A Brush of Love Page 2

appeared happy, content. As I indulged in my sandwich, the sound of legal jargon hit my ear. I glanced to my left and saw two men sipping coffee, trading words as if they were worth something. One man wore a loose black dress shirt, opened one too many buttons, and his partner wore a T-shirt plastered with USF on the front. Even though a crowd surrounded me, it seemed I could only focus on the two men’s voices spouting insurance deductibles and proposed court dates. The man in the college shirt explained how he was at a traffic light and the guy in front of him stopped short. It was as if I were back with Mr. Bernstein, taking notes at one of his client’s meetings. The only difference was my pen and steno pad had become a turkey on cheese bread.

  I wondered what kind of attorney this was, meeting his client in a coffee shop. Was this to protect the client or the attorney? As their voices overwhelmed me, I knew I had to focus on something else, something around me. I glanced to my right to peek again at the daughter’s cute smile, but she was gone. A void was present where she once was. Then, something hit me. My nose received a blast of something intoxicating. It was a masculine cologne, an aroma that took my breath away. I studied my peripheral vision and saw the silhouette of a man sitting next to me in the same spot as the girl’s parents. They must have snuck away, replaced by this succulently scented man, as the attorney and his client had engulfed me.

  I felt something come over me, something that drew me to this man. I wanted to turn and study him like an art historian studies the Mona Lisa, but I couldn’t. I had to do it subtly, tactfully. As I started on the second half of my sandwich, I stole a peek. He wore a nonchalant pink Lacoste shirt and plaid shorts with sandals on his feet. The man seemed as cool as a cool breeze cutting through the moist Florida air.

  While my glance lasted less than a second, I painted him in my mind as I turned back to my iced tea. I saw that his focus was on something in his hands, something that my glimpse failed to realize. I wanted to, in fact I needed to, glance again. As I turned slightly, I noticed a cup of coffee sitting in front of him, but the object consuming his attention drew me closer. He was drawing something with colored pencils in a sketchpad. It looked like his hand was creating a bird of some sort standing on a beach. I immediately stopped and focused on nothing other than the sketch his mind and his hands were creating.

  Something about an artistic guy intrigued me, his gentle passion for his art in an ungentle world. I immediately wanted to know more about this guy. Who he was, where he lived, and where he came from. But as his hands drew the legs of the bird, I realized my glance had turned into a stare. I lifted my gaze toward his face, and as I did, his green eyes saw through me. I felt a bit embarrassed, but it was worth it. He had a look about him, the kind of look that flowed over you like a hand massaging your sore muscles. The Florida sun had tanned his warm face as just enough stubble coated it to tease me. I smiled as he returned the gesture with his own. I was bizarrely nervous as if I were back in high school in the presence of my crush. As my senses screamed not knowing what to do, what to say, he cut the tension by softly saying, “Hi there.”

  I asked him about his drawing as he proudly turned it to me. The sandy beach, the glowing sun, and the basking bird looked so simple yet complex sketched in colored pigment. I wondered whether this sight actually existed beyond his mind, somewhere hidden in the land around us.

  He asked my name with his brawny voice and just as he devoted all of his attention to the drawing, he was now devoting all of his attention to me. I felt as if I were a drawing, crafted by the hands of this mysterious man. His name was Alex, and he moved to Clearwater Beach ten years ago on a full scholarship to the University of South Florida for a fine arts degree. He stayed, since the city of Clearwater and its wealthy residents loved his artwork depicting some of Florida’s most beautiful treasures. As he explained his passion, he pointed to a nearby wall where there was a painting of a beautiful palm tree overlooking the beach. Without him even saying a word, I knew it was his.

  “So what brings you here?” he asked as I slid a little closer to him.

  I explained my situation—attending the conference with my boss, needing some time to get away, and my plan to leave tomorrow evening. Alex had a quality that was absorbing. He looked at me with his green eyes as if I were the only person in that overcrowded room.

  “So does that location that you’re drawing actually exist?” I asked as I finished my meal.

