A Second Glass of Wine by Judith English, Merlot

It had all been so very last minute, quite unlike Celia’s usual way. An email from Stacey in HR, reminding her that she needed to book some holiday, had set the plan in motion. She had hardly taken any holiday this year.  She had been preoccupied with health concerns, and not felt like going anywhere at all. Just getting through each day had been enough. But now that the heat of midsummer was over, and she was feeling better, the email jogged her into thinking that perhaps a little break would be good for her.

But where could she go? She wasn’t confident enough to go abroad. If the heart rhythms played up again, she didn’t fancy trying to explain it all to a doctor who spoke limited English, and had no access to her records. So, the UK then. She didn’t want a long drive. A train journey would be so much more grown up, more adventurous. You never knew who you might meet on the journey. Like in that film, where an attractive young woman was sitting opposite a nerdy man. They started chatting, and ended up in a passionate love affair, a most unlikely pairing. Though life never seemed to turn out quite like in films.

The train suggested the possibility of Devon or Cornwall.  She hadn’t been to Cornwall for years, not since those performances at the Minack Theatre, when the violins had unanimously packed up as the sea mists rolled in at the beginning of the second act every night, and the singers had to continue with just the keyboard. And there had been that romantic fling with one of the second violinists, but it hadn’t lasted once they returned to London. It was probably just something in the Cornish air.

 Studying the map, she noticed St Ives, and on further reading it seemed to have everything to offer for a few days break. Lovely beaches, gorgeous views, an art gallery and a sculpture museum, and plenty of interesting shops and tempting restaurants. She started searching for hotels. She ignored the faded guest houses, and the hotels that advertised themselves as boutique, which just meant the rooms were overpriced, and rather cramped. Nothing looked very appealing until she found a hotel perched right above the bay, with the luxury of a pool and a spa. It was perfect, though the price gave her some hesitation. But she convinced herself that she could justify it, as she hadn’t spent anything else on holidays this year. She went ahead and booked, a rather extravagant gesture that was somewhat out of character.

When it was only two weeks away, she began to feel a little nervous, but determined to be brave. It took courage to go away on one’s own. Carefully she planned what she would take, which outfits would be appropriate, and puzzled over how many layers she really needed. Surely it wouldn’t be too cold in early Autumn? The day for departure came quickly, and then she was on the train, too late to turn back. The repetitive rumbling of the wheels on the rails left her in no doubt that the Great Western Railway was propelling her south west, and into Cornwall.

After six hours and only one change of trains, she found herself getting out of the train at St Ives. She stood uncertainly on the platform, an isolated figure when everyone else had gone their separate ways. She was confused. The platform seemed to have an exit at either end. She knew the hotel was not far from the station, but she couldn’t see it.  And then she realised that it was above her, high on the cliff. It was going to be a steep climb up the lane, but if she took it slowly, it should be manageable. She was rather breathless by the time she reached the reception desk to check in, but luckily her room was on the ground floor, so no more climbing was required. The room was comfortable, though a little on the small side, with the unexpected advantage of a view of the sea, if she didn’t mind craning her neck from the side window. The complimentary gin was an additional bonus; she found she had developed quite a thirst after a long day of travelling.

 On the first evening she ate in the hotel restaurant, thinking she would be too tired to venture out. It had huge picture windows overlooking the bay, so she could watch the waves rolling in, and dogwalkers on the beach. She noticed a chocolate labrador plopping in and out of the breakers and then shaking vigorously on the sand, looking very pleased with itself. There were a few small boats bobbing about further out on the darker blue. She ate salmon. Fish seemed to be the right choice, being so near the sea.

