Where The Strong Winds Blow

Where the Strong Winds Blow

A tale of a Windmill, a Painting, a Girl, and a Pearl.

After his family sells their milling business in Rotterdam, a lonely, divorced man moves to a centuries-old farm in the Polder Region of the Netherlands. As he struggles to repair an old windmill, the strong winds blow an energetic young woman to his farm, and she restores more than just his windmill.

This is my entry in the SUMMER LOVIN 2024 contest. This story contains nudity and several sex scenes (Hey! It's summer!). All characters at all times in those scenes are over the age of 18. Since this is a work of fiction, any resemblance to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

I would like to especially thank my beta reader, Bernadette Rochelle, who saw things my own eyes could not, helping to make this story even better.

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Chapter 1

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Two Years Ago. Rotterdam, the Netherlands

It was a happy time. One to celebrate! My family had just signed an agreement to sell our 200-year-old milling business based in Rotterdam to a group of foreign investors. It had taken a year of tough negotiations, but we finally got it done. In just over four months, the deal would close, and my two brothers, my sister, and myself would be rich beyond our imagination.

In anticipation of our windfall, my wife and I had been working with an investment counselor to decide where best to put the proceeds. Even after the lawyers grabbed their share, we expected to receive over thirty million Euros. I drove directly from the mill to a 6:00 PM meeting, while my wife drove herself from our home in the city. After the meeting, I planned to attend a retirement dinner for one of our Master Millers, while she was going to dinner with three of her friends.

At the meeting, we heard different options, but at age 54 I favored more conservative investments and my wife agreed. The only thing we disagreed on was where we were going to live. I wanted to escape the city and find a quiet country home, while she wanted to remain in the city. My family still owned our old farmhouse in the southern Polder lands, and I thought it would be fun to move there and fix it up. My wife wanted no part of that. We compromised. She would buy a bigger house in the city, and I would get to fix up the farmhouse. Afterward, we would live part-time in each.

Concluding the meeting with our investment counselor, I gave my wife a kiss and told her I would see her when she got home. I took the lift to the basement parking area, sat down in my car, and my cell phone rang. I spent the next ten minutes talking with my sister. When the call ended, I saw my wife's car still parked and wondered if there was a problem. Taking the lift back to our investment counselor's office, I found the two partially clothed and making love on his guest couch. After taking a photo with my cell phone, I told them to re-think our investments and suggested my wife find a good divorce lawyer.

Three days later, my divorce lawyer and I drew up the papers. I wanted to handle everything peacefully, so I let my wife keep our home in the city. We would split our current investments, and I agreed to split half of the cash proceeds I would receive from the mill sale. Her divorce lawyers were surprised at how generous my offer was, considering her indiscretion, so they quickly told her to sign. And while I had no doubts that they were excellent divorce lawyers, they had no idea how large corporate sales and mergers worked. But after a year of negotiating, I did.

I met with my two brothers and sister, told them what happened, and asked them if they would agree to modify the details of the mill sale. I was willing to take less cash if they were willing to turn over ownership of the old family farm to me. They agreed. The sale of the mill closed without incident.

I purposely arranged for the final divorce proceedings to occur one week later. As we went through the steps, I signed away ownership of our home in the city to my wife. The judge resolved any issues with splitting our investments, and then we moved on to the mill sale. I handed both my wife's lawyers and the judge a packet of papers from the sale of the mill, along with a check that was far more modest than the one my wife was expecting. My corporate lawyers explained the deal.

My wife yelled that she wanted a bigger check, but the judge understood what I had done. He smiled and nodded, then declared the proceedings closed. I turned and saw the investment counselor sitting in the back of the courtroom and waved to him. I wondered how much longer he would be interested in my 49-year-old wife, who was at least ten years older than him. She would live comfortably, but they would not get the windfall they hoped for.

I was done! With lawyers, the city, and my former wife. Technically, a shell corporation now owned the farm instead of myself, which prevented my wife from claiming a share. It was a large farm, and with the fields rented out to local farmers, I anticipated a seven-figure annual income. I would have to spend it 'on the farm', but I would make those rather flexible decisions. At my age, with neither wife nor children as heirs, I anticipated the farm passing to an environmental trust and becoming a nature preserve.

