To the Lighthouse

Preamble:

A mature mum visits her architect son at his new, remote lighthouse-refashioned-as-home. There is simmering mum-son frisson tension.

A trans-Atlantic sailor gets into difficulties at sea off the coast. He joins them at the lighthouse while awaiting spare part component delivery for his damaged yacht.

The sailor observes some unusual behavior. Is there more going on than meets the eye?

This story is a simmering stew of voyeurism, exhibitionism and the taboo. It is set amid languid coastal countryside. It has light herbal infusions of music, art, film, literature and philosophy. The lovemaking is teasing, gentle, but poetically savage in parts.

If you are looking for caterwauling, flailing, torrenting action by sex triathletes, this is not for you, skip along.

***

Chapter 1: Lighthouse

Chapter 2: Visit

Chapter 3: Sailor

Chapter 4: Lounge

Chapter 5: Rooftop

Chapter 6: Bathroom

Chapter 7: Movie

Chapter 8: Patio

Chapter 9: Bedroom

Chapter 10: Sail

Chapter 11: Dream

Epilogue

***

Chapter 1

Lighthouse

Arthur, or Archie for short, twenty-five, is an architect. He runs his own architecture services company.

A year ago, he was approached by a private banker who manages the affairs of a wealthy individual whose identity is a closely guarded secret. The wealthy individual had acquired a decommissioned lighthouse on a small rock of an island one mile off a remote coast. He wanted to refurbish the lighthouse into a vacation home. The renovated property will comprise the following, from bottom to top.

A small jetty, good for two boats.

Kitchenette on the ground level, opening up to a patio terrace. The patio will serve both as an al fresco dining area as well as a seafronting chill area.

Next up, a vertical stack of three identical bedrooms, each with their own bathrooms. The wall of each bedroom is 180 degrees brick wall, and 180 degrees glass pane. Bedroom number one, followed by number two and three, named in that order.

The lounge, which used to house the lighthouse light apparatus, is above bedroom number three. It has 360 degree glass windows, seaview all round.

There is an open rooftop deck with guardrails.

Six levels inclusive of the rooftop deck.

A common passageway spiral staircase links all the levels. There are doors to the three bedrooms.

The refurbishment work scope is total. The remit to transform the property to move-in livable state, from the day the property is handed-over to the client via the private banker agent.

This includes furnishing, and the commissioning of an electronic security system that includes access control, and CCTV monitoring to secure the property in periods when nobody is staying in the property. Creative-inclined Archie who is quite clueless on matters of technology, subcontracted the security system to a security solutions vendor, leaving them pretty much to their own devices, as long as they are within the broad specifications and budget.

***

Archie's cellphone chimes. The private banker.

"I've an update for you. The client will only takeover the property on 1st July, that is, six months from now. He has, on a whim, resolved to undertake some new adventure or something. Scale Everest, trek the Antartica, dive the Titanic, cross the Gobi or something needlessly strenuous like that. Well, you know what these moneyed types are like."

"But, the property is all ready for handover and occupation. I expedited the works to meet the deadline."

"Chill. You'll be paid per the original handover date. No commercial impact on you. In fact, good news for you. You can stay in the property for six months, till the new handover date. The client is happy that you, kind of, iron out the livability kinks, if any, and fine-tune the property to ever higher perfection. You'll of course be compensated for any additional enhancement works subject to the usual pre-approval process."

"Oh?"

"Archie, you worked hard on this project, to the exacting requirements of the client. And you're well compensated for it. Why don't you take a break to enjoy the property. Enjoy the fruit of your labour, your labour of love."

"OK"

***

Archie calls his mum, Debby.

"Mum, you remember that hush hush lighthouse refurbishment project I took on? Well, it's done."

"Congratulations!"

"I've a six month free occupation of the property, till the handover. The property is in a move-in livable state. I'm taking a break to chill. I invite dad and you to stay with me, to make best use of this opportunity. The property is a bit remote, but calming for the soul, if you relish that sort of thing. Can you come whenever?"

"Oh, this sounds too good to be true. I can use some inspiration and quality placid time to complete writing my novel. Let me check dad's availability."

***

The next day.

"Archie, we're all set. Tuesday, 10am, village jetty. Can't wait!"

