The West Wind

by Morgan Douglas

  “There you are, I thought you’d disappeared on me,” Hero said from behind him.

  “If I had, I would have at least left a shoe behind,” he joked.

  “Isn’t that my job?” she asked.

  “Are you saying you’re a princess?” Xander asked in return.

  “Are you saying you are?” Hero replied with a laugh. “I know someone I could introduce you to, if you want. . .” she said playfully.

  Her quick wit made Xander smile. Banter like this was one of his favorite pastimes. “Are you talking about Brian? He’s not my type, too manly.”

  “Ah, you noticed, did you? I think the others are oblivious.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right. Are you two pretty close?”

  Hero looked thoughtful. “Yeah, we are. We tried dating for a little bit, but that’s when he decided he no longer had any doubts. He’s looking for a Prince Charming too.” She laughed at her own words. It was strangely easy to share something she hadn’t told anyone she had known for years with this newcomer.

  Xander nodded, but couldn’t think of anything else to say on the matter. It was what it was and he didn’t have it in him to tell someone else how he thought they should love. If Brian was attracted to men, it didn’t make him any less human, nor any less Brian. He would judge him on his personality, not his sexual orientation.

  “So,” he said. “How’s your night?”

  “Oh, not too bad,” Hero said coyly, with a shrug. The abrupt shift in topic didn’t phase her. She leaned back against the railing, supporting herself with both hands. “I danced a tango with this guy I don’t think I’ll ever forget, even if he disappears at midnight and leaves only a smelly dancing shoe behind. That was alright. How about you?”

  “Amazing. I danced a tango with a woman who reminds me of my favorite poem.” Xander put his hands on the rail and pushed himself out so he could see her better. Hero was overly aware that only a quarter of an inch kept him from touching her hand.

  “I remind you of a poem? What poem?” She squinted at him curiously, her brow crinkling. It made Xander want to kiss her forehead.

  “You remind me of a lot of poems, actually.”

  “I’m not sure what I think of that. Tell me your favorite.”

  “She walks in beauty, like the night

  of cloudless climes and starry skies

  and all that’s best of dark and bright

  meet in her aspect and her eyes. . .” he began.

  Hero’s breath caught in her throat and she found herself carried away by the cadence of his honeyed baritone.

  “Thus mellow’d to that tender light

  which heaven to gaudy day denies.

  One ray the more, one shade the less,

  had half impaired the nameless grace

  which waves in every raven tress

  Or softly lightens o’er her face;

  where thoughts serenely sweet express

  How pure, how dear their dwelling place.”

  He paused and she remembered to breathe. He opened his mouth to begin again, but she put one finger on his chest and pushed gently. “You, sir, are kind of a nerd.”

  “Is that a problem?” he asked, not really caring. He hoped she wasn’t the kind of person who cared about things like that. He was proud of who he was. It would be disappointing if Hero turned out to be shallow.

  She flashed him a quick smile and leaned in closer. “No. I kind of like it, actually. It’s different.”

  Before he could respond she asked, “Do you want to get out of here? We could go for a walk or something.”

  He smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”

  The West Wind

  Hero slipped her fingers through Xander’s as they walked along the boardwalk. She marvelled at the gentle strength of his hand as his fingers intertwined and enveloped hers almost unconsciously, as if they had walked beside each other a million times before. The ease with which their hands fit together surprised her. She had held hands with boys before, of course, but it never seemed as intimate as it did with him. It was reflection of their dancing, she thought. The tiniest touch and it felt like her entire self connected completely with him. If he had started to dance, here on the uneven planks and without music, she knew she’d move perfectly without a second thought.

  Night had fallen and the boardwalk was lit like a carnival. People were out and about, walking in and out of restaurants and those stores still open, chatting and pointing out this and that to each other as they went by. Xander and Hero weaved through the pedestrian traffic, occasionally getting bumped into. Just before she ran straight into a towering man, Xander pulled her into the safety of a bench that had just been vacated by another couple. It looked out over the bay, the reflection of the boardwalk lights dancing on the night-black water.

  He sat down, arms sprawled across the back of the bench. She slipped into place beside him and leaned in against him. His arm settled around her shoulders, one hand resting comfortably on the left. She smiled. From where they sat, the lights of the Brighton House could be seen across the water.

  “You know you moved into my house, right?” Hero asked him.

  “I did, did I?” Xander raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes. I used to pretend I lived there. My friends and I snuck in and stayed the night once when we were younger and told ghost stories. You did know it was haunted, right?”

  “I did meet the Ghost of Christmas Future in the kitchen the other night. I tried to strike up a conversation, but he’s not exactly the talkative type. He kept pointing at my sandwich. I should have listened. I think the bread was moldy.” He grimaced dramatically.