I had left nearly all my belongings at my old house, so I packed up what few things I brought to my short-term rental, moved to the farmhouse, and began my new life.

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Chapter 2

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Present Day. The Polder Region of the Netherlands

Pain! My right arm was going to fall off. I know it was. Dressing a millstone with a mill pick hammer was something for younger guys, not a 56-year-old former milling executive. I was proud of myself for figuring out the stone crane system to lift the one thousand-kilo runner stone out of the pit, but looking back, that was the easy part. I gave up counting the number of times metal met stone over the last seven days. But while my arms were sore, they were no longer soft, and now I had muscles unlike any I have had in over 25 years. Indeed, restoring the rest of this old windmill has left my body leaner and fitter than I can remember.

The afternoon was winding down and I wanted to finish dressing the stone today. I raised my hammer for the next blow, then SURPRISE! Someone tapped me on my left shoulder! I spun around, still holding the hammer up, ready to strike. It was an attractive young woman, perhaps thirty years old, wearing a yellow safety vest. She had positively stunning, large brown eyes, along with light blonde hair loosely tucked under a bright green bandanna. She looked even more surprised than I and immediately retreated.

I lowered my hammer and said, "I am sorry, miss. Velkom to my windmill. My name is Pieter."

She replied. "I called out, but you must not have heard me over the noise from your hammering. I'm sorry for startling you. My name is Annelies. I was working on one of the wind turbines east of here and saw your truck, so I stopped by to see what you were doing."

"I own this farm, Annelies, and this windmill. Up until two years ago, I worked at my family's milling business in Rotterdam, but I'm retired now. Our family's milling business began inside this windmill, over two hundred years ago. I'm trying to repair it and get it running, but I fear I might have ended up with a Cat-in-the-Bag. I contacted the Guild of Volunteer Millers, but most are busy with their own mills. There are very few left who know how to repair these old windmills."

Her face lit up with an excited smile, "I admire what you are doing, Pieter. I absolutely love these old windmills. My Opa used to repair windmills just like this one, and when I was young, he would sometimes take me out with him. He taught me how to fix some of the problems. If you are willing, I'd be happy to take a quick look at your windmill."

The interior wooden beams on the interior of my windmill are massive, and there are plenty of thick, heavy iron workings. I always imagined windmill builders and repairmen as big, burly, barrel-chested men with bulging biceps. Here, was a petite, almost pixie-like young woman, offering to help. I was skeptical but agreed.

"Mijn windmolen ben jij windmolen. You lead, I'll follow."

"My windmill is your windmill," she said. Annelies looked down and pointed at my wooden shoes. "Nice Klompen. I don't see them very much anymore, except on..."

She stopped speaking, but my mind filled in the missing words, 'old people'. I had to defend myself.

"They are quite practical here on the farm. These have a square toe to prevent sinking into the mud. Fishermen still wear them, but their Klompen have a pointed toe to help sort out the fishing lines. Like windmill repairmen, there are only a handful of craftsmen still using traditional methods to make Klompen, so I purchased this pair to help keep that industry alive."

She jabbed back, "I was going to say 'tourists'. But anyway, let's start. Do you have a measuring tape I can use?"

I nodded, then turned away to walk over to a small workbench I had set up. On it were different hand tools. I picked up the measuring tape, then turned back and toward her.

"Hammer?" she questioned. "I called out for you to bring a hammer too."

I knew what this meant. My secret was no longer secret. Annelies had a look of concern on her face as she saw my slumped shoulders and the sad look on my face. I looked at her and said, "I must be truthful with you Annelies. I am deaf, and could not hear you. If you wish to tell me something or ask me a question, you must look directly at me so I can read your lips."

She replied, "I wondered why you weren't wearing ear protection while dressing the millstone. I can do as you ask."

I was impressed. Unlike most people, Annelies did not try to tell me she was sorry for my deafness. I learned to live with it and adjust my day-to-day activities around my inability to hear. My deafness often bothered others more than me.

Annelies looked at me and said, "I already got a look at the meal floor and saw you put a new rope on the grain hoist."

