Chapter 16

 

Ocean City, New Jersey, 1976

 

Ocean City lay seven miles from the hustle of Atlantic City, New Jersey. Its ‘Blue laws’ prevented the sale of alcoholic beverages but didn’t obviate their consumption. Still, in tourist season, its lack of bars drew a less rowdy crowd than the areas further along the Jersey shore.

 A number of wealthy families laid claim to parts of the island and their summer homes properly functioned only from May through September. While the Nelson’s maintained a beach house on the bay, their daughter never thought to invade that. To do so she would have to ask for a key, and be expected to explain why she needed it in March.

Andrea Nelson swung the black Porsche onto the mile high span of bridges that crossed from the main land over the bay area. The dreariness of the storm laid an unpleasant haze on the small island city below. Traffic non-existent, she sped over the final bridge on to Ninth Street and across Ocean Avenue. March meant the boardwalk would be a deserted lane of secured shops. A raging Atlantic drove away even the hardest of workers who still had time to prepare before the onrush of tourists.

Andrea parked on the corner of Atlantic Avenue and hurried down to the observation deck at the end of the pier. It thrilled her to stand on the Ninth Street pier during a storm—to shiver as the waves came higher and higher smashing against the pilling as if in an insane effort to claim her.

Two elderly men willing to brave the weather cast her a curious glance. Andrea ignored them and they returned to their conversation. She stepped on to the open end of the pier and felt the salt air slap at her face. The fury of the wind tore at her hair and pierced her flesh sending its bitter chill through to her bones and she relished the sensations. She thought about the coming night and her body shivered as much in anticipation as from the cold.

 John Connors had introduced her to the pleasure of love making during a storm. Only tonight it wouldn’t be John Connors shedding his holy image as rapidly as he shed his clothes.

She raised her arms and thrust her hands out as if attempting to trap the wind. Colossal white caps rolled and leaped skyward as they battled for supremacy. Sturdy manmade pilings trembled in the violence of nature and the pier groaned. Afternoon sky turned into false night by the storm, felt the attack of lightening streaks slashing like sword against sword. Thunder filled her ears and excitement mounted until she wanted to howl with it. She leaned over the railing daring the ocean to claim her. One tiny step, one short second and she—

“Hey, Miss, you all right?” One of the elderly men called, concern showing on both their faces.

Andrea laughed out loud to halt them. “Fine. I’m a nut for a salt bath.” In her mind she was certain; they really didn’t give a damn if she went over. No, that wasn’t exactly right. Memorial Day wasn’t far off and it could hurt the early tourist business if they had a suicide investigation going on.

Her eyes locked again on the angry Atlantic. How long would it take this ever-changing water to wash up on the shores of England? How long before this wind slapped against John Connors’ face. A week? A month…John would be there long before that. She blew a parting kiss into the wind that it might carry it to him. Then she ran back to her car.

The rising water was already turning the road into a shallow gray-brown pool as she headed up Ocean Avenue to the higher ground of the garden area.

The long rambling house looked lonely in its desertion as Andrea turned into the driveway. She pulled into the parking area and leaped from the car. She giggled at her own nonsense as she realized, this same damn fool that stood in the rain was now running quickly up the side deck as if attempting to stay dry.

Andrea dashed though the summerhouse flinging her arms about and laughing outrageously. For years, Andrea had tormented John’s wife by leaving carefully placed momentums where only Catherine would find them. Dreary long-suffering Catherine Connors had finally gotten her revenge. The bitch turned the tables on her by not sending a cleaning crew to change a thing. Everything in the Connors’ summer home remained the way it was when the two sinners had vacated it that last weekend in February.

The shattered lamp lay on the floor. Andrea had thrown it when John had told her. “The old man said, ‘England. And if I don’t learn to keep it in my pants the next time it could be Africa.’ He’s fuming like you wouldn’t believe. With his track record! The speech I got…you’d think his own cock was sanctified by the Pope.”

Nothing was different. There wasn’t even the usual springtime smell of fresh paint. The pile of broken glass, the demise of a goblet and more remnants from Andrea’s rage, ended at the wine stain that streaked as brown as dried blood down the white wall.

Catherine Connors had left a whole house as a reminder that she was John Connors’ wife and Andrea Nelson was his whore.

Andrea hurried upstairs. Between the earlier salt bath on Ninth Street pier and her foray through the storm she was drenched to the bone. She stepped into the shower. She relished the spray of warm water as it washed away the abuse of the wind and the rain.

With a towel draped about her, Andrea was soon standing in front of Catherine Connors’ dressing table. She ran a hair dryer over the shoulder length dark brown hair leaving it a bit damp so the natural curls could form. She began to sweep it up then changed her mind. She knew the loose hair made her appear younger than her thirty-three years. She shook her head to return the casual bounce. She glimpsed the wall clock—ten after six. It only took ten minutes to cross the bridge and with the lack of traffic it could be quicker than usual. She did not want to be early and waiting for him. If Mr. Thomas Devlin didn’t show, being early would only make her feel more the fool.

Stepping into the master bedroom, she crossed the thick pile sand-colored rug to slump down on the king size bed. Even as an adult the bed seemed large to her but not as mammoth as it had when she was younger. She remembered once sneering at Shelia Connors when they were adolescents, that it was family size.

Shelia had laughed as she said, that her pa was a big dude and with kids that were always crawling in, he needed more room than the average guy.

Andrea’s memory shifted back to an earlier time, as she lay alone in the Connors’ large bed.