On the second evening she was feeling more adventurous, and booked a little place she had walked past on her explorations earlier in the day.  It was called ‘Firehouse Bar and Grill,’ rather a modern choice for Celia. The staff were welcoming, and showed her to a little table upstairs, from which she had a wonderful sea view. The good-looking young waiter, Australian she guessed from the accent, chatted easily to her, and she began to feel less conspicuous. She ordered steak, sirloin, not the cheapest. The sea air had given her a good appetite. She requested a large glass of Tempranillo that she thought would pair well with the steak. She sipped slowly, waiting for her food to arrive. The wine was rich, with a lovely hint of cherry, and it was already beginning to go to her head. It was still early, so there weren’t many other diners. A middle-aged couple over by the window sat in near silence, as though they had run out of anything to say to each other a long time ago. Celia couldn’t help overhearing a conversation closer to her, where a young woman was listing all the ingredients that she could not eat. The waiter rolled his eyes despairingly, the chef was called, and eventually the decision was reached that the restaurant could not cater for her. She and her partner stood up abruptly, and left amidst a cloud of disgruntlement.

It was then she noticed a gentleman sitting on his own, facing the window, with his back to her. His grey hair was attractive, though it might have benefitted from being cut a bit higher above the cream collared shirt, and the neck was perhaps a little thick set, an unwelcome reminder of her ex-husband, but otherwise, quite promising. He was reading a book, which was very much in his favour, but then he closed it and picked up a newspaper. She couldn’t tell which paper it was, but definitely not The Mirror or The Sun; there were not enough pictures. This was another plus point. She heard him order a glass of red wine, ‘Merlot,’ he said. ‘A straightforward choice,’ she thought, as she wondered why he was there on his own.

The steak was delicious, she savoured every mouthful, and the red wine was perfect with it.  Her glass emptied rather quickly. She called the waiter and asked him to bring her a second glass. As she sipped, and finished the last few mouthfuls of the meal, a crazy idea popped into her head. She would ask the waiter to take the man a second glass of Merlot, with her compliments. It was a reckless idea, she knew, but somehow, being on holiday made her abandon her usual decorum and restraint. Just as she was about to call the waiter over, the man attracted his attention first. She heard him ask for his bill. Too late, she had missed her opportunity!

She watched him pay for his meal, stand up, put on a crumpled mackintosh, and turn around to leave. She shuddered with disappointment. His face was nothing like she had imagined. It was plump, lined and reddened with age. His eyebrows were bushy and unkempt, and his parting was not straight. He had a double, if not triple, chin, and he plodded towards the stairs, breathing heavily. He was short. She could tell he was several inches shorter than she was. It was not at all the handsome picture she had imagined, and she shrank back in her seat with relief that she had not sent him the wine. 

After he left, she looked out again into the distant horizon of the sea view, now a thread of deep blues and greys, and determined that she would enjoy the rest of the holiday on her own. No more romantic thoughts of finding the perfect partner. At least, not until tomorrow.  

About the author

Judith English studied music, subsequently pursuing a career in freelance singing. She has taken short courses in creative writing at UEA and City St George’s University. Her first novel Layers of Silk is currently out on submission. She loves growing flowers, and kayaking on the Thames. 

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Judith-English-author/61566359135133/?_rdr 

Substack: https://judithenglishauthor.substack.com/ 

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Dan by Judith Skilleter, a glass of Argentinian Merlot

It is January and Dan is fed up. Christmas has come and gone and there will be no presents until his birthday, ten months away in November. Dan does not count Easter as a present receiving opportunity as his family are just too traditional and all he gets is chocolate, some of it in the shape of rabbits. How old does his family think he is? Four years old? Five years old? Dan is seven years old and he wishes his family were more like his best pal Jacob’s. Jacob is already planning his Easter present list and will probably get things connected to Fortnite, his favourite computer game, or football boots or jazzy designer clothes. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Christmas was sort of OK for presents. He got lots of Lego sets, all of which have now been completed and are proudly displayed on a shelf in his bedroom. Dan would like to say to his relatives, who he has to admit are very kind, that he would like Lego bricks, just bricks, not sets that you have to follow a complicated plan to assemble. These do not need imagination but a pile of bricks of assorted sizes and colours are a gift of total imagination and Dan would spend hours building things where the finished object would only be realised at the end. But Dan has been taught to be polite and he says very nicely on receipt of the various Lego building sets “Thank you so much; this is just what I wanted.” Dan can cope with these little white lies with but the kiss expected by the gift giver are things Dan would rather do without. Especially Great Aunt Martha who always smells of a combination of lavender and pee.