***

Chapter 2

Visit

She emits a delighted squeal. They hurl themselves at each other in joyous collision.

"Hi mum! Where's dad?"

"He had a late notice work contingency. Shit happens! But, not a bad thing. Good shit. His company just won a major business deal. No rest for the wicked."

"Glad you made it."

"I'm so happy", she says with a sad smile. She speaks with a slight tremble in her voice. Like she is speaking on a windy hilltop.

They hug. She has a sweet smile on her face now. But somehow, he discerns she looks tired. Like she has been crying recently, beneath this cheery exterior. He doesn't say a thing about it. He just smiles back. They just want to show how happy they are to see each other again. While right now she is putting on a brave face, he knows his mum well enough, she will eventually feel the need to talk, to let it all out. He is more than ready to offer her a shoulder to lean, or cry on, when that is what she needs.

He feels a knot of air in his chest. He can't help asking himself in solemn silence whether his dad is really preoccupied with work. It seems like he is constantly busy with this or that work detail, for the last three years. No rest for the wicked.

Archie helps his mum load her baggage and board the 32-footer sailboat, Windsong. There being no wind on song, they motor the one mile to the lighthouse, or rather, to the property, as the property has been stripped of the lighting machinery.

***

They arrive at the property. Archie docks Windsong. Secures the mooring. The sailboat goes into a static gallop.

"What do you think?"

Debby hears the roar of the surf crashing on the rocks. The air is so sharp, she can kiss it.

"Exactly as what I've imagined it to be, based on your description. But, twice as charming. You've created a veritable work of poetry."

"I'll be living a slice of time in a beautiful place, where I'll have a lesson in living more slowly."

"Let me give you a guided tour. You'll be sleeping in the highest bedroom, that is bedroom number three. It has the best view."

***

"What are our plans for today?"

"Today is special, being your arrival day. We haven't seen each other for a good three months now. We'll dress up properly chic, motor Windsong to the village jetty. My car is parked near the jetty. We'll drive to the top restaurant on the southern coastline, where I've booked a table. After today, we'll live a hermit existence in the lighthouse, to relish the serene isolation solitude."

"Solitude? Doesn't the word mean the state of being alone? Do two people together qualify as solitude?"

"Mum, you're being pedantic."

"Can't help it. I'm a novelist. A wordsmith."

Archie hugs his mum in a bear embrace, "Here. We're one."

Debby enjoys his bakery warmth. Warmth that only a human body can transmit. She can't remember the last time a warm source was pressed to her this way.

***

"What should I wear?"

"Something sexy."

"I want to show you off."

"Show off your venerable fifty-five year old mum? Have you messed up your senses from being holed up working on the lighthouse for way too long?"

She laughs, "Well, I do have this sinfully short dress that I bought on impulse one shopping expedition, and never worked up the courage to wear. I don't know what possessed me to pack it for this trip. Maybe the isolation of the lighthouse. But, what good would that do if there is no one to see me in it?"

"Maybe you wanted me to see you in it?"

"Hmm..."

"Wear it, mum. It sounds just right! You'd better go change now though, given the time of the dinner booking, and the sea and land travel to the restaurant."

"OK honey. Give me thirty minutes. Do you have to change?"

"No. I'll throw on a sports jacket and I'll be presentable."

"Hurry up! I can't wait to see you in the sexy dress."

He makes himself another drink. Watches the sunset while he waits for her to get ready.

When she finally comes out of her bedroom, he can hardly believe his eyes. The dress is a shiny black number that fits her like a glove. Hem several inches above her knees. She is wearing spike heels that accentuate the shape of her legs. There is just is enough cleavage showing at the bodice of the dress to make a person want to look three or

four times at that area. And that is what he is doing in earnest. An artfully revealed cleavage is like the tip of an iceberg.

"Oh Mum, you look great!"

He has a look on his face. A kind of fire.

Blushing prettily, "Are you sure this dress isn't a wee too risqué though?"

He is pleased to see his mother perking up happy. More like her old self he knows well.

Teasingly, "Relax. I love the way the dress fits there at the top."

"Oh you," she titters.

"Always teasing your poor old Mum."

She is living testimony to the joys of being sexy.

He studies the bodice of the dress again. He suddenly realises he can see the puffy hillocks of her nipples.

