Bound For Submission

Chapter One I came to the beach to cry all the tears I thought I should cry, but there were so few, almost none, it was embarrassing. Seven years of marriage and I couldn't dredge up the simplest emotion of grief to honor what should have loomed in my memory as a significant piece of my life. All that remained when I walked away from Peter's vacant eyes was emptiness, complete and abiding, so empty even the ocean waves, that should have reminded me of the tears I should shed, left me empty and dry. The beach house was a tonic for my woe. The walls were a bright, cheerful white, the sun porch overlooking the sea was blooming with a dozen varieties of geraniums and fuchsias. Sitting in the midst of growing things, looking out on the ever changing patterns of the waves, I could almost feel something inside myself, even though I knew it was a trick. There were only worn out memories of the light-hearted days before Peter, when I sat on the porch and felt full of myself, soaring with some intangible spirit, ready for the great quest of my life. Even though I could never repeat the feeling of that other time, the sunporch and the house itself, with its sweet Victorian angles and its fresh, uncluttered, homey verve, reminded me that there once had been something more. At other times the beach house only reminded me of him. A left over from Dr. Peter Percival, I remembered I had to fight to keep it. Fight dirty. He didn't want to give it up, but finally he had no choice. His reputation couldn't suffer from the messiness of a prickly divorce, and since I threatened him ever so sweetly, he was taking pains to see that our divorce was amicable. All I cared was that I had the house. Nothing pleased me more than to replace the wooden name plate at the gate with "Nightengale," my maiden name. Only if I could feel like a maiden again. "I'm changing my life . . . my name . . . my clothes, I'm going to dye my hair red and wear cowboy boots . . ." I warned him. Peter smirked. I should have slapped it off his face, Mr. High and Mighty, thinking he'd taken a sniveling college sophomore and molded her like Pygmalion into me, the perfect product of his well-chiseled life, carved in cold stone, like the figures that lined the hall of his Percival Institute. Good God! That I ever thought being his pristine masterpiece was something I gloried in! "I taught you everything you know!" he told me—his way of saying that I was nothing without him. I was nothing with him. I had little to lose thinking I could learn something new away from his grasp. "The Percival Theories don't translate well to other therapy schools. What do you plan to do to support yourself?" He said everything so dispassionately with his well-rehearsed calm and reserve, as if he was reading from a used script of marriage breakup. It was all there in his black and white rule book, the words, the intonation, even the scornfully sarcastic pronouncements of my ill-fated future. I don't think he really believed his scorn was a way to get me back, but it was the only ploy he used. Maybe at one time it would have worked, at a time when I still could remember feeling, when I was still confused enough to let his opinions be my own, when I might still buy his tales of doom. Now it wouldn't matter what he said or did, even if he tried to cradle me in his arms, I wouldn't trust anything he said, though it might sound sincere. Maybe that's what I wanted him to do, cradle me. Maybe I held out for that possibility, imagining it in my head—that he'd rush to my side with corny sweet-nothings to woo me back, to suddenly mend the Grand Canyon between us. But all that was a foolish romanticism. Peter didn't change, he hadn't changed in seven years. The sun had a better chance of setting forever, than Peter had of finding something real to feel. What was even worse was that Peter wouldn't be crying either. He couldn't be any lonelier than he already was. He couldn't grieve because he hadn't really loved. Even a display of orchestrated despair wouldn't have been his style. He'd make a show of it, that he was handling divorce like a pro; being the perfect psychologist required it. Appraising the situation from the beautiful room of passionate flowers overlooking the Pacific sunset that was blinding me in its light, I realized I was just like him. I was the perfect clone of Peter. Perhaps his greatest triumph could be that I was responding to our break-up in the same detached and vacant manner that he was. The only difference was, I walked among flowers, hoping to recapture something I'd once known; and he walked amidst his empty, hallow walls, never knowing what he didn't