Uncle Philip, his dad’s brother, is an English teacher and every Christmas and birthday Dan gets a book, a hardback, usually a classic – “For you to enjoy later young man” says Uncle Philip usually with a wink and a grin revealing yellow teeth due to years of smoking.  Thankfully Uncle Philip does not expect to give or receive a kiss.  Dan has a growing shelf of Charles Dickens’ books which look as if they have far too many words for him to really enjoy – yet. Uncle Philip has also bought him The Hobbit and took him to the cinema to see the film. The film was OK but no matter how many times he starts the book he never gets past page three.  Jacob has some books by Anthony Horowitz   and he let Dan borrow one. It was great fun to read as were Jacob’s Ben Ten books – Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Dan’s main present from his mum and dad was a keyboard, a small piano without legs. His mum and dad have suggested he might like piano lessons and this is to get him used to a piano keyboard. Dan never asked for a keyboard, Dan has no interest in learning to play the piano and the keyboard is currently under his bed.

Then there are the friends and relatives who add to his train set. Dan’s dad has built in the spare room a huge track lay out where he, Dan’s dad, spends most evenings. New trains and extra track and houses and people are always met with great delight by Dan’s dad and Dan, of course, says, “Thank you so much; it is just what I wanted”. Dan really wasn’t bothered about the train set but he moves things around once or twice a week leaving the impression that he has a real interest in this unwanted and unasked for present.

Jacob, of course, is asked to write a list of what he would like for Christmas.  When Dan made a small list of things he would really like for Christmas his mum and dad told him that a list would mean there were no surprises on Christmas morning – and Christmas was all about surprises. “Not in Jacob’s house” thinks Dan.

His godmother, Mum’s best friend Gaynor, was at their house when the unsuccessful conversation about a Christmas gift list took place. Gaynor, noticed only by Dan, sneakily hid the screwed up list up her sleeve and winked at her favourite godson.  Her present was a box of pencils and felt-tips, of every colour under the sun, plus lots of good quality paper in all sizes.  Dan loves drawing and this gift had been at the top of his list and he loved it. Dan’s thanks to Gaynor on Christmas day were real and meant, he was so pleased to open something he really liked and had wanted so very much. Dan loves his pens and pencils but part of him wishes that this gift had not been at the top of the list. The gift at the top of the list, drawing things, was not his number one wish. Dan wishes he had put Fortnite or a football strip of his favourite team at the top– then he would have been totally happy.

Dan is a football fan. He adores football and he plays Saturday morning football in a local team. Unfortunately Dan’s family are a rugby union family and relatives in the past have played professionally for various rugby teams. It is even believed that a second cousin once removed may have played for England. Dan knows that his mum and dad would prefer that he enjoyed the game with the oval shaped ball and he overheard a conversation where his mum and dad were discussing a school Dan might go to when he turns eleven, a school that specialises in rugby. That made Dan very sad. Jacob, of course, also loves football and has been spotted by scouts for a couple of professional teams. Oh how Dan wishes he was Jacob.

Oh how Dan wishes he could make a few, just a few, decisions about his life. At the very least, birthday and Christmas presents would be things he would be delighted to choose for himself. He would even put up stupid Easter rabbits as presents if he could have more say at birthdays and Christmases. As for the big things, like where he went to school, well, that might have to wait until he was older. Perhaps when he was ten. 

About the author 

 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren.

