jumped along the edge of the king-sized bed.
He sat up, drawing his hand across the empty place in his bed. He never held a real woman in the daylight after his fantasy nights spent with her at his side.
Make her real. She needs to be real. The plea echoed in his mind. If will alone could accomplish it, it would have already been complete.
He scrubbed a hand across his face and then froze, rooted in place by the shock that slid through him. His stomach clenched. For
For the first time, small sandy footprints led toward the bed from the balcony, but none led away. Flashes of softness, warmth, bright red lips calling his name, feathery kisses on his chest, and down… Need crept across his body like the sheet that still smelled of coconuts and jasmine. Now, he had real evidence that the mystery woman really existed.
He leapt from the bed and ran out to the balcony. He leaned over, peering all around. No evidence except the sand inside. His downstairs neighbor waved up at him. Her eyes dropped and then widened at the same time a draft ran across him.
He’d run out into the open as naked as Gaire left him. He darted back inside. “Sorry,” he yelled over his shoulder. With a groan, he collapsed onto the mattress once more.
Maybe he’d finally gone insane.
Calder dipped his brush in the blue paint, then swirled the bristles against the canvas before him. It wasn’t quite right, but nothing ever came out perfect the first time.
He took one step backward, bumping into yesterday’s ocean-covered canvas. Concentration broken, he growled and threw the small brush onto the paint-spotted, used-to-be-somebody’s-trash of an end table. He tugged at his red beard while studying his latest commission. Residual white paint streaked and re-streaked the wiry hair with each finger stroke.
His thoughts drifted to the curve of Gaire’s waist and hip. He could paint her form in his sleep. But he hadn’t been commissioned to paint his fantasy into the family portrait.
Three nights. He’d dreamed of his scale-tattooed woman three nights in a row. It was usually months between the visions. His mouth twisted and he chewed on the handle end of the brush. She’d left footprints this time.
If Gaire was real, she could stay. They could solve so many problems. Maybe even get a happily ever after out of the deal.
Calder’s best friend, Mike, thought Calder had gone crazy, and Calder had started to believe him. Until the footsteps.
Calder slicked another layer of paint onto the canvas. Mike said Gaire was a result of the scars he carried from his years as a child in the custody of the great state of California.
Calder wearied of the constant set-ups and the accidental bump-ins Mike always set up. It got old and harder and harder to say no.
Frustrated by another rush of desire, Calder tossed his paintbrush at the shelf beneath the canvas. On impact, a blue splatter marred the perfect froth at the crest of the painted wave. He’d spent an hour that morning, getting it just right, but he didn’t care. He adjusted his tattered blue jeans and the length of beach-found rope that held them. His bare feet made no sound as he crossed the repurposed driftwood floor.
He stood at the window to watch the fog rolling away from the beach. The cloud retreated across the Pacific, and the sun climbed higher over the Strait.
Most days, paintbrushes against his canvases mimicked the sound of gentle waves on the beach, but this morning the rhythm brought the memory of fingernails scratching against his bed sheets into his mind.
Turning, Calder rifled through the stock of completed works until he found the one he wanted.
Gaire.
He leaned the large rectangular painting against the thin wall. A life-sized Gaire covered nearly the whole of it, poised over a small outcropping of rock in the middle of the ocean. She resembled a dancer, caught mid-leap.
He grabbed the next canvas. Gaire again but, this time, her rounded face made her seem younger at first glance. Yet her knowing eyes had been caught mid-laugh. White teeth shined between full lips. She beckoned him with a mischievous smile. Her long hair stretched across the canvas like a cloud of fire in the night sky.
He needed some way to wash away his want of the woman he’d never officially met. A knock interrupted his reverie. It was probably Mike. He’d have to put the portrait away. Hiding the canvas behind the others, he cleared his throat, and stepped behind a tall workbench.
“Yes?”
“Lemme in, Lumberjack.” A happy-go-lucky voice sounded from the other side of the sliding tin door.
Calder chuckled. “Yeah, come on.”
The door creaked on rollers as it slid open. Mike Love, complete with tanned face, bright blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, and dressed only in swim trunks, stepped into the makeshift workroom. “Cal.”
“Still no lumberjacks here but good to see you.”
“Yeah, but you always manage to look like one. Man, it’s a good thing you grew out of being scrawny.”
“You were scrawnier.”
“You’re hilarious.” Mike feigned a chest wound, slumping dramatically against a worktable and onto the flimsy wall.
Calder eyed Mike’s outfit. “Been at the beach?”
“Yeah, you know me, billionaire beach bum.” Straightening, he grinned. “Did you have a good time in Hawaii?”
He pointed to the black leather-bound volumes resting on the table nearest Mike. “I did what you said. I spent the whole time sketching on the beach, snorkeling, scuba diving, then sketching more. Two books’ worth made a productive summer.”
