I've submitted this for the 2019 Valentine's Day Story Contest. Your votes will be much appreciated.
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Walking alone on a South Jersey beach on Valentine's Day weekend is the last thing Oliver Starr had expected. The location's right—he and Becky had made plans over a year ago to come here at this time. Yet now she's gone, taken by the cancer that months ago had exploded out of its remission and killed her. They'd been to Cape May before but always, like most tourists, in the summer. Both decided it might be fun—certainly different—to be here in winter, long before the resort swelled with its usual summer crowd.
He and Becky had been married for close to thirty years, happily for the most part. Life had been good to them, and they had been good to each other. Her government job had supported him through med school. In turn, he had supported her through law school. They did well, the cardiologist and the lawyer and later the judge—Becky got appointed to a seat on the District Court. They raised a son and a daughter. Kyle followed his dad into med school and Kayla became a local news anchor. Both of them married, then had kids of their own. Does it get any better than that?
No, except she didn't have to get sick so soon, so young,' Oliver thinks, standing by the shoreline, hunched against a brisk northwest wind, hands stuffed inside his suede jacket, his full, salt and pepper hair blowing over his face. He watches the high surf, the waves close to head high, perfect for surfing if you've got a full wetsuit. Years ago, before he was married, he and his buddies would come to the South Jersey coast in late fall and early spring, wet suits in tow, and ride waves that you'd rarely see during the summer. Those were the days, great times loaded with great memories.
The bleak present suddenly intrudes into his wistful daydream, rude and unforgiving. Becky, his beloved Becky. Yes, she's gone, gone in her fifties, and he still can't fully fathom it. The Good Lord saw fit to take her, his dad might have said. The Good Lord? Her death has him questioning whether such a being even exists, good or otherwise. He knows more than most people that illness doesn't discriminate. It's not only the good that die young. "Ya hear that Billy Joel?" he cries out loud. He shakes his head, kicks at the sand, wondering if he should have come down here in the first place, on Valentine's Day weekend of all times. He doesn't fully comprehend what he's doing here, alone and grieving, but he's got an idea. Somehow it makes him feel closer to Becky, being at one of their favorite long weekend getaway spots at the very time of year they had planned to come. He figures he'd grieve no matter where he is, so why not here?
He's been away from work for just twenty-four hours, yet he misses it. Work has become his salvation of sorts. It keeps him busy, keeps him from sinking deeper into his widowed depression, the thing that envelopes him like a dark fog when he returns home from the office. The house is now empty, save for his lonely self and the memories and ghosts from countless scenes played out over thirty years. Oh, how he had dreaded this time, had dreaded it when Becky became terminal. He had felt the pain of her loss before she was even gone. Still, it hadn't prepared him for the pain that followed. He's finding what he already knew but hadn't fully experienced until now: One can never fully prepare for the pain that comes with the loss of a loved one.
What does a widowed, still healthy, still practicing doctor in his fifties do with his life besides keep working? Work gives him meaning but so did loving the same woman for decades. "You need to find another woman—there's plenty of them out there," a well-meaning friend had told him. Oliver just rolled his eyes. Jump back into the dating scene again? Absurd. He wouldn't know where to start. Besides, who could possibly take Becky's place? He'd be comparing anyone he'd meet to her.
Such thoughts ramble as he makes his way back to the Virginia Hotel, a three-story Victorian pile a half block off the beach. The Virginia was his and Becky's go-to place when they came here, one of the resort's finest. When they weren't sunning and bodysurfing, taking walks and cycling, they'd sink into the cushioned wood porch chairs at night and chat, often with other guests. He smiles at the memories, all that's left to sustain him through his grief as he stands before the six steps leading to the porch and stares at the hotel's double doors. Each door is set with a long plane of thick glass, brass doorknob and covered in bright red paint. He figures he's alone and therefore doesn't bother to lower his voice when he sings a lyric that suits his mood from a Rolling Stones classic: "I see a red door and I want it painted black. No colors anymore, I want them to turn black."
He figures wrong, for as he begins to climb the steps, he hears this: "I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes. I have to turn my head until my darkness goes."
Stepping onto the porch, he stretches his six-foot-plus frame to full height and turns to his left to see a woman sitting alone in one of the chairs. "You know that one?"
"Of course. Doesn't every Stones fan?" She proves it: "I see a line of cars and they're all painted black. With flowers and my love both never to come back." Pause. "Mick Jagger sings it better but I do know the words."
He pads over to her, his dockside shoes producing a slight vibrating sound on the porch. "Are you staying here?"
"I am. Just checked in. You?" She brushes back her hair, light brown, shoulder-length and beautifully layered.
He nods. "I didn't see too many people here when I checked in earlier."
"I saw two couples checking in when I got here, hanging on each other, all lovey-dovey. Valentine's Day weekend, you know. Where's YOUR other half?"
He ponders telling her the truth while he takes note of her outfit, her sand-colored corduroy slacks and a blue down vest over a heavy green sweater and blue scarf. Very Lands Endish, including what looks like fine leather boots.
"Actually, I'm alone."
She uncrosses her long legs, then parts her lips, lips that would play well in a cosmetics commercial. "Really? Well, me too."
He pauses to consider what an attractive, mid to late forty-something woman is doing here by herself. Should he ask? He's not the nosy type. Still... "At the risk of sounding intrusive, you're alone because...Care to fill in the blank?"
"I'm recently divorced and currently on hiatus when it comes to dating. What's your excuse?"
"I'm recently widowed."
Putting her hand to her mouth, she utters a slight gasp. "Aw, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible for asking."
He waves it away. "You shouldn't. After all, I asked you first." He extends his hand. "Oliver Starr."
"Pamela Byrne." She returns his firm handshake. "Care to join me, Oliver?"