A Morning by Mike Lee, a glass of Merlot

 His daughter, Penny, perches on the piano stool, delivering an exegesis on being dissociative as the father sits calmly on the cat-clawed leather chair, gobsmacked. Fortunately, this ramble comes occasionally, but when she starts, he sinks into the worn black leather until he is one with the fabric.

Penny has been erratic since the summer before college. This included arguments that ended with the father invariably declared dead, with Penny disappearing to Desiree, the ex-girlfriend the father wishes he never met.

When Penny got ready for college, it was apparent he no longer could push back while withstanding the whipsaw hurricane of his daughter’s rapidly cycling mood swings.

After Penny graduated, Dwight ceased contact with Desiree. Penny stays in touch with her; the father maintains polite silence whenever Penny speaks of her.

 

Eventually, Penny leaves. Dwight walks her to the subway. They hug before she takes the stairs. He is sad but grateful tonight did not end with an argument.

The following morning is an exercise in the sharp struggle of dealing with a panic attack brought on by bad dreams, fueled by the realization he had gained too much weight and began to fear Death again.

Dwight was getting older and at the age where people his age—and younger—were dying.

Death to him was a paradox. He had spent years dealing with a now-deceased abusive ex-wife and a young adult child with some issues better responded to by a trained therapist, on top of the vagaries of a career that the possibility of Death just did not fit into the equation. As a result, Dwight slid into a tautology where the concept of dying is processed to an anti-paradoxical logic.

He will not live forever; whenever he sits down, Dwight looks like he might give birth and is more tired now than three years ago.

Therefore, Death is on the table. Not at, mind you, raring to play a game of chess. Dwight wearily knew his demise was more likely than before, and he had better get to work on his potbelly. How he looks at things: Death is an object he can push a smidgen at a time with efforts at healthy living, but no matter how he tries to rationalize the situation, Dwight realizes that while the end is not near, there is, however, an end.

With the morning obsession with attendant terror done, Death can wait because Dwight needed to make the rent, again, as always, for two-thirds of his sixty years.

Walking down the street, he counted on making 9K plus steps to the office. This was to push the death card a little further.

Dwight has earbuds on. Screw tinnitus.

 

Years ago—1992—Dwight, his friends Brad and Freddy Parker drove through a sleepless night in Austin in a battered white Ford Econoline working for a music conference.

It was already past sunrise when they staggered into a hotel lobby.

A gospel group performed an impromptu spiritual below them in the restaurant.

Freddy leaned against the railing. “Are we dead or something?”

Brad murmured, “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Dwight said, “No, we are as alive as ever.”

Freddy died a year before Brad, so Dwight is the last man out of the van. 

 

Dwight slides his ID across the turnstile and enters the cavernous nothing toward the job. Twenty-third-floor Skidoo, and off to the café to pick up some food.

It is a buffet breakfast, and be careful about the sausage portions. You’re an old man now, Dwight, and you want to live and keep that card at the edge of the table for as long as you can.

He juggles Styrofoam breakfast, coffee, wallet, and ID at the frosted glass door.

He sets up his laptop, plugs in his external drive, and eats. 

His phone buzzes. The daughter is having another manic panic. 

Penny drops a dozen dimes in ninety seconds. 

 

The card remains on the table’s edge, and when Dwight is ready, he will meet Dwight and Freddy at the ledge.

Dwight waits a few minutes until the buzzing stops, while taking in his breakfast with a modicum of sadness.

When he finishes, Dwight reads the messages, listening to gospel.

 

About the author

 

Mike Lee's work appears in or is forthcoming in CafeLit, Roi Faineant, Panoply, Wallstrait, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. 

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The End of an Era by Judith Skilleter, Argentinian Merlot

Avril and Ken are struggling. Avril is probably struggling more than Ken. Their daughter Louise, known as Lou, once known as Louby Lou, which Louise hated, has gone off to university. She won’t be home till Christmas and Avril is feeling the loss already.