Mike grunted approval as he picked up the top book. “Any women?” He flipped through the drawings of reefs, fish, and beach scenes complete with tropical fauna.
Calder hesitated. Gaire hadn’t followed him to Hawaii. He turned back to the tumultuous waters splashing on his current canvas.
Mike snickered, and he let his eyes scan the haphazard paintings, focusing on a dark corner peeking out.
“Calder.” Mike pressed his lips into a straight line. “Not this again.” He pulled the tall painting from between the others. “There were no other women, were there?”
The insinuation in the word struck Calder, and he flinched, prepared for the litany he had heard before. “By choice.”
“It’s always her. You’ve been painting her for ten years, and she’s always hanging a
round in your head. No woman ever measures up. I don’t get it. You’re missing out on life, man. You should be out there. Get a real woman.”
Calder shrugged. “Someday,” he said.
Sandy footprints. They were an impossibility, but they remained. He didn’t know what to do next, but he’d left them on the floor to prove to himself that he wasn’t as crazy as Mike thought. Maybe he should take pictures and send it to Mike. The thought cheered Calder up.
Mike gestured toward the painting. “Sell it already. There’s got to be some lonely old man that would love to have her on his wall.”
“Not happening, Mike,” Calder answered. Best friend or not, he had to get the message. “Let it go.”
Mike’s gaze dropped to Calder’s tight fists and moved across Calder’s looming size. “Never mind, Cal. It’s nothing. Who knew you had to go to Hawaii to get decent sketches? Want some lunch? We can talk about your show.”
Calder studied the choppy seascape canvas. “Yeah, I’m at a stopping place. Where you wanna go?”
Mike grinned. “The Pier.”
Calder groaned.
Calder lingered over his calamari appetizer, studying the underwater scene adorning the remainder and barely listening to Mike’s ideas about the gallery opening. Kat was good, talented enough to have her own show, if Mike nudged the right people, and Mike seemed determined to show Calder cellphone pictures of every piece Kat had ever created.
Light filled the spacious room, pouring in through the giant bank of windows overlooking the bay. Marine-themed artwork covers the other sides of the room, and anchors leaned in the corners. A large blackboard covered the wall opposite the bank of windows and boasted the latest sketches by Kat Mason.
Across the top of the blackboard on a wooden sign were the words, “The Pier Restaurant.” The words “Supports Local Artists” followed in Kat’s chalky calligraphy.
Calder’s thoughts drifted back eleven years.
It had taken Mike months to ’fess up to his San Franciscan lineage. Mike had given Calder a shiny new bicycle not long after they met, but he’d let Calder believe that he’d stolen it for his new friend.
Calder had struggled with disbelief and amazement when Mike had finally told the truth about his silver spoon upbringing. Calder demanded Mike prove himself by inviting him to dinner. Mike obliged and showed off the home on 25th Avenue North in the historic neighborhood from the early 1900s with a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
When they’d grown up, Mike had offered Calder space for an art studio in the backyard, so the artist could listen to the ocean while he painted. Mike convinced his parents to consider Calder a philanthropic project, however begrudgingly, and Calder satisfied his pride by paying a small monthly rental.
Through them, he had been introduced to a local art dealer and the gallery owner that had taken an interest in his ocean scenes and found his scruffy, long-bearded look a novelty in California’s high society landscape.
Thirst brought Calder back to the lunch at hand, and the white tablecloth showed the beige drips of sweetened ginger sauce, spilled during Calder’s mental lollygagging. He reached for his water goblet. The condensation caused the cup to slip in his fingers, though he caught it before it fell.
The movement broke Mike’s train of thought. He glanced up from the images on his phone. “Did you switch to something stronger there, bud?” He lifted a beer bottle to his lips.
Calder shook his head. “Still water. You know me.”
“Let’s fix that.” Mike waved at Kat as she crossed the dining room.
She approached the table. A long-sleeved black shirt stretched tightly across her chest. Her cleavage peeked out above the third button. The striped cuffs fastened severely at the wrists with shirttails hanging loosely over tight black slacks. A streak of blue hair bounced in the high purple ponytail. When she stopped, she pulled one of the adjacent chairs close to Calder and sat. She leaned forward, accentuating what the shirt did not cover.
Calder lifted his gaze from his appetizer and found hers. “Hi.”
“Hello,” he said, distracted as Kat’s dark skin only brought Gaire’s pale skin to his mind.
She winked, then leaned toward Mike. “Hiya.”
Mike flashed a roguish grin and ogled appreciatively. “Lookin’ good, Kat.” He winked back. “What’s your special?”
