“The usual rah-rah speech,” I shrugged dejectedly. “The ‘Keep trying, son; you’ll get it right someday‘ speech.”
“Well, he’s right, you know,” she frowned. “He has faith in you, Sonny. We all do.”
I snorted at her attempt to humor my wounded pride.
At twenty, after two years of college, I joined the military in an effort to follow in our dad’s footsteps. Our father, a successful officer in the Air Force, recently retired from a lifetime of service. Everyone, including our dad, expected me to do the same, but after four years, I declined Uncle Sam’s invitation to reenlist.
Military life wasn’t for me. As a kid, I hated bouncing from one place to another, and as an adult, I hated it even more. I detested the hours and following inane orders; I abhorred the disciplined style of life.
As long as I could remember, I wanted to be either a writer or an artist. Not a journalist, but a novelist, or perhaps a screenplay writer. Two years of college did nothing to enhance my skills in that department either. My resume was extensive and growing by the minute.
I’d landed quite a few jobs, but none of them lasted. When I was canned from my last official position as a weekly column writer for a small-town newspaper, my refusal to return in defeat to my parents’ home landed me on Summer’s doorstep in south Florida.
By contrast, Summer was a well-rounded success; it goes without saying, she was well-rounded in all the appropriate places.
She earned a Master’s degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. Not only was she the published author of a series of children’s books, but she elbowed her way into the fashion industry as both a runway and a commercial-print model when she was still in college.
Despite her age, Summer maintained the look and the poise required for modeling. Miami had a market for women like Summer; they doted on tall, tanned, beautiful blondes.
“I think I need a drink,” I grumbled as I lifted her foot from my lap and placed it firmly on the floor. I wandered to the bar and poured myself a stiff Johnny Walker on the rocks.
“Would you care for anything?” I offered dully.
Summer wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
“Not scotch. I’ll make us a pitcher of Margaritas if you promise to help me drink it,” she replied.
I downed the scotch and meandered through a set of French doors onto the deck. In the darkness, a cool ocean breeze rattled the palm fronds overhead, and Summer’s passion, a row of wind-chimes suspended from the eaves, played a tinkling tune.
In the distance, the sound of rolling waves crashed against a sand beach with an accompanying rhythm. Summer called the combined chaos ‘the angel’s waltz’. Somehow, she found beauty in everything, even stormy days seemed brighter through Summer’s eyes.
I half seated myself on the handrail, resting one buttock there as I looked towards the water and swirled the melting ice in my glass. I took a deep breath of fresh ocean air and sighed.
There was a faint scent of hibiscus on the salty breeze and something more. I closed my eyes and sniffed again. Citrus, I thought. Perhaps a few late blooming oranges from some nearby neighbor’s yard.