In fact she felt the loss all the way home from Exeter back to Lancashire and was still feeling it four weeks later. She'd even felt the impending loss from the date Lou started talking about A levels and university. Probably the fear of losing Lou goes back even further.

“Why did she have to go so far away,” she complains to Ken, her husband of thirty-five  years. “Exeter is not even near enough for a weekend at home.”

Ken agrees. He too is missing his little girl, hardly little anymore but you know what I mean. “But you know Av, perhaps she needed time to herself, to explore a bit of the world without us - and to see what life would be like without us.”

“She could have done that at Manchester. Manchester has perfectly good universities, in fact Manchester has very good universities. And we would have kept out of her way” says Avril.

“I know” replied Ken, but he secretly thought “And you would have been going into Manchester every week with things you thought she needed and arranging shopping trips and cinema trips. You wouldn’t have left her alone.”

Louise Amelia Frost had been a surprise to Avril and Ken after nearly twenty years of unsuccessful pregnancies – early miscarriages, a stillbirth and failed IVF. She was a natural conception but for nine months Avril and Ken lived on their nerves. Every twinge was followed by a trip to the bathroom to look for tell-tale signs of another loss. Every book that gave advice on pregnancies in your forties and what to look out for and what to do were read if not devoured.

Eventually Louise arrived at forty-one weeks, a healthy and solid nine-pounder and was adored and cherished from the off. Avril and Ken were both hands-on parents and they spent as much time with their daughter as the rest of their responsibilities would allow. Avril had given up work to ensure a smooth pregnancy with few other concerns and she never went back. Louise was her work, her purpose, her future, her identity, her achievement. And Ken didn’t mind. Avril’s salary was not missed; he had a good job – but he insisted that at weekends Louise was his responsibility. Louise was breast-fed but Ken insisted that Avril express milk into bottles so Ken too could feed the tiny tot. It was as far as possible shared parenting.

Louise went to local schools for primary and secondary education and did very well. She was always near or at the top of her class. Louise was also sporty and Ken and/or Avril, usually both, would take her to whatever sporting fixture she needed to be at weekends. Football was Louise’s favourite sport and Avril loved getting her sports kit ready and ensuring that her boots were clean.

“I can do that, Mum,” was heard regularly and plaintively at weekends but Avril insisted. And Louise would go off to her bedroom feeling very frustrated and thinking that at times her life wasn’t really hers.

She would go out with her friends and when she arrived back late but always in a taxi, as Ken and Avril had always insisted and paid for, she could see one of both parent waiting at the open door and then asking if she had had a nice time and did she want a cup of tea? This another time when she thought that her life wasn’t really hers – and there were so many other occasions when Louise just wanted to scream “Get out of my hair” or “Leave me alone” or worse. There were more than a few blazing rows that just led to tears, especially from her mum, but Louise tried very hard to avoid these. They were too emotionally exhausting.

It hadn’t been too bad when she was younger but now she was well into her teens she wanted more freedom, and to make decisions for herself without having to share them with her mum and dad. She wanted independence.

When Lou first started getting homework it was great fun because she and her mum did it together and homework was followed by cake and milk as she and her mum snuggled in front of the TV before bedtime. But then, when homework became more serious, Lou needed to concentrate and do it by herself. Her mum was not pleased to be sent downstairs and Lou remembered a fading and plaintive “But I did history too at A level” as her mum got closer to the kitchen.

When she had to decide what universities she would apply for Louise was adamant that her choices would be her choices and not her mum and dad’s. Avril has already decided for her, the two Manchester universities, Liverpool, and Chester

“No way” said Louise. Her choices were Exeter, Edinburgh, St Andrews and the University of Kent at Canterbury. Avril was horrified and tried to include at least one of the Manchester universities in Louise’s list. But Louise was insistent. Places to read history were offered at all of them and she chose Exeter. And of course she got the right grades to go there.