Amazingly, he feels a stir inside his trousers. He is suddenly half-erect. He quickly turns away from his mother so that she cannot see what effect that dress is having on him.

"Well, we better get going."

***

The heels have to come off temporarily before she boards the sailboat, and whilst on deck, lest she topples overboard. He helps her remove her heels. He gets carried away admiring her turn of ankles, and her curve of well-formed calves. She taps him on the shoulder.

They motor to the village jetty. There is a carpark behind it.

"I see you've upgraded your 4-door car to a 2-door."

"Yes, it's more economical. On doors anyway."

Once in the Porsche, she casually crosses her legs. The hem of the already short dress slides almost to her crotch.

"I've always wondered. What's the diff between a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, a Maserati and a Porsche?"

"If you've heaps of money and you want emo and soul, it's Ferrari. Loud and obnoxious, Lambo. If you're a pretender to the throne, Maserati. Adore the engineering, Porsche."

The Porsche is bareling down the straight of the coastal cliffside road, burning more gas than it really should, and a little rubber.

They make idle conversation about the things she sees as they are driving by. He has difficulty in keeping his eyes on the road. They are constantly glancing down at her legs. He is sure that she knows he is ogling her. But, she makes no attempt to pull the hem down.

Casually, "I've been frequenting this restaurant for many months now because of my project here. The staff know me. I didn't tell anyone that you're coming here for a visit. Everyone is just going to think that you are my date for the evening."

"Oh?"

Trying to keep his voice casual, "Yes. It may be fun not to tell anyone who you are, you know? Just have some fun with the people I know here."

"What do you think?"

Giggling, "Why not?"

Pulling into the carpark, he makes her wait in the car until he rounds the car and opens her door. As she slides off the seat, her dress hem creeps up a bit more. He catches a brief glimpse of her panty. She hangs on his arm. She feels good for no particular reason.

The restaurant is a two-and-a-half-storey, white stucco and grey stone house that seemed to have been set there, on its own small high promontory, by helicopter.

The seaside village below it looks as if it is posing for a postcard. Beautiful, almost too perfect. It sparkles in the last sunlight, as if it is proud of itself to the last.

They enter the restaurant.

Several of the restaurant staff see them right away. He quickly introduces her as Debby. Someone makes a remark about how his taste in women is improving in leaps. She laughs along with them and seems to fit right in. After a while they find a table to themselves.

Debby excuses herself to go to the washroom. She can hear the kitchen staff singing as she walks past the back door. The food must be good here.

***

A lovely dinner. The evening is just beginning to hang the night with stars.

She is thoroughly charmed by the place. Perched precariously on the cliffside, as if daring the sea to tumble it down. Tables out front. Bright conversations humming. Ivy and wistful wisteria growing all over the front façade, a warm homey glow coming through the windows.

The assembled clientele is interesting. Across their table looks like a professor of something utterly important. His partner appears really wealthy, with plenty of everything. But, these are mere speculations. In this place, the shopkeepers look like professors. The barmen, tenors. The street sweepers, jazz musicians. What a highly evolved society. There is never a people more rationally ordered.

The man at the bar is moaning jazz blues like he is in some kind of not unbearable agony.

Enthralling places and fascinating people render us aware of our inadequacies in our language. We are at a despairing loss of words to describe certain orders of beauty and wonder. We conveniently and unjustly classify them under the sublime as if the word means anything.

They are served a rare off-menu treat. A basted wild boar which was tragically run over accidentally by the farmer's tractor just this morning. The Lord provides in mysterious ways. They stare up the heavens in unison and murmur silent thanks.

"Praise be."

The wine is dutifully poured, admired and sipped in that classical order. All good moments finish around a glass of wine. Wine has that charm to cajole us to just be.

Mid-meal, the proprietor, who is also the cook, comes chat with them.

"Everything OK?"

"Lovely, just lovely! Especially your asparagus spears. Do you grow them yourself?"

He replies in a troubled tone, "Everything I plant grows wildly. A thicket of vines. Obscenely swollen gourds. The tomatoes are too ripe. Cucumbers, erotica artifacts. Roses flowering vulgarly, petals opening up more than they should, on dainty stalks. Some even menacing. I don't know if it's me or the garden."