Kat smiled. “You know what I’m good at, Mike, but it looks like you’ve already committed to the calamari and a salad.” She turned back to Calder. “Have you sold that painting yet?” Her gaze lingered on his lips and then strayed down to his beard.
Calder shifted in his seat. “No,” he said dully, adding nothing else. Mike must have conscripted her help. Kat knew of his on-going affection for the portrait thanks to one date and two bottles of wine.
Kat raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, then, I’ll double my last offer.”
Mike winked again. So much winking. Mike had a disease.
“Something in your eye?” Calder asked.
Mike shrugged.
Kat went on. “I’ll even throw in today’s lunch…” She paused. “…If you say yes.”
Mike grabbed his beer to wash down a large bite of salad. His smug expression nettled Calder.
Calder put his elbows on the table, trying to send the now salad-absorbed Mike a dirty look. “No, I don’t think so. Not ready to part with that one yet.” He smiled. “Thanks, though.”
Her dark blue eyes twinkled. “The offer stands.” Her voice dropped to a suggestive octave. “Matter fact, so do the others. I’m here when you’re ready to move on.”
His cheeks heated. He should never have told her about the painting Mike hated. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” On the promise to catch up with Mike later, the restaurant owner left their table.
“You set me up,” Calder growled.
“Yeah, no use denying it, sell the thing so we can eat here in peace.”
“Not happening, Mike. Lay off.” Calder shoved a piece of breaded calamari into his mouth.
Standing in the parking lot after lunch, Mike elbowed Calder. “Wanna head out tonight?” Mike wagged his eyebrows. “It’s Friiiiday,” sing-songing the day name. “You know these beach women don’t see many fiercely bearded artist-lumberjacks.”
“Do you ever get tired of living your whole week for Friday nights?”
“No, I don’t.” Mike leaned against the restaurant wall. Calder felt his scrutiny. “But, then, I’m not in love with a painting.”
Calder winced. “I…I’m not…” The feeble argument faded from his lips until only the sounds of distant surf filled the air. He wasn’t in love with the painting. He was in love with the woman who left the prints on his floor.
Mike waved his hand. “You’re crazy.”
“You know…” Pensive, Calder paused again, searching for words. “I didn’t always dream about her, had a sort of picture of her in my head, the dreams came later. I see her most nights now. Never seems to make much difference. And lately…” He let his words fade once more.
Forget it.
If he told Mike about the footprints on the floor, he’d think Calder had gone off the deep end. Instead of confession, Calder threw his friend a nonchalant grin.
“Every artist has his agony,” Calder said. “She’s my muse.” He jerked his hand through his hair, unsmoothing and undoing the morning’s combing. “Come to think of it. A night out sounds good. Let’s go out. I’ll get cleaned up, then we’ll go stir up some trouble.”
“You got it.” Mike turned to climb into his car but called over his shoulder. “Hey, Calder?”
Calder stopped. “Yeah?”
“That white paint in your beard doesn’t really add to your lumberjack allure.”
Calder laughed. “Has it been there the whole time?”
Mike shrugged. “Maybe.”
Calder punched his friend’s shoulder. “See you tonight.”
Mike climbed into his car and sped away.
&
nbsp; Instead of beginning the two-mile walk to his apartment, Calder strolled toward the beach, relishing the salty breeze caressing his face. He wound his way to the Golden Gate Strait. Although Baker Beach boasted sun worshipers, young and old, Calder paid them no attention.
He wandered to the water’s edge, collected rocks as he went, then he stepped into the lively brine. The surf soaked the bottom of his jeans while he threw bits of gravel at the choppy water. A piece of driftwood danced on a wave nearby. What if Mike was right?
Calder wondered if, indeed, he was in love with an image in a painting that was nothing more than a recurring dream borne from his love of the ocean and the empty space in his life and bed.
At her first appearance or any time since, he could have called the police. He could have attacked the trespasser. Why had he never done the things normal people do? She acted as though she shouldn’t be there. She always wanted him to forget her.
This time, she’d left footprints behind, but that got him no closer to figuring out who she was. If she was real, she could be caught. That would be the only way to solve the mystery of his nighttime intruder.
Calder flung the last stone, and it plopped beneath the surface. He had to put the mer-maiden from his mind until he had a workable plan for capturing her. Then he could question her or take her to the cops… anything he wanted.
For tonight, he needed a companion beside him, smiling at him, freely enjoying his presence… instead of trying to make him forget.
He pushed away the ache of an unfulfilled promise and vowed to forget.
Chapter 2
Cathair Uisce
In the murky depths, Gaire hovered over the changing spot, an outcropping of rock at the edge of the underwater city. An opaque octopus inked and then sped away, but Gaire paid it no mind. Creatures often gathered at the edge of their world, soaking up light and warmth.
Mermaidia: A Limited Edition Anthology Page 36