When Avril and Ken drove to Devon, “to the ends of the earth” thought Avril, there were silent tears all the way from her mum.  Louise felt a bit guilty for leaving her parents who had loved her so much and given her so much all of her life but this feeling of guilt was soon pushed out the way by excitement and eagerness for new adventures ahead where she was the decision maker. Yes, she would make mistakes but she would deal with them she reckoned.

Avril hoped they might help her settle in and arrange her room, perhaps stay the night. But Louise said “No, I want to meet people and do things slowly. Sorry Mum – this is just me, please go home” and to her delight her dad agreed. “Lou is right, Avril. It's time for us to go home. She knows where we are when she might need us and there's always the telephone – but not every day please Avril.” Louise looked at her dad with gratitude. Louise knew her mum would give him a hard time at home, made harder by the fact that he would miss Louise hugely too.

A hug and Ken and Avril set off north, with Avril’s silent tears suddenly becoming noisy ones

“We have to let her live her own live love. She has to learn to be independent and not have us fussing all the time.”

“We don’t fuss” objected his wife. At this Ken did not reply but raised his eyebrows.

Once back home Avril cleaned and decorated Louise’s room. “I have to keep busy” she explained to Ken.

“But Lou might not want her room decorated. She may not want you going through her private things and changing things.”

“She will, it will be a lovely surprise when she comes home for Christmas.”

Ken told Louise what was happening.

“I figured something like that would happen and everything I don't want Mum to see is in the back of the loft in a locked suitcase. I'm relying on you, Dad, to ensure Mum doesn’t find it and force it open.”

“Of course sweetheart” said Ken – even though this felt like a betrayal of Avril and, of course, he secretly wanted his daughter a bit closer too. “That is my heart talking”, he said to himself. “I must listen to my head and let her go. If only Avril could do the same.”

As for Louise she loved university and her freedom from day one. And she found a new boyfriend, Alec. There had been boyfriends before but they had been kept secret as she couldn’t bear the thought of questions and interest from her mum. Alec asked her to visit his house after Christmas and meet his mum and dad. Louise so wanted to say yes but she knew what the reaction from home would be. It was a very difficult decision.

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with three grandchildren 

 

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Eight New Messages

 

by Laurel Osterkamp

Merlot from a box

 

The answering machine’s red light pulsed like wound. Ruth was powerless to ignore it. Someone had called while she was in the shower, and Seth, oblivious as always, let the machine pick it up.

She walked across her living room and pressed play. “Hey Man. I’ll be by with the van in an hour. I have something at 10, so be ready to go.”

Seth was leaving her today; this was no surprise. Ruth, who was ready for the day in her business attire, her hair slicked into a bun and her makeup skillfully applied, strode back into the bedroom. Seth was still sound asleep. She grabbed the glass of water that she kept on the nightstand and threw it on him.

He bolted up. “What the fuck?”

“Your friend called. He’ll be here in an hour to help you move. You need to get ready.”

Sleepy, shocked Seth, in his boxer shorts and V-neck t-shirt, hair rumpled and in need of a shave, still squeezed at her heart. Ruth leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, Seth.”

And then, Ruth picked up her bag and walked away.

All day, she congratulated herself on her composure, on her dignity. She wasn’t even sad. Ruth was fine, right up until the moment when she walked back through her door and into the dark, quiet solitude. Then the realization hit her like a gut punch: Seth took the answering machine.

Ruth could have smacked herself. The answering machine was the one thing Seth had brought to their relationship. Now it felt like she had nothing left.

The absence of that blinking light finally made her break down.

Ruth allowed herself a cathartic round of angry tears. Afterwards, she dried them with a worn t-shirt that Seth left behind (probably the same V-neck he’d been wearing this morning), poured herself a generous glass of wine, and turned on the TV. There was big news. Charles, in an interview for some documentary, admitted to cheating on Diana, after his marriage became “irrevocably broken down.”

