Steve Clarke battled against a biting wind that whipped sand into his face as he took his usual walk on the beach in Montauk. His shoulder length brown hair waved wildly in the stiff gale. The gunmetal sea crashed against the shore. The detritus from the past few months littered the beach- broken children's toys, glass bottles, a bucket of sand. Steve saw a large red piece of debris on the horizon, closer to the town seafront, but he didn't know what it was.
As he got closer to red object he realised it was a woman. She was sitting, looking out to sea. Steve thought she might be dead from exposure or maybe a body that had someone dumped. He ran to her. What he saw puzzled him. Here was a good looking woman, quite alive, wearing a red dress, sitting on the sand in a gale. Her long black hair fluttered in the wind.
"Are you OK?" Steve shouted, struggling with the noise of the wind
"Yeah." the woman answered, faint and distractedly.
"Are you cold?" The woman nodded her head. Steve took off his brown trench coat and placed it over her shoulders. He sat down beside her.
"My name's Steve. What's yours?"
"Amy."
"Well Amy, why don't we go somewhere warm and maybe get something to eat?" Amy nodded and they both stood up. They walked along the beach back towards Montauk.
Steve Clarke was twenty five and a born and bred Montaukian. He left town to attend college but came back to Montauk to work. His work was enjoyable and it was his life. Steve's house became his when his parents died in a car crash, two years ago.
As something of a loner, by twenty five, he hadn't gotten laid yet. He wanted to, but he just hadn't got around to it yet.
They took a booth in a little café back in town. Steve ordered two coffees and some onion rings. He was curious about this woman so he began to ask questions.
"Why were you sitting on the beach in weather like that?" She had been avoiding eye contact but now she looked him in his emerald green eyes, her face tear stained.
"I go there to think." Amy replied.
"So do I. I go there every day. What do you think about?"
"It's my turn to ask you a question."
"Go ahead. Shoot."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a writer. I write stories for magazines and for pleasure. Now, tell me, what do you think about when you're sitting there, with the wind howling through you, in nothing but that pretty, red dress."
"You like this dress?"
"Sure."
"I think about stuff. You know, like why I'm here, where do I go next, that kind of stuff. My turn again. What kind of stories do you write?" Steve smiled.
"It's a little embarrassing."
"You can tell me; seeing as we're both being honest." The guy arrived with the coffee and onion rings.
"Well, I write erotic novels." Amy's eyes lit up and her face brightened.
"Really?" she said, now fascinated, "I'd love to read some of them."
"I've got some back in my place if you ever want to look at some of them."
"Groovy, why don't we go now?"
"I don't know, wouldn't it be a bit...."
"Of course not. I'll tell you more about myself on the way back." It wasn't a bad offer for Steve. Maybe this would be it. They finished their onion rings and left.
Amy Arnold grew up on a farm in Oklahoma. Her old man taught her to use shotguns and revolvers; by twelve years old, Amy was shooting rats in the barn with pinpoint accuracy. She married a local boy, Billy McKay at just seventeen and they moved to New York City. Billy became a surgeon and within a few years they were living in their own apartment in Manhattan. By the time Amy was thirty two, Billy had started to drink heavily. He'd come home and knock Amy around a bit.
One night it got too much for Amy. Billy's dinner wasn't ready by the time he got back from work. He went to punch Amy but she was too quick. She clobbered him in the head with a saucepan, killing him.
She had a hell of a time trying to convince the prosecution that it was done in self defence. Her apartment was sold and she hired the most expensive lawyers in the business. When she ran out of money her lawyers left her. Her cause was lost and Amy went to prison for a year. Out of the goodness of his heart, a young lawyer from the firm that deserted her decided to take on her appeal pro bono. The appeal was successful and Amy walked free.
At least prison hadn't been too hard on her.
Her job in Montauk barely covered the rent on her dingy two room apartment. When her boss gave her time off, Amy would sit on the beach, just to look out at the waves and think. Sometimes she'd cry at the memories but now, she was determined to make good. She'd find someone new and scrape together the money to go to California or Miami or somewhere warmer than Montauk. That was the dream anyway.
Amy and Steve didn't have to walk too far to get to Steve's place. It was a two storey house in a terrace and it wasn't big. He led her into the kitchen as that was the only way through to the living room. Amy thought the house was remarkably clean. There was nothing out of place except for the plastic bag of dryer lint beside the trashcan.
The living room was a nice sized room with two facing armchairs in front of a fireplace with a bearskin rug on the floor between the two chairs. There was a record player in the corner. Steve lit the fire and left Amy sitting in one of the armchairs while he went and got a couple of beers from the fridge. He handed Amy a beer and put a record on the turntable. Dusty Springfield- not loud, but just loud enough so as they could listen to it and talk at the same time. Steve sat down and they both drank beer and talked until the fire was nearly dead.
"Hey, you said you'd show me some of your work." Amy exclaimed.
"I did, didn't I? I'll go get a few pages." Steve returned with an inch thick wad of typed sheets and handed them to Amy. She leafed through it until she came to the first steamy part. After reading through it she looked across at Steve.
"This is good."
"Thanks."
"I mean really good." She had a devious smile on her face. "Why don't we go upstairs and act out this scene?" she asked. Steve wasn't going to let this opportunity go.
"I'm game if you are." he said with a smile matching Amy's.
