As the sun rises in the morning, so does Elara. She cracks her eyes open in disbelief. The weather just can’t make up its mind. Stretching her body – an old habit she acquired from years of dancing – she gets ready for the day with a newly found frisson. She puts on her sweatshirt and jeans, wraps a scarf around her neck and dashes out the door. It is time to visit her friend and perhaps discuss last night a little more.
Elara arrives at the bed and breakfast, true to form—sweeping in like a small, localized storm. She immediately climbs up the stairs and heads to visit her friend, whose family owned the B&B.
Down in the dining room, the young man is sitting quietly at a corner table with a fresh cup of coffee, completely caught off guard as this familiar tempest flashes past his peripheral vision. He turns his head to get a glimpse but can only catch the trailing scarf.
A while later, the wooden stairs creak softly as Elara and her friend make their way back down to the lobby, laughing quietly as they finalize the plans for their girl’s weekend in the big city. Elara is entirely focused on adjusting her bag, her eyes tracking her own steps rather than scanning the room.
Over at the front desk, the young man is leaning forward, speaking to Mrs. Foster, the B&B owner and local tour guide. Elara registers the view of his back—broad shoulders—and the low, rhythmic cadence of his voice. He is wearing athletic clothes and with a slight, almost unnoticeable accent, warm and deliberate, he inquires about local walking trails. But because this is a popular coastal B&B, with visitors coming from all over the world, she doesn’t give it a second thought. She simply keeps moving toward the exit, ready to step out into the bright morning air.
Just as Elara’s hand touches the brass handle of the heavy front door, Mrs. Foster looks up from the ledger behind the desk and calls out with a warm, beaming smile:
“Bye, Elara! Congrats on the upcoming book launch!”
At the sound of her name and the word book, the young man freezes mid-sentence. The pieces instantly connect in his mind. He turns around quickly, his eyes sweeping across the lobby toward the entrance.
The heavy wooden door is already swinging shut. He catches only a fleeting, blurred glimpse of her long hair disappearing into the sun, accompanied by her breathless, trailing response from the porch:
“Thank you, Mrs. Foster!”
The door softly shuts leaving the lobby quiet once more. The young man stands by the desk, staring at the empty foyer, an amused, slightly exasperated smile tugging at his lips.
“She’s a remarkable writer,” the young man says softly, turning back to the desk. “Her work has a very distinct… rhythm.”
Mrs. Foster beams, leaning on her elbows. “Oh, our Elara is pure energy. Always a bit of a beautiful storm, that one. Have you two met?
“Well, – he sighs – that is a funny story. We had a close call.”
“A close call? Tell me more!”
The young man, barely containing his excitement, relays the fateful encounter. Mrs. Foster clasps her hands tightly and says: “You know, if you are looking to catch her before she leaves for the weekend, I would say you can nudge fate a little and visit the old fish market on the north edge of the bay at sunset. When the sun graces us with its presence she often goes there.”
“Oh,” he replies in a quiet state of startlement. “The old fish market? You don’t say?” He thanks Mrs. Foster for the tip and makes his way out the door. Shaking his head, he checks his watch, his gaze drifting toward the northern edge of the coastline where the sky is already planning its evening colors. He has exactly eight hours to figure out what a man says to a beautiful storm.