“Whose fault is that, asshole?” Ruth slurred at the TV. That was the last thing she remembered before passing out on the couch, and then waking the next morning, determined to walk to Best Buy and purchase a new answering machine. She would pick out the best, most expensive one they had. She deserved it, after all.

When she got home, Ruth took her answering machine out of the box even before taking off her shoes, and immediately plugged it in. There were already eight new messages! She stared at the flashing, digital eight, wondering how this was possible.

Realistically, Ruth knew that someone must have bought the answering machine and then returned it without erasing their messages. Yet, she still clung to a futile, irrational hope that she would hear Seth’s voice, that he’d beg her for a second chance, so then she could call him back and shoot him down.

Ruth played each message, one by one. They all came from the same gruff male voice, a voice that did not belong to Seth.

(Tuesday, 7:14 PM.) Hi. It’s me. Please give me a call. I’d really like to talk.

(Tuesday, 9:02 PM) Look, I am so, so sorry. Okay? Please call me.

(Tuesday, 10:58 PM) Come on. Call me back.

(Wednesday, 12:17 AM) I swear she meant nothing to me. I promise, I will never cheat again.

(Wednesday, 2:01 PM) I’ve heard that cheating is a symptom of a bad relationship, and not the cause. What about your role in all this?

(Wednesday, 4:48 PM) Sorry about that last message. None of this was your fault.

(Wednesday, 7:27 PM) Hey. I left behind my brown sweater, the one my grandmother knit for me right before she died. I’m going to come get it. I’ll be there in a few.

(Wednesday, 8: 39 PM) Sorry I yelled and pounded on the door. But I know you were home. I swear, I’m not giving up. You’re the one for me, and we belong together. I will always love you.

            The messages weren’t for Ruth, yet she owned them as if they were written underneath her skin. After all, Ruth had put $129.00 on her credit card for an answering machine that she didn’t really need, just so she might hear from a man wanting forgiveness. So what if the man didn’t want forgiveness specifically from her?  That was immaterial.

            Ruth thought about Diana, about how many messages she had waiting on her answering machine. Did she long for Charles to call and leave a message, saying that it had always been her, that he did not love Camilla? Ruth wondered whether Diana and Charles would ever reunite.

She hoped not. Diana would live a long, fulfilling life, away from the royal family and from the pressure of being queen. When Charles eventually ascended the throne, he’d be alone and empty inside.

            Still, Ruth had to acknowledge an essential truth: as long as there were answering machines, there would be wronged women waiting to hear, I made a mistake. Please, I beg you. Please take me back.

About the author

Laurel Osterkamp’s short fiction was recently featured in Tangled Locks Literary Journal, Bright Flash Literary Journal,and Sledgehammer Lit. In August, her novel, Favorite Daughters, will be released by Black Rose Writing. Find her on her blog, www.laurellit.com, or www.facebook.com/authorlaurelosterkamp, or on Twitter - @laurellit1 

The Lost Ring

By Jo Dearden

A bottle of Merlot

 

The beach was crowded. The sun sparkled on the water as children splashed each other laughing and shouting. A group of teenagers were playing beach volleyball and a couple of families were playing cricket on the wet sand along the shoreline. Occasionally, a stray ball landed where Barbara was sitting on a large picnic rug reading a magazine. Her two children, Tom and Lucy were clambering over the rocks with their crabbing nets.  Their father, Mark was fiddling with the outboard engine of their small dinghy. It was working perfectly and had brought the family to the beach with no difficulty, but Mark always needed something to do, thought Barbara. He didn’t really enjoy sitting on the beach for long.

Barbara looked up from her magazine. She saw her friend Susie walking towards her carrying a straw bag and a blue and white striped beach towel. She and her husband, John were staying in the apartment next to theirs overlooking the estuary.

‘Hi Barbara. My goodness it’s hot,’ she said as she laid out her towel on the sand and plonked herself down.

‘It’s almost too hot. I’m normally sitting here in a couple of sweaters.’

