June 7, 1960 Algarve Region, Portugal
The couple was seated on the terrace of the Fonseca Tasca, a pink stucco building near the center of the crescent promenade at the foot of the cliffs, crowded-in among shops and bistros of various pastel colors that extended north and south along the walkway. There were two suites for tourists on the second level and the Fonseca family occupied the top floor.
The terrace was at the back, through the restaurant and it overlooked a beach where the Hotel Albunera kept rows of brightly striped canvas cabanas on the north end for the use of its guests.
The tide was out and shorebirds stabbed at the mud and picked at snail shells. Seagulls tugged at mussels that lay exposed in jumbled clusters at the foot of the rock walls that flanked the beach on each end. The sun was strong and the air was still. Kenneth stood to adjust the angle of the umbrella.
“It will be fine, don’t you think?”, Catherine asked. “Two months apart will do us both some good. You’ll be able to concentrate on your writing. You can bring your notebook to the café at the harbor and see the fishing boats starting out in the morning.”
He watched as a gull with a mussel in its beak pulled itself into the air above a flat rock at the base of the cliff.
“You’ll be ravenous for me by the end of summer,” she said, a hand shielding her lips.
The gull released the mollusk and swooped to follow as the shell ruptured on the rock. A riot of birds broke-out over it and they were loud and they held their wings out to appear large and they lowered their heads to menace each other with hooked beaks. One broke from the fight to snatch the prize and fly it away. A few gave chase and disappeared over the cliffs.
“Sit down Kenneth. I’ll order us another gin and tonic. Shall we have oysters?”
Two footballers, wearing the gold and red of the local club were looking over, smiling at Catherine from the high bar across the patio. They joked and laughed over their beers and smiled at her again and they were slow to look away when Kenneth turned his head toward them.
“Those boys seem to have ideas for you.”
“Children always have their ideas.”
“I’d say you’re much closer in age to them than to me.”
“What is it you’re trying to say, Kenneth? Does it bother you suddenly? It’s never mattered before.”
“They look as if they think they have a right, that’s all.”
“Please come sit with me dear, I’ll be in Boston tomorrow night.”
Kenneth turned the umbrella so that the canopy angled toward the sun. The ocean was slick and and undulating. Small waves lapped listlessly at the sand and their sound didn’t reach the terrace. He removed his linen jacket and arranged it around the back of a chair and took the seat across from her.
“I saw that you received a letter from Proxmire yesterday. Was it something important?”
The brim of his hat shaded his eyes as he searched the pockets of the jacket on the chair for his lighter. He lit a cigarette and swirled the ice in his glass. ‘Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, “Bingham brought the Sunday Times back with him yesterday. They’re saying it’s going to be Kennedy.”
“Has he been in New York?”
“Kennedy?”
“No, Bingham.”
Matilde, squat and sturdy, came around to check on them. “Another round please,” Catherine said. “And a dozen oysters.”
Kenneth was fixed on Anabela at the far end, setting a table.
“You could at least be discreet Kenneth. That’s why Matilde doesn’t have her working our table anymore—because of your constant flirting. I know it’s harmless but it’s not their way,” she said.
Kenneth exhaled smoke forcefully through pursed lips.
“So, what did Proxmire have to say?”
He removed the hat and placed it on the table. “The usual,” he said.
“He must be getting impatient with you. Have you sent him a draft yet? You haven’t spent much time writing.”
“I’m up with the sun, Catherine. Morning is my time to write.”
“Yes, but have you been writing?”
“Some.” His glass was empty and he looked around impatiently.
Matilde set a drink in front of each of them and placed a tray of oysters in the middle. Kenneth asked her to bring Ginjinha. Matilde nodded and looked at Catherine. “None for me,” she said.
“It’s stronger than you think, Kenneth.”
“It’s hot for June.”
“You could drink some ice water.”
“It may storm.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.”
A fleet of small sailboats bobbed a few hundred meters off the beach, becalmed and luffing. “I think they intended to race,” he said.
