The Island Studio

The Island Studio

© Matt Cairone 2014

All Rights Reserved

The ceiling fan whirled, shaping violent ellipses. It turned hard, as if to unscrew itself.

Candide pulled the chain to slow it down. The air was heavy. The faint breeze made little difference.

The housekeeper climbed the wooden steps, up to the small room on the second floor of the guest house; the room Candide made into a studio for her writing.  There was a laptop on the desk, and behind it was the old Royal typewriter her father used before he died.

"How can I write when sweat is dripping on my keyboard?"

"You're the one with the romantic notion that air conditioning is uncivilized," Emily said, without making eye contact. "I brought you some lemonade."

"Just lemonade?" Candide asked, leaning back and stretching her arms above her head to dry her underarms in the draft of the fan.

"I put a little something extra."

Emily knew she was enabling.

"I know how you like it. And I had no intention of going back downstairs."

"Judging me today, Emily?"

"Not at all, ma'am," Emily said, without a hint of respect.

Emily picked up a small pillow and put it on the chair that Candide used for naps. She peeked at the computer screen and frowned at the empty page.

"How's it coming, ma'am. The story, I mean."

Candide was standing in front of the French doors, opened to a spacious patio above the garden. She took a drink and turned to face Emily.

"I'm making great progress in my head."

Emily straightened the painting of a man catching a great fish.

"And on paper?"

"Not so much."

Emily moved toward the stairs. She rubbed at the low of her back, to soothe the ache that wouldn't go away.

"Wait, Emily."

"What is it, ma'am?"

"It's so damn hot."

Emily waited, sure of what was next.

"Bring me another lemonade?"

Emily was surprised at the embarrassment.

She started down the stairs and answered back, "Sure thing, ma'am. Give me just a minute to fix it.” She shook her head with every step.

Candide took the last sip and let the ice cubes rest on her lips. She put the glass down on a side table and sat down at her desk. She laid her chin in her cupped hands and stared over the top of her screen, fixing her eyes on the cat lying on the window sill, seeking relief from the heat in the torpid breeze.

"My, you look content," she said to the cat. "Hot, but content."

Candide pecked on the keyboard and two or three lines appeared on the screen. She stopped, sat back, and read. She leaned in and tapped until everything was erased.

The screen door slammed.  Emily was coming back with the drink. Candide listened to every heavy footstep.

"You are a sweetheart."

Emily replaced the empty glass with the full one, turned and left.

Candide picked up the cool glass and placed it on one cheek and then the other. She stirred it with the skinny straw and took a long drink. She closed her eyes.

"I miss you, daddy," she whispered.

She opened her eyes. Memories of him were everywhere in the studio. The Dolphin fish mounted on the wall. The picture of him with her on the beach when she was a little girl. The writing awards and congratulatory letters. The old fishing pole, with rod and reel well worn. The picture with him helping her hold the first big fish she ever caught, a beautiful tarpon. The worn photo of him, with her mother, in happier times.

So many stories, and I can't write a one.