have. *** I didn't dye my hair red or buy the cowboy boots. If I had, I probably wouldn't have needed Nathan . . . The first time I saw him, I was walking through the sand, my cocker spaniel, Cory, racing madly in front of me. Trying to keep up with the mutt I ran through the fog and tall weeds, and for an instant my eye caught the red of a man's shirt. Stopping short, I watched the figure turn away and disappear over the sand dune. Thinking nothing more of it, I started out again after Cory, and slid down the sandy embankment to the beach below. If the beach was not a good place to cry it was an excellent place to think, even though the only thing worth thinking about was why I felt so empty. I arrived in late May when it was just getting warm. With Peter, we always came for the month of August. Occasionally through the year we'd make the trip from San Francisco on a weekend, though it was never often enough for me. In the last few years, I'd come several times by myself. That's when the house became all mine in my mind, as I plotted our divorce. This "old remnant in the rough", as I liked to call it, was the only thing I wanted from the past. I wish it was all I took. I was on the beach walking Cory faithfully everyday. She loved to romp by the edge of the water, to chase sticks and poke her nose at the sand crabs. For brief instants watching her I’d forget everything else and laughed at her antics. Then I'd mosey my way about the beach not thinking much of anything, picking up shells and rocks that looked so pretty in the water, though they faded into dust colored shapes when they dried. I'm sure that could have been a metaphor for something, but I didn't want to think of that. It was as empty as everything else in my mind. After that first fleeting glimpse of Nathan, I saw him several times when I was out walking the beach, his figure looming over the sand dunes, though he wasn't staring at me. He always seemed to be looking toward the hazy horizon. He looked ageless from a distance, a fact that was to be as valid close-up. His weathered face was dark with a natural tan, with deep lines in his brow and cheeks. He could have been as young as forty, as old as seventy; though he didn't walk like an older man. The spirit in his step was like that of someone much younger. The first time I caught his eye, he was moving along the ridge line above me in the grassy dunes. I looked up at him curiously and he stopped, turning to stare down at me. I was too self conscious to say anything so I began my walk again, wondering if we'd ever meet. For my first weeks at the house, well into June, our paths continued cross without comment. Then eating a picnic on the dunes one afternoon, I was shocked to find him suddenly standing over me. "Hello," I said looking up. He'd not said word, but nodded when I spoke. "I've seen you several times," I said. "These are my dunes," he told me, not at all friendly. "Your dunes?" I queried. I had assumed they were public lands, in fact I knew they were. Yet I didn't want to fight with this odd neighbor. "They're mine," he repeated. "And you want me off of them?" "No," he answered. I was confused. "So you live close by?" I asked. "Over two hills," he said pointing north. I hadn't noticed a house in that vicinity, but again I was not planning to raise a issue with a man I'd only met, who could have been a murderous monster for all I knew. I didn't find him particularly frightening, but I found myself shivering in his presence. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I did hope he'd leave soon. Hating conversations with strangers, I was hating this one particularly. Thankfully, after having turned away for just an instant to call Cory to my side, I looked back to discover that he'd disappeared. I didn't easily shrug things off, but even though his appearance was disquieting, I wasn't afraid, and finally determined that he was simply something I'd have to live with, as long as I intended to live at the beach house. June 12th. I took a picnic to the beach. The fog was in along the coast, and there was a damp chill in the air. I was proud of myself for remembering how to build a fire to keep the chill away, and roast a hot dog, and a few marshmallows. I was even thinking how Cory would look with marshmallow all over her mouth, the way she'd try to lick it off. I was glad I had her. She was something to touch that was warm and willing to be touched. Gathering dried driftwood, I made a circle in the sand, lining it with stones. Even though there was little likelihood that the fire would spread, it reminded me being the good Camp Fire Girl. Once the flamed flared over the sand, I sat down