Rainy Day

His head was pressed up against the window. His eyes scanned the outside of his rain-induced cage. The weather had once again proved to be counter-productive to his schedule.

At the sound of a hot kettle, William rose for his morning cup of tea. The sweet aromas soothed his pensive mind. He was a story writer, though some would say, not a very good one. He tended to tangent or lose interest. His house was much the same as he was. Nothing to big, nothing to small. It served as his cozy cottage in the woods, away from the scrutiny of society’s standards.

He walked about the house, taking small mental sticky notes of things he needed to do. In fact there were several of these notes piled on top of each other, for he had left several things undone. His cat brushed against his leg. She, too, disliked the weather. If the weather wouldn’t allow him to short change himself on work hours, then he had best get to work. And so William sat down at his writing desk-the one clustered and adorned with papers and notebooks. He looked to his sheet of paper.

“His head was pressed against the window” was his first sentence. It was his last sentence. Frankly, it was his only sentence. William sighed. Looking out the window, he noticed a figure meandering in the rain.

He rose, taking one last sip of tea, and made for the window. As he looked out, he noticed a woman tugging at her skirt. What a strange occurrence to have a woman out here alone. There was no horse drawn carriage. There was no man to walk with her. This whole scene simply seemed improper, or at least not wholly right.

William whispered to his cat, “There’s a lady out there.” He gave a sheepish grin back to his paper. “I’d best be chivalrous and help her out. People are more important than stories.” He smiled at the chance to forgo his work once more.

He found his coat, his top hat, and an umbrella. As he began to open his door, he shot himself a quick glance in the mirror. His mustache had not been trimmed for quite some time now. He was grateful for the hat, which hid his unkempt hair. His shirt proved to be in the same lot as the rest.

He dashed to his room up the stairs and in a moment’s time was dashing down the stairs. He scooped up his cat and went to the window. She was gone. He moved his head to get different angles of sight. No where. He hastened to another window. She was under a tree, stomping her foot down. She was still there.

The sheer prospect of anyone coming out to these woods for a walk, especially on such a day as this, both thrilled the man and made him curious. He stepped outside, being sure to put up the umbrella.

She noticed him. He noticed her. She took the initiative.

“Hullo there,” she started off with a very pleasant, North English accent that borderlined Scottish. “See, I was walking, rather for a long time, and found myself lost because I haven’t been out this far-“

William broke in, “Please come in. I have the kettle on.”

And so she did. He had her come to his sofa and sit and rest. He went to fetch a blanket and some tea. As he was off, she took in his house, noticing bits and pieces here and there. He had books upon books, some on the floor piled up, some in shelves, and some being used as paper weights. The cat gamboled up the side of the sofa and onto her lap.

He entered the room again and apologized for the mess. He handed the tea of to her. He realized he had forgotten to ask if she wanted a different type of tea, some sugar, some honey, or anything else. Then again, he told himself, it wasn’t like he had very many visitors.

“Thank you, sir.” Her smile was infectious. He red hair, damp, clung to her rounded cheeks. A few freckles made their debut near her dimples. Her eyes formed lovely semi-circles as she smiled. For a moment he feared that splendid hue of green would disappear should she smile any larger. “My name’s Meghan. I can’t thank you enough for letting me come in. The rain, it’s just so...”

“Wet. Yah.” He chuckled a bit, as did she. His comment was a bit silly, but it proved enough to break the ice. “I should be better with words. I write stories. William Jensen.”

She shook his head and repeated her own name, “Meghan Fenning. I can’t say I write, but I do love a good book. I’m a baker.”

He pulled up a chair, becoming both increasingly aware of how much social adeptness he lacked and how interesting she was becoming.

“A baker, from Dover just down the road? That’s quite a walk.”

She nodded, taking another quick sip to get back into the story.

“Mister Jensen-“

“Will’s fine.”

“William,” she said, again, with that infectious smile and some added tonation. “I suppose I should be quite honest with you. I’m not going back.”

William made some noticeable adjustments in posture. He was not quite ready for such a conversation, but taking on proper politeness he let her continue.

“I was engaged, but I found my fiancé with another girl, an actress. I tried to talk to him, but he blew it off. He told me it was nothing.” She was standing now, pacing about. William clenched his chair and listened, unsure. “And then,” she spun, to point at him, “he had the gall to tell me he was drunk at the time, so of course it didn’t matter. Drunk! As if that would cure everything.”

He began to rise and she stopped.

“Oh dear me, I’m terribly sorry. I lost myself. I don’t mean to be a bother.”

William looked about the room, finally meeting he eyes again. “It’s fine. Truly. I admit, I wasn