"I did. I replaced every rope and did a little carpentry work as well. The problem areas are higher up, and there are several places I need you to look at."

She said, "We are on the stone level, and I see you figured out how to lift the runner stone. Let's have a look at the hopper. You removed it, so that's a good start. Did you see a thin slat of wood attached to it?"

"No."

"That would be your rattler bar. We'll have to find or make you another one. If they are still there, I can swing by my Opa's workshop and pick one up for you."

Annelies made up for her short stature by climbing on different beams and gears, almost like a gymnast. She moved as easily and comfortably as if scaling a rock wall. Then she hopped down after climbing on one of the taller wooden structures. Her knees flexed, with one touching the floor, as she landed right in front of me. She stood up, looked at me, and spoke.

"Your nuts look really good to me."

I grimaced in confusion.

"Oh! Not those. Your stone nuts. Where are the wedges you removed?"

I pointed to the small pile, and she went to check them.

"Three of these are cracked and need to be replaced. If the wedges aren't tight, then your shaft wobbles. Trust me, you definitely do not want a wobbling shaft."

Annelies moved to the steep ladder leading up to the next higher level and began climbing. Windmills are wider at the base and taper as they go higher. The stairs at the first level turn into narrow ladders as you go higher. I started after Annelies. Normally, I'm not fond of leggings on women, since they reveal all the imperfections in a woman's legs. But the light grey leggings moving up the ladder above me had no such signs. They fit Annelies like a second skin, and the only contours were her very shapely bum cheeks and leg muscles.

Even when Annelies tried to stand still, her feet would shift from side to side, or her body would twist as she looked around. She continued climbing on things, and every movement she made drew my eyes.

I watched as Annelies held her hand on one side of a beam, and struck the other side with the hammer. "Why are you doing that?" I asked.

"It's something my Opa taught me. You must listen very carefully and feel with your hand. I am checking for possible rotted wood. When struck, it sounds different than good wood. These large beams will develop cracks as they age and dry out. When I strike with my hammer, I try to feel vibrations to see if they reach my hand. If they do, the crack is not bad. If they don't, the crack is deeper, and I must examine it more closely. It's not 100%, but it works for a quick check."

I watched an occasional wedge fall out in pieces when Annelies tapped it with her hammer. She paused to measure it and pulled out her cell phone to take photographs. For what she called a quick check, she was doing a thorough job.

I enjoyed watching her graceful movements, which reminded me of a ballerina. Moving to another ladder, she turned and said, "This next level should be the dust floor, where I can get a look at your cap."

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Chapter 3

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Unlike the lower levels, there was a hatch door leading into the cap. I followed Annelies closely up the rungs and tried not to stare at the pair of well-sculpted orbs above me as they flexed side-to-side. I had to look down. Stepping up to the next higher rung, my head bumped into something soft and rounded. As I looked up to see what was happening, Annelies was descending! Her bum pressed against my face, and my nose slid the length of her light grey crack. I quickly leaned back and climbed down the ladder.

Annelies climbed down and turned to look at me. "It's stuck. There are important things I need to see up in the cap."

I replied, "The hatch was in poor condition, so I built a new one and installed it last winter. Let me try." I climbed up the ladder and pushed hard on the hatch. The ladder shuddered, but my efforts failed.

I looked at Annelies, who offered her help, "Let me hold the ladder."

She moved to the opposite side of the ladder and grabbed two rungs with her hands. My cock was stiff, and as I looked down, I noticed her eyes were right at my crotch level, making things even worse.

Annelies said, "I see a lot of stiff wood, especially in the morning. When moisture gets on the wood it can swell up. We need this hatch open so I can inspect your wood and get a good look at your shaft. Hopefully, your old shaft is still in good condition."

Innocent words? Not likely. For unknown reasons, she was flirting with me, her words pushing me further towards the edge, and I could no longer hide my erection. I pounded on the hatch, then pushed up hard enough to drive my body against the ladder. My cock bumped against something oddly shaped and soft. I dare not look, because I knew it wasn't a rung! A third try also failed, with equal results.