  Hero laughed. “Dork,” she said fondly.

  Xander winked at her. “So why would you want to live in a run-down haunted house?”

  “I’ve always wanted to meet the Ghost of Christmas Future,” she joked. “No, I just think it’s beautiful. I always thought it was really tragic that no one took care of it. My parent’s thought about buying it, actually, but they just wanted to tear it down and rebuild on the land. I’m glad they couldn’t.”

  “Me too,” Xander agreed. “I don’t think I could see myself living somewhere called ‘La Hacienda Loco.”

  “Noblé,” Hero corrected with a smirk.

  “That too,” Xander laughed. He stood up, startling her. “Let’s go,” he said decisively.

  “Go where?” she asked from the bench.

  “My house.” He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet.

  “Now? It’s almost 10:30!” she protested.

  “Were you planning on sleeping anytime soon?” he asked simply.

  “No, but. . .”

  “So, we’ll just continue our walk. In that direction.”

  Hero wasn’t sure. “I don’t know, Xander.”

  “I have a ballroom,” he coaxed.

  “You do not!” she said in disbelief.

  “No, really. First thing we did after fixing the library. Dad got a library, I got a ballroom. Now we’re working on the bedrooms.”

  “But the house didn’t have a ballroom. I thought you had to fix it up exactly as the plans on the Historical Register showed it.”

  “Sure, only they don’t say we have to furnish the old dining room or not put mirrors on the walls and a stereo in.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “About which part?” Xander looked puzzled.

  “All of it! Who fixes up a library and a ballroom before their bedrooms?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want a new kitchen?” Zach asked his wife as she helped Xander balance as he walked down the beams that would become the floor of the new addition to their house. It had just started raining, interrupting his work.

  Xander was 10. Sara laughed at her husband, who knew better.

  “You’re lucky I’m letting you put a roof on it,” she replied.

  “I should have done that first,” he said, sounding abused. He carefully climbed down the lad
der he was on.

  Sara helped her son down to ground as her husband came up and kissed her. “May I have this dance?” he asked, spinning her out in single turn.

  His wife let herself spin away from him, her eyes playful. “When you finish my dance floor, you may. Until then, back to work,” she demanded in a mock-serious tone.

  “As you wish, MiLady,” her husband replied.

  Xander grinned broadly. “We do. They were the most important rooms in my parent’s lives. The library for my dad, the dance floor for my mom. And me, I love both.” He shrugged. “I guess it’s a matter of what really matters in your life. Do you want to focus your energy on a room where you spend the majority of your time unconscious or on the ones that make you happy? ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may’ has always been a motto in my family.”

  “Is that something like carpe diem?” Hero asked. His answering smile made her knees weak.

  Hero thought for a moment, then made her decision.

  “Do we have to walk?” she asked, still in her dancing heels.

  “No,” he grinned impishly. “My truck is back at Hellespont.”

  “You have a car here and wanted to walk half an hour to your house? I don’t understand you at all, Xander.” She nudged him with her shoulder.

  He smiled again and locked fingers with hers. “Well, I hope you will someday,” he said. The sincerity in his voice made her heart ache.

  “I think I’d like that,” she replied.

  * * *

  The changes Xander and his father and their tiny crew had wrought in the Brighton House astounded Hero. While the outside still clung to much of its dilapidated, haunted house charm, the inside was completely renewed. All the windows had been replaced with new, double-paned glass that Xander told her improved the efficiency of the house. Apparently they had hired the project out to a local company because it was, as he said, ‘tedious’. She found his use of words like tedious endearing.

  All the wood in the house had been sanded and polished. Everything had been dusted and cleaned. The lights had all been replaced with the soft brightness of LEDs and reminded her of permanent moonlight. Where wooden door frames had once been covered in peeling paint, now they glower with the luster of a deep stain. Everywhere the house could be taken back to its most natural, it had been, then had that natural beauty enhanced. There was a quality to the work that expressed a love for the effort that they put into it, and she thought that was exactly what the Brighton House deserved. It seemed there was more to Xander than pretty words, amazing dancing, and the looks of a Greek God. Her lips turned up in tiny smile as he lead her through the house.

  She followed him down a dark hallway. At the end of the hall bright, clean light flowed from an open door. He stopped and knocked on the frame. A voice called from within, “You home, Xander?” The question was obviously rhetorical.

  Xander nodded, even though he was still standing in the hallway. “Yeah. Hey, Dad, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Who’s that?” asked the voice.

  “The girl I dropped,” Xander said with a laugh.

  Hero raised an eyebrow, not quite amused. Apparently there was a joke she was missing and she wasn’t certain she wanted to be the butt of it.

  “Come on in,” Xander’s father said.

