Dance For Me Savannah

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The quaint resort of Boothby Bay was the kind of vacation spot where everything seemed constructed in miniature. What was charming, picturesque and unique brought tourists to its streets and cafes almost all year long, except on the most biting days of winter. To walk its streets was not so much turning back time because the marks of present time appeared everywhere in shop windows featuring bold contemporary clothing, digital watches, computer gadgetry and no smoking signs; it was rather an excursion into a made-up fairytale world where quaint was manufactured to please the eyes of people weary with the look of cities and suburbs and massive quantities of concrete.

In the village of Boothby Bay that atmosphere was commercially inclined; though what was on its outskirts was genuinely quaint. The cottages along the coast were where the sea breezes blew salt and sand and the smell of ocean brine. It could be considered a fit retreat for the weary, or those who needed a place away from the crowded, maddening pace of life. It was not a place where people were easily noticed, so many came and went.

In the small post office in the center of town, a figure drew from one of the larger post office boxes a parcel. Noting the return address the recipient was pleased, suggested by the smile. Dashing to a parked car, the keys still inside, the engine running, there was a quick exit from the center of town, and a sharp turn on the road toward the beach. The house where the car stopped was the fifth in a row of whitewashed cottages. The picket fence was slightly leaning, and there were scrub bushes growing though the sandy ground. Quite unlike the cottages where there were terraced patios and pots of blooming flowers, this cottage looked rarely used.

Inside the house, the package was opened by deft but patient fingers. An album of photographs pulled from its wrapper. Flipping though the pages, the viewer saw the erotic poses of a blonde woman, with creamy skin, reclining naked on a rumpled bed, exquisitely captured. Drawing the prints from their protective covers, each one was carefully viewed then tacked to a corkboard on the wall, haphazardly mounted with pins like butterflies fixed to a display. A typewriter cover swept to the side, the typist inserted a piece of heavy buff- colored paper stock under the platen and began to type out a message. It was brief, neatly done, and then stamped at the bottom with a woodcut stamp that had been pressed against a pad of green ink the color of grass. Sealed inside a buff- colored envelope, the letter would be mailed that day in the village post office. The cottage locked and vacant again, the only change was the racy boudoir photographs pinned to the wall, daring someone to find them. The blonde’s ass and breasts and feminine treasures were artistically yet overtly exposed to the fly on the wall and the atoms in the air, but little else until the cottage was occupied again.