I stepped up one more rung, put my shoulder into the hatch, and it finally popped open. I hurried up the ladder and into the cap, then turned away from the opening to make a serious male adjustment inside my trousers. Annelies came a moment later. The crowded dust floor had more machinery compared to the other floors inside the windmill. Annelies moved swiftly around looking at everything, climbing and ducking, all the time calling out the names of various parts. She seemed to know her stuff.

I moved over to a large wheel that reminded me of an oversized ship's wheel. Annelies called it a capstan wheel. "By turning the capstan wheel, we can change the direction of the sails into the wind."

"Argh!" I yelled out. "All I need is me pirate hat and me eye patch to command me own pirate ship!"

Annelies frowned.

"Don't you appreciate good humour?" I asked.

"I'll let you know when I hear any," she snapped back with a laugh.

I turned the capstan wheel and suddenly, the whole cap shuddered. "What did I just do? Did I break something?"

"Look along the perimeter of the cap at these small wooden wheels. The cap isn't attached to the rest of the windmill, it just sits on these wheels. When you turn the capstan wheel, the whole cap slowly rotates. I'll bring special grease for them tomorrow. There are lots of things here that need to be lubed up and I can't wait to get my hands on them."

Annelies went over to the small window in the cap and opened it to look out. "It looks like the rain has ended and blue skies are back. The seagulls have returned, gliding on the wind. I see the last raindrops clinging to the branches of that old tree, shining like silver in the sunlight. Is that a chestnut tree? My Opa had one near his workshop and I used to collect chestnuts. But the tree was stricken by a fungus and had to be cut down."

Annelies continued looking out the window as I replied, "It is a horse chestnut tree, planted by my family at least 150 years ago. So far, it continues to thrive with no fungus. I suppose, like me, it's a good thing to be here on the farm away from other people."

As Annelies started to turn back towards me, I yelled, "Freeze! Don't move!"

"What?" asked the startled woman.

"Beauty!" I called out.

I stood looking at the puzzled, but now smiling Annelies. The late afternoon sun came through the window and struck her face. The warmth of her smile and especially the glow of her skin triggered a memory for me. Something beyond beautiful. I concentrated on her facial expressions, her eyes, the curve of her cheeks, and her lips. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but I held a finger to my lips, "Shhhh!" Annelies had entered the cap to look at my windmill, but right now, I was looking at her.

"I'm sorry, Annelies. The way the sun is hitting your face. You are positively radiant. In my free time, I paint and appreciate the subtlety of color. Anyway, thank you again for coming to my rescue."

She smiled, "I have lived around windmills my entire life, in places where the strong winds blow. I am a free spirit, driven by those winds from place to place, leading me to new adventures. Today, those winds blew me here. I will pick up tools from my Opa's workshop tomorrow morning and be back here around 9 o'clock. Does that work for you?"

"Perfect!" I replied.

"We shall certainly get this piglet washed!" she said.

"What?"

"It's an old saying my Opa used. Think about washing a piglet. They can be very slippery when wet. The saying means that we will get the job done, even if we have to overcome every problem we face."

We climbed back down the ladders, and I walked Annelies to her white truck. As I watched her drive off, I realized I needed Annelies in more ways than one. Going back inside the windmill, I took a deep breath, then slowly released it. Annelies was the only other person to ever set foot in my windmill. None of my family, nor my friends from Rotterdam, had ever been to the farm. Annelies had brought an unexpected flash of vibrant life to the windmill, filling it with hope, but now, with her gone, it felt dark, quiet, and empty.

I finished dressing the millstone, cleaned it, and swept up the rest of the chips and dust. I drove my old truck back to the farmhouse, prepared a pot of mustard soup, and enjoyed it, along with good bread and butter.

After cleaning up dinner, I gathered some supplies, then went out to the attached barn and into a stall I had set up specifically for painting. Starting with a blank canvas, I drew a rough sketch of Annelies from the shoulders up. I wanted to capture that memory, that very moment, when she stood near the window in the cap of the windmill. I began painting, trying to replicate the appearance of her face when she first turned, and especially to capture the amazing glow of her skin. It grew late, and though far from finished, I could tell it was Annelies. Tomorrow, I would get another look at her, or so I hoped.