‘Yes, much more like an English summer,’ Susie laughed as she started to smother herself in sun cream. ‘I don’t suppose you ever found your engagement ring.’

‘No, sadly not. I can’t believe it’s four years since it happened. Having to tell Mark’s grandmother was awful. I felt so terrible, as when we got engaged she gave it to Mark to give to me. It had been passed down to her from her mother. Mark was her favourite grandson, perhaps as he was the first.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It was a beautiful emerald surrounded by diamonds. We stupidly didn’t insure it and so had to replace it with this one, Barbara said stretching out her left hand towards Susie. ‘We couldn’t afford to buy another emerald, so I chose an aquamarine instead.’

‘it’s very pretty though,’ Susie said.

‘I’ve had a look every summer when we’ve been back here, but of course it’s hopeless. A needle in a haystack would be easier to find.’

‘I suppose some lucky person might have found it,’ Susie said.

‘It’s possible, but then it would be nice to think that it would get handed in. We told the local police at the time, but they didn’t seem that interested.’

Barbara gazed at the bobbing boats near the shore. She had tried to forget. She remembered packing up all the beach gear after a long day. The children were fractious as they were tired. One had lost a shoe and a bucket of collected shells was tipped over in the melee. It wasn’t until they were chugging back across the estuary that she looked down and realised the ring was no longer on her wedding finger. Mark was so angry. His rage had frightened the children. It made her shudder thinking about it. She had never seen him like that.

It wasn’t entirely her fault. The ring had always been slightly too big for her but when they had taken it to a jeweller to be altered, he had advised that the delicate gold band might not withstand any adjustment as it was over 100 years old. She knew she shouldn’t have worn it all the time. In fact, it was not ideal as an engagement ring. It would have been better if she had kept it to wear for special occasions.

She looked at her left hand. The aquamarine glistened in the sunlight. She actually preferred this ring as she had chosen it. She loved its pale blue translucence. It also fitted her perfectly. Barbara sighed. Mark’s grandmother had died suddenly at the end of last year. She had a fall and then got pneumonia. She had seemed more understanding than Mark, who had never quite forgiven her. At least that was the impression he gave. Thankfully, they hadn’t spoken about it for some time as they always ended up arguing.

Susie got up and walked down the beach towards John who was talking to Mark. Her blonde ponytail swished down her suntanned back as she walked. ‘Don’t mention that we've been talking about the ring,’ Barbara called after her. She didn’t want another argument after the children had gone to bed and they had drunk one too many glasses of wine. Susie always looks so perfect thought Barbara as she watched Mark laughing at something Susie must have said. She couldn’t remember the last time that he had looked at her like that.

Barbara started idly running the sand through her fingers. It felt soft and soothing as she began to form a small pile beside her. Her fingers touched something hard and cold.  It was a stone. Yet, there seemed to be something else underneath. She scrabbled at the sand. Surely, not? It couldn’t possibly be after all this time. Yet, this was roughly where she could have lost the ring all those years ago.  She grabbed a spoon from the picnic basket they had brought with them. She started to scoop the sand. She could barely believe what she was seeing. There was her ring, dirty and tarnished, but unmistakeably hers.

A shadow flitted across her. She looked up, squinting in the sunlight. She thought she could see a faint outline of an elderly lady standing behind Mark. She jumped up and ran down the beach clutching the precious ring. She was out of breath when she reached her husband. She then realised that the old woman was nowhere to be seen.

Later that evening when the children were in bed Barbara handed the ring to Mark. ‘I think you had better keep this now. I’m not sure that I want to have any more to do with it. Perhaps you would like to give it to someone else?’

About the author 

Jo Dearden trained as a journalist with the Oxford Mail and Times.  She did a degree in English Literature with creative writing as a mature student. She co-edited her local village newsletter for about ten years. She also worked for a number of years for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau. She is currently attending a creative writing class, which is stimulating her writing again. Jo lives in Suffolk.