When the cook walks away, Archie turns to Debby, looking wise, "Flowers are the genital organs of plants."

"Thank you for this horticultural insight."

They enjoy the rest of the dinner. Oh, the fine nuances of eating the right food, at the right time of the year, in the right place.

The proprietor appears again, as if he just remembered something of high import. He presses a slip of paper on Archie's palm. It looks cryptic. Oh, it's a website address.

"You must go to my mother's restaurant when you visit the next village. Eat her stew of intestines of newborn lamb. If you didn't eat it when you are there, lie to me the next time you see me, and tell me you did."

***

"They're playing your song."

"What?"

"Waltz for Debby. Bill Evans."

"Oh? Did you pre-arrange this? Or, my cosmic orbits are in heavenly alignment?"

"I arranged for your cosmic orbits to be in alignment."

"Cute... Oh, what a pretty melody."

"May we have the pleasure of dancing to your song?"

Smiling, "I thought you'd never ask."

She lets him steer her to the small dance floor. He pulls her into his arms.

Waltz for Debby. The piano playing is like drops cascading down from a clear waterfall. Simple melody. Rich harmonies. It captures the heart and soul of Debby with its lyrical romanticism, its softness. Truly her song. Not just in name, but in soul.

She seems to literally plaster herself against him. She nuzzles her cheek against the side of his neck. He can feel her lips so close to his ear lobe. They are almost touching. Once again, he feels himself stirring.

Murmuring in his ear, "Hmm... am I causing this?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what is wrong with me this evening."

Touching her lips to his ear, "Don't be. It's flattering."

Winking, "Besides, it isn't like we're related or anything, right?"

Her lips move away from his ear and along his cheek. He turns his head slightly to find her lips with his own. They kiss tentatively at first. The kiss deepens. She doesn't resist as he darts his tongue in between her lips.

He presses himself harder against her as they dance. He feels his heart stir, intensely, in a way he has never before experienced, as if he has been living for a long time in a house only to discover a secret room he has never known about. He is seconds away from a heart attack.

She suddenly tears her mouth away from him, and finds his ear again with her lips.

Huskily, "We'd better stop. We should leave."

***

Once back in the lighthouse, they move out to the patio. A cool breeze is wafting from the sea. For a long moment, they just stand there.

Looking down at the waves crashing on the rocks. Muted roar of the surf in their ears. He takes hold of her hand and turns to face her.

"I think things got a little confused back there at the restaurant."

"I don't know what came over me. It's just that when I was a kid growing up, and I didn't know much about nothing at all, I used to see you around the house in your underwear and stuff. And.. well..., I would get all excited and bent out of shape. I used to fantasise quite a bit from that vision."

He bares his feelings the way you rip out a fish's guts, all bloody and raw.

"It's OK, I understand" she smiles up at him.

"Besides, it was my fault. I'm the one who encouraged things at the restaurant."

The dam breaks.

"Archie, I'm just so deprived. I can't help myself. For the past several years, your father has lost all interest in me."

A lone tear runs down her cheek. His heart melts. He pulls her into his arms and kisses her, slipping his tongue in between her lips. He kisses her until her colour rose. His hands cup her buttocks, pulling her tightly against him. They squirm against one another. Breaking off the kiss, he takes her hand and hurries up the spiral staircase to the lounge on the highest level.

They haven't turned any lights on. But the moonlight from the 360 degrees of glass panes, bathes the lounge in a silvery glow. Glorious. Yet, a little unreal, if not surreal.

He helps her remove her dress. Tosses it aside. He motions to her to unclasp her strapless bra, to step out of her panty and panty hose. But, she makes no movement. She doesn't want to give all her gifts away. Not tonight.

She stands there before her son that way for the longest time. He thinks she is the model of a model human. He admires her symmetry. He is swelling with ambition, vehement in his greed, uncontrollable in his lust.

"You are so beautiful."

He scrutinises her with reductionist interest. Her face, neck, breast, torso, legs. He likes the way his mother is put together. No detail was spared in the quest for creative perfection. If you try and take a cat apart to see how it works, the first thing you have on your hands is a non-working puss. But, not so with his mother.

"Turn around."

A new perspective. Like almost a new woman of the same woman. This is what perspective does. He scrutinises her all over again.