and held a stick with a hot dog poked through it. The meat blistered with heat and drizzled its sizzling fat on the fire. It tasted good, but the flavor only lasted a few minutes. Several marshmallows later I was too filled with sweet sticky stuff to want anymore, so I was left with nothing to do, except keep warm by the fire. The fog seemed even thicker than when I'd started out and I was chilled to the bone. Native San Franciscans should love the fog, but I did not, at least not in the middle of June, even if it was a likelihood that I'd see it more days than not during the summer. I shivered, finally deciding that I'd rather read a book in the sunroom, where I wouldn't have to be surrounded by such dread. Anyway I had Betsy to plan for. My friend was coming from the city in two days, and I had all kinds of high hopes for that momentous visit. Dousing the fire, I was rising from the sand, calling Cory back to me at the same instant, when Nathan appeared. "So you're on my beach again," he said. I appraised his impassive look, impassive yes, but vacant no. There was an extraordinary difference, even though I wasn't certain why there was. "You know, sir, I know this beach is public, so are the cliffs and the dunes." I pointed to the land rising around us. "So they are," he replied. I nodded, not knowing what to say. "You come out here, though, you'll have to deal with me." I found the man very odd, even though I was becoming curious about him. "I suppose that's a warning?" I said. "Just the truth." He had me tongue tied, and if I was not mistaken, there was an amused twinkle in his eye. I like ignoring people, brushing them off, giving them clear messages that I’m not available for idle conversation. I’m very good at not meeting eye to eye in grocery stores or on the street. Those habits would label me unfriendly, but it didn't matter. I hated to "chatter for no matter." I cringed just then thinking that Peter had coined that phrase. All this going through my brain in a flash, I decided maybe it was time to do things differently, even if it was only being friendly to this man. "So what's you're name?" I asked. "Nathan." "You live here long?" I asked. He shrugged. "I'm Xana Nightengale," I said. "I know," he answered. "You know?" "You write it for all the public to see," he nodded toward the front of my house, where Nightengale was written boldly on the gate. "Ah yes," I said. "It's funny I've never seen you here before. We come here, that is my ex-husband and I used to come here regularly. I'm living here by myself now." He shook his head and shrugged, as if he couldn't figure out why we hadn't met. And then, in a gesture that I didn’t expect, he reached towards my face and brushed away an ash blonde lock of hair that had strayed across my eyes. The touch of his fingers against my face sent bolts of electricity through my system as if he’d just used electro-shock therapy. The sensation settling in my crotch resulted in a dull ache. I remember well s****l arousal, even though I hadn’t felt s****l in sometime—except those rare moments when on overload I sometimes, in the wee hours of the night, would catch myself m**********g just to alleviate the tension. I stepped back from the unexpected touch and Nathan’s hand dropped as a smile broke out on his face. He wasn’t a pretty man, although there was a stunning handsomeness in his weathered features that the smile instantly enhanced. For an instant my mind flashed to the absurd picture of me in bed with him, though I quickly erased that thought before I blushed involuntarily. "Well, Cassandra Nightengale, I'll see you again," Nathan said, and before I could say another word, he left. It was hours later that I finally queried myself carefully. He'd called me Cassandra, my real name. I know I used my nickname, Xana. That worried me, but I wasn't sure why. That evening, for the first time in months, the urge to climb outside my cloistered abbey of celibacy struck me the moment I lay down in bed. My body was uncharacteristically hot, as if that touch from my odd suitor on the beach was affecting me. Labia throbbing, clit engorged, I discovered my arousal just brushing my hand against my pubis. He was in my thoughts. Nathan. Touching me again. His hand meandering down my body, even while I was still fully clothed. Between my legs, stoking gently, my hips bucked, inside a spasm roared and I cried aloud. My hands felt the wet there, as his imaginary hands felt the wetness through the invisible jeans. The spasm having died away, I shook the picture of him from my thoughts, assuming that at last I’d become so s*x-starved that I’d let any bum on the beach look attractive to me.