  He didn’t respond verbally, but he smirked in such a way that I knew, in fact, it did. It was a memory in his mind, a scene of tropical bliss that filled his senses. Suddenly, I too wanted to experience this location, this vivid place that I could escape to whenever I closed my eyes.

  “I can take you there,” he offered.

  I stopped for a moment, thinking about the simple five words that his vocal cords vibrated. My brain said to keep my guard up, to be cautious of anyone known for less than ten minutes, but there was something telling me to go for it, to take the ticket to see the world that I craved. The things we don’t do today we often regret tomorrow or even for the rest of our lives. Before my brain could fully weigh the pros and cons, my mouth released four simple letters forming a word, a word that would shape my night and my life forever.

  “Sure.”

  “I have my moped. I’ll show you Florida, and I’ll have you back before your bedtime,” he joked.

  We stood up as he collected his drawing kit. Alex had to be at least six feet tall, tall enough to be noticed, but not enough to be mocked. I followed him out of the bustling establishment. He held the door for me as the balmy air surrounded us. I walked out of that café very differently than when I had entered. Alex led me across the parking lot, gripping my hand to scurry as one between the passing cars. His grasp felt warm, felt strong like a man in charge. I wondered how many other women felt the same power as I did. I remember just staring at him as he led me through the parking lot. He was so tall and his hair flowed in the wind. Then we arrived at his ride. It was a small red moped barely big enough for a kid, let alone a fisherman and his catch. But he assured me that this was the only way to travel through the Florida streets. Alex offered me his only helmet so I strapped it on. I was now concealed from being a secretary, replaced by a Florida girl on a bike.

  Alex put his supplies in an attached pack, and then fired up the puny engine. The bike was corny, but corny in a good way. He commanded the miniature moped as I sat behind him and held his waist. Then, like a cowboy escorting the sheriff’s daughter on an injured horse, we were off. The bike puttered through the lot as Alex dodged cars left and right. Even though we traversed the traffic with barely any defense, I took a whiff of his masculine scent and knew that I was protected.

  We cut through the humid air as my senses overflowed with the life of Florida. Palm trees swayed in the breeze as traffic surged. The homes looked nothing like those in Indiana. Barrel roofs and colored stucco replaced the flat shingles and vinyl siding from the north.

  We stopped at a traffic light as three business professionals crossed the street in front of us, a law office behind them at the street corner. The woman in the group wore a suit that was cool and classy. I studied her saunter, and then her face that brightened as she chuckled with the handsome middle-aged men accompanying her. I wondered how it would be working and living in a tropical land hidden away from Old Man Winter. The light turned green as we continued on our adventure. I didn’t exactly know where we were going, but I knew that following the setting sun would eventually lead us somewhere.

  After about twenty minutes of riding, signs for Clearwater Beach pointed us onward. Bikini clad women and shirtless men replaced the business professionals and locals navigating the streets. We were in the tourists’ playground, far, far away from my hotel district. For a moment, I wondered what my cigar-puffing boss was doing, but the sight of the beach in front of me quickly removed him from my mind.

  “Is that where we’re going?” I shouted through the wind.

  “No. T
hat’s where all the tourists go. We’re going to a very special place,” he replied.

  He turned the bike northward as we drove away from the crab shacks and vacation motels. Exquisite beachfront homes filled our view as we drove further away from the mainstream. I was getting a tour of the Florida Gulf Coast that not even the tourists received. As the engine droned, Alex turned off the roadway and into a sandy path.

  “We’re almost there,” he said, as I instinctively yelped from the abrupt change.

  We jostled on the packed sand as more and more space separated the large homes. It was just the seagulls and us as we rode with the rolling ocean to our left. A small sand dune came into our view, and our path. My pupils dilated. There was no way we were going to make it.

  “Hold on,” Alex hollered as I gripped his waist even tighter.

  He pegged the throttle; we popped over the hill through my girlish laughter. Then we slowed to a stop. I wondered whether something had happened to the moped. I looked around trying to assess the situation, but as I turned to the ocean, I knew exactly why we had stopped. Alex shut off the puny engine as the sound of paradise filled my ears. The picture he drew back at the café was now in