Fiction Short Story

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Fiction Short Story

by Elise Stone

Summer’s Song

I walked out on stage after the intermission and bent my lanky form to scoop up the slips of paper from the floor. I always asked for requests that way because it gave the shy people a chance. It also allowed me to shuffle several of them to the bottom of the stack. Those were the ones that had Summer’s Song written on them.

I first saw Summer at a sidewalk cafe. I had just bought a low-fat latte and stood with coffee in one hand, guitar in the other, and a newspaper shoved under my arm, looking for a place to sit. Being lunchtime, all the tables were full of laughing, talking diners. At one table, however, a woman sat alone, a small, decorative box in front of her.

"Mind if I join you?" I asked. She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. I watched her staring at the box as if waiting for it to tell her something. A little silver key, the perfect size for the keyhole on the front, sat beside it. "Pretty box," I said, trying to make conversation. And it was. The marquetry top, constructed of pieces of light and dark wood, was a picture of a lighthouse with seagulls floating between clouds.

"It might be pretty," she said. "I can't decide." She ran her fingers around the edges of the box, making motions as if to lift the lid that was slightly raised, but never doing it.

"Well, I think it’s beautiful," I said. "Where did you get it?"

"It was a present." She looked up from the box into my eyes. Lightning passed between us in that look. She had the deepest blue eyes I’d ever seen. A man could drown in those eyes.

"Are you a musician?"

"Trying to be." I grinned like an idiot, noticing the curve of her cheek, the tender mouth. "I'm due in Cambridge for a concert in an hour. Had to get up early today."

"Early?" She continued to toy with the box and I watched her delicate fingers feathering along the patterns in the wood.

"For a musician, this is early. We work at night. Afterwards we hang out with one another, swapping songs. Long about the time the sun comes up, it's time to go to bed."

As if suddenly remembering something, she leaped to her feet, swept up the box in one hand and the silver key in the other. I heard the snap of the lid shutting; she pressed the box into my hand. "Will you hold this for me? Until tomorrow?" She didn't wait for an answer. Her shoulder length hair flared out in a parasol of spun gold as she turned and walked away. I watched every movement—the sway of her hips, the swing of her arms, her head as she turned it first one way, then the other before crossing the street—until she turned a corner and passed out of sight.

I awoke from my trance, downed the latte, and put the box in my coat pocket.

After I returned home, I took the box out and put it on the coffee table. Her image haunted me as I took out my guitar. My fingers began strumming a melody to accompany the words I was struggling to put together. Curiosity got the better of me. I put the guitar down and picked up the box. Gently I tried to pry it open, but the lock held. Embarrassed by my attempt to betray her trust, I put it down again and went back to my nascent song.

The next day I was back at the café, the box on the table, newspaper in front of me, but hardly read. I kept glancing up, looking for her to return. The bright sun made it hard to see, but I knew I'd recognize her. After what seemed like hours, she was standing over me, a tentative smile on her face.

"You came back," she said.

"Of course I did. I had to return your box," I said, pushing it towards her with a smile.

"Not right away," she said. "How did your concert go?"

"It went fine. How did your day go?

She told me of her job in a nursing home and the elderly patients she so obviously cared about. She worked the afternoon shift, serving them dinner, bathing them and making sure they were comfortable for the night. She had funny stories about Mr. Abramowitz, who was convinced that aliens were going to come and get him, and poignant ones about Mrs. Levine, whose children dutifully visited each Sunday to make sure she kept them in her will. As the sun shifted from overhead, she said she had to go.

"What about your box?" I asked, picking it up from the table and holding it out to her.

"You keep it another day," she said.

"What's your name?" I called as she started to leave.

She paused a moment, then said, "Summer," and was gone.

We continued to meet each weekday for lunch. Thursdays were her day off and she surprised me on the first one by suggesting a walk at the Public Gardens. Like a puppy, I would have followed her anywhere. I went. We laughed and marvelled at the flowers and rode the swan boats. Her smile was a sunbeam that lit up my world. When the day was done, I again tried to give her the box.

"You keep it another day," she said.

It went on like that through July and into August. There were a few things that didn't make sense to me. She wouldn't go out on a 'date'. I never picked her up at her house and took her to the movies. And there was the day that I found her at our table, hiding behind her hair, tears spilling onto her cheeks. I remember noticing how they left streaks through her make-up, then noticing the makeup, so strange on her usually natural skin. But she stopped crying almost immediately and gave me that sunny smile. Soon we were laughing and off to the Museum of Fine Arts. Every day ended the same. I tried to give her the wooden box.

"You keep it another day," she'd say.

Towards the end of August I knew I had to tell her. "Summer," I began. "I have to go away. Last spring, I signed on to do a song writing workshop at a music camp."

"Do you have to go?" Her face clouded over and I was afraid the tears would start.

"It's a commitment I have to keep. Why don't you come with me?"

"I can't," she said.

I waited for some explanation, but I'd learned that explanations were rarely forthcoming. I took the wooden box out and put it on the table.

"You'd better take this back. I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving it at home when I'm not there and I don't think it would be safe at the camp."

She hesitated, and then took the box. We talked for a little bit, but the pending separation stood like a wall between us. It wasn't much longer before she said she had to go.

"I'll be back here in a week," I said as she walked away. She turned and attempted a smile.

A week later, I sat at our table, latte and newspaper just like the first time. Again I wasn't paying attention to the printed word. I looked up every few seconds to see if she were coming. An hour passed. I turned the page and my heart stopped. Even with the poor quality of the photo, there was no doubt that it was Summer's face beneath the headline.

Death in Dorchester

Police have confirmed that the Lundstrom family died of arsenic poisoning. Neighbors said they'd heard rumors of the father and son abusing Inga Lundstrom and the police believe she poisoned the evening meal. The arsenic appears to have been stored in a small, wooden box found at the scene.

I shuffled through the slips of paper, but I didn't need to read what was on them. My heart knew what to sing.

Sun gold hair and sea blue eyes
Memories of you still come on strong
Finding love to my surprise
Feeling how my heart could rise
You will always be my Summer song.

Carousels and ocean swells
Boston Common, picnics on the lawn
Mussel shells and seaside smells
Surely you were casting spells
You will always be my Summer song.

Thunderclaps and lightning bright
Tears you cried, not saying what was wrong
If I'd known your darkest plight
Could I ever make it right?
You will always be my Summer song.

Sun gold hair and sea blue eyes
Memories of you still come on strong
Finding love to my surprise
Feeling how my heart could rise
You will always be my Summer song.

Copyright © 2004 Elise Stone

About the Author
Elise Stone has recently revived her childhood dream of being a writer. She lives in a seaside town south of Boston where she can pursue her favorite activity of walking on the beach while trying to resolve plot points. When she is not working at her job as a computer programmer, she usually can be found reading or writing mystery stories. She was a finalist in the F2K competition and is an active participant in the Mystery Writers group at WVU. A member of Sisters in Crime, she loves attending meetings where they discuss such things as how long a body is preserved in a bog and if you can tell whether someone was killed before or after they fell down the stairs. Elise is currently working on a novel.