  They stepped into the room and Hero’s eyes were immediately drawn to the walls. Built into seven of the eight walls were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, complete with an old fashioned ladder attached to a railing. The wood itself was dark oak and the shelves were filled with books of all sizes. Fewer of the shelves than she had expected were empty. Xander’s father had a LOT of books. A huge marble fireplace took up the last wall. From the shape of the room, she guessed that they were underneath the cupola. A small couch rested between two large leather recliners in front of the fire.

  Hero enjoyed reading, but didn’t do it very often. She had never seen anything like this place. The public library made books seem institutional to her, and it was even worse at the school library. Here, the books seemed intimate, like someone you cared about waiting to divulge a secret or just to tell you how their day went. Or quote poetry to you, she thought with a smile.

  “You like it?” Xander’s father asked as he stood up and put down the book he was reading. His hazel eyes were warm and welcoming. He wasn’t quite as tall as his son, but close. His hair was also sandy blond.

  “It’s. . .” she struggled for the right word. “Beautiful? Amazing? I don’t know what to say.”

  “This is where my imagination dances. The ballroom of my mind,” he told her.

  “Is that from a poem? I can see where Xander gets it.”

  “No, that’s his own,” Xander interjected. “Dad, this is Hero. Hero, this is my dad, Zachariah McConnell.”

  “Please, call me Zach,” Zach said, shaking Hero’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.” He looked at his son. “Has it rained yet?”

  Xander shook his head with a smile, “No, not yet.”

  “Ah, well, I hope it pours soon.”

  Hero was confused. “Why do you want it to rain?” she asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Xander said conspiratorially. “Right now, I want to show you my room.”

  She nodded. “It was nice to meet you, Zach. Your home is beautiful.”

  “Just wait til it’s finished,” he suggested.

  “It was beautiful before you got here,” she said. “With the work you’re doing, I can only imagine it getting better.”

  “I like her,” he said to Xander. “Maybe you were right about the West Wind blowing us here.”

  As Xander and Hero climbed the stairs to the cupola, Hero found herself thinking about the way Xander and his father talked. It was a little frustrating, because they never explained their references unless she asked them to, but at the same time she was fascinated by it. How many people could quote poetry like that these days? How many would have the confidence to do so? Sometimes it seemed a little pretentious, but it was so unintentional in the two of them that she was certain it was just a part of their personalities. She figured there were two choices, let it intimidate her, or take advantage of their knowledge and learn something. Three steps from the top she decided on the latter and asked a question about the last thing Zach had said. “What did your dad mean? About the West Wind?”

  Xander stopped, then sat down on the top step. Hero sat where she was, back against the wall, feet on the stair below her. “It’s a reference to Ode to the West Wind,” he began. “By one of the Romantic poets. It’s a poem about new beginnings. I also like to say that it’s the most emo poem ever written.”

  Hero laughed. “What do you mean?”

  “One line goes, ‘I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed,’” he said dramatically.

  She laughed again. “Yeah, that’s pretty emo. But I kind of like it.”

  The left side of Xander’s face turned up slightly and she noticed he smiled more with his eyes than his mouth.

  “So do we. That’s how we felt back home after Mom died. As if we’d been thrown upon the thorns of life. And that’s where the poem begins. The autumn wind is blowing and winter follows behind it. But if it brings winter, then spring must come as well. Losing Mom made for a pretty hard winter. We moved here looking for spring.”

  “How does it go?”

  “It’s a long poem, but the part I like most goes:

  If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

  If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

  A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

  The impulse of thy strength, only less free

  Than thou, O Uncontrollable! If even

  I were as in my boyhood, and could be

  The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

  As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed

  Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

  As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

  O
h! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

  I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

  A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed

  One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.”

  His voice changed as he recited the poem, his volume rising and falling. Some parts were quiet, sorrowful, and others hopeful. The whole delivery was rife with longing and made Hero’s heart ache. She could see how he felt affected by each line, almost as if he were the poet instead of some teenage boy sitting on a stairwell a couple hundred years and thousands of miles away. It was nothing she had ever experienced. She had heard people read poetry in English classes in school, but the rhythm was never as fluid. Even from her teachers it was devoid of passion in comparison. Passionate, she thought, was the perfect word to describe Xander. Everything he did, he did with passion. It made her think about kissing him and what it would be like to feel his lips on hers. If it was anything like his dancing or the way he recited poetry, there wasn’t going to be much hope she’d ever want anyone else in her life again. She remembered the charge at the end of their first dance, the feel of him during their tango, and began to imagine his mouth leaning down to claim hers.

  Hero looked up to find him watching her in silence. Apparently she’d been lost in thought for a while. She blushed under his stare, a little embarrassed. He raised both eyebrows, amused.

  “You look pretty good in red. Matches the strap on your dress.”

  She blushed harder. “Shut up!”