“Aren’t they pretty,” she said.
He pushed the tray of oysters toward her. A zephyr from the west stirred the bouquet of dried wildflowers in the vase on the table.
“I can’t eat all these myself.”
“Then leave them,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for shellfish.”
“It was the play,” she said. The play was where you lost your confidence. It was a very good play, just poorly produced. They shouldn’t have opened when they did. They hadn’t worked the kinks out. It wasn’t anything to do with the writing.”
Kenneth closed his eyes and lifted his chin into the weak breeze. “So, will you stay the whole time with your mother?”
“I’ll visit my sister in Connecticut for a week or two. I haven’t seen my nieces in more than a year.”
“Do you regret that we never had children of our own?”
“Oh, stop. We’ve discussed it to death. Why bring it up now?”
“I’ll stop then.”
“You’re tired.
“No, I’m not tired.”
Catherine sat higher to look over the railing at the sailboats, still stalled, waiting for a breeze. “Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to be sailing again?”, she said.
“I think they’ve postponed the racing.”
“I’m so happy you’re back on the novel. It will be a smashing best seller, just like the first three. You just need your confidence back. People around the world are eager for the next one. Your short stories are college curriculum for goodness sake. Why can’t you see what everyone else sees?”
Kenneth pointed to the fleet, “They’ve found a fresh breeze, they’re sailing properly now.”
“I’ll call Matilde every week and she’ll put you on the phone.”
“I may rent a car and drive to the hills.”
“It doesn’t matter where you are, Kenneth.”
“It’s cooler there, the air is dry. I’ll be able to think clearly. It’s so hot for this time of year.”
“I blame myself,” she said. I’ve just gone along with everything when I should have been putting my foot down. Is he terribly upset, Proxmire?”
“Yes, to be honest, he’s quite upset.”
“He understands that it can’t be forced, doesn’t he? It’s his job to make sure the publisher understands.”
“No, it can’t be forced, I’ve tried.”
“Can you long-distance him? What time is it in New York?”
“He’s being threatened by the publisher. They’re demanding that the advance money be returned. He says he can no longer represent me.”
“Will you return it?”
“We’ve been living off of it. The play did us in financially. It’s blood from a stone at this point.”
The new breeze wafted over the terrace and Catherine brushed the hair from her face. “Is there any hope of changing their minds? Do you have anything to show them?”
“Only bits and pieces, starts and stops, I’m afraid.”
“We’ve been away too long. You’ve had no routine, no schedule, not to mention the drinking and the nights when you’ve gone off by yourself to do God knows what. You’ve completely lost your discipline, Kenneth.”
The sailboats appeared to be struggling, heeling at steep angles in a heavy breeze ahead of dark clouds overtaking the horizon. Their jibs had been doused and mainsails luffed, the crews working frantically to reduce sail.
“Is there anything to be done?”
“I don’t think so. I’m five months past the deadline.”
The wind came ashore now, carrying a grit of fine sand that stung their faces and made them turn away. The hat blew from the table and the flags strung from the light poles snapped furiously. Bright flashes backlit the clouds and brought the low grumble of thunder. The sailboats were lost behind a curtain of of gust-driven rain.
“We need to get inside.” She was standing, holding her dress with one hand and taking his arm with the other. “It’s shaping up to be a wicked storm.”
“Yes, wicked.”
“It seems close.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s nearly upon us.”
End
Thank you for reading A Letter From Proxmire. Did you pick up on the mid-century formality of the dialogue? American English was a little more elegant back then. If you liked this story, please leave a comment. And, as always I would be honored if you would share this or any of my stories with your friends and subscribers.
I really liked the interposing of their conv6with the birds' actions. The lack of writing progress felt very uncomfortable: there but for the grace of God... I also liked the sense, to my mind, that a vast amount was NOT being said.
Really loved the story, Jim, especially the dialogue and descriptions. The balance is perfect. You have a way of grounding me in the scene. Excellent stuff!