Empty Chairs and Empty Promises

Chapter Seven

Two hours later, I was settled into my new abode. Considering the few items I brought with me when I flew to Puerto Rico, I'm surprised it took me so long. I did purchase a few items at the supermarket and a small department store nearby after doing a quick inventory of the items already supplied in my furnished condo.

The ocean calls out to me and I throw on my suit, a flowing beach cover-up and grab my camera. I had spied some surfers hitting the waves from the balcony and thought I could get some great photos if I were on the beach.

The wind whips around me as I slowly stroll along the shore enjoying the feel of the surf as it splashes over my feet. I pause and focus my camera on a couple of people sitting on their boards as they wait for the next wave. My patience is rewarded as they begin to paddle with the swell of the water's surface and jump to their feet when the time is right.

The exhilaration of capturing the energy of the wave and the surfers as they become one with powerful surf has my heart beating hard against my ribs. I feel like I'm right there with them and their excitement feeds mine; even though, a significant distance lies between us. As I fix one surfer in the center of my viewfinder, I chuckle because it looks like he's waving right at me.

I lower the camera and smile at the absurd thought, but even from this distance, it looks like he is waving. I look around and no one is near me. I take a few more photos before continuing to stroll down the beach.

I pick a quiet spot to spread out my beach towel and sit down to review the photos I'd taken so far. A shadow falls over me as I gaze down at my viewfinder. I look up shielding my eyes from the sun. The person standing over me has the fiery orb behind them and their features are lost in a dark silhouette.

"Hola." I initiate the greeting with an uncertain smile. I'm hoping they don't respond in a flood of Spanish. My vocabulary consists of a few words, mainly items I order in my favorite restaurant back home.

"Hola, Senorita? Senora?"

"Senora. I'm American and don't speak Spanish, sorry."

"I thought so. May I sit down?" His voice is slow with a slight Southern drawl.

"Why not." My stomach churns with uncertainty, but I push down the urge to disappear reminding myself to be fearless in approaching my new life.

After he sits down, I can finally see his features. He's the waving surfer. He looked so young through the viewfinder but sitting next to me I see he's a few years older than I first thought but still younger than I am. His wavy sun-streaked blond hair is longer than I'm used to seeing back home, covering his ears but not yet reaching his shoulders. Around his eyes, fine lines crinkle at the outer corners as he studies the ocean and the other surfers. His lips are full and his features are animated with his emotions as he watches his friends ride the waves.

I decide I like how he looks, and I appreciate the companionable silence. I raise my camera again focusing on the activity in the distance.

"Are you a photographer?"

His question startles me after his silence. I lower my Minolta and shake my head slowly from side to side. "I used to be, but I haven't done anything professionally in a very long time."

"Ah, modest woman. Don't you know being creative isn't necessarily dependent on subjective terms like professional or amateur? It's about the work and the artistic vision." He turns his expressive eyes towards me and the intensity in them overwhelms me and I drop my eyes in response.

I'm such a coward... I want to say something to correct his impression of me, to defuse the outpouring of emotions making my hands tremble. I tighten my hold on the camera hoping it will lessen the shaking.

"I'm realistic. I don't harbor false hope, anymore." Damn, I sound so jaded, hardened.

He extends his hand. "I'm Griff. Griffin Nisen. I'm a dreamer, a surfer, and a good judge of character. Don't sell yourself short, ma'am. You're somebody special. I could tell the moment I saw you."

I feel the right corner of my mouth rise with cynicism and my eyes narrow as I contemplate his pronouncement. "I doubt your sincerity, Mr. Nisen. I'm a middle-aged married woman no different than a million other older ladies in the Midwest. One thing I can tell you is, I'm not here looking for anything, and I'm not some insecure woman seeking validation from a man."

He laughs; actually, he belly-laughs at my statement. I didn't expect that reaction. I pick up my belongings in preparation to leave.

"Wait. I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting you to say that exactly. It was priceless. I think you really believe what you say, but I want you to know what you see and what others see is so different. I don't blame you for being cautious. I came on too strong. A fault of mine, for sure."

I pause and raise my eyes to look at Griff. His hand is still extended in my direction. I want so badly to place my hand in his and feel the strength of his fingers clasping mine. My right hand relaxes its grip on my water bottle, and I stretch my arm towards him counting the seconds it takes before a warm tingle of electricity passes from his palm to mine. I release my breath in a slow hiss, not even aware I'd been holding it.

"My name is Libby Crenshaw. It's nice to meet you, Griff." My words sound breathy, and I know I've made a decision I may regret. But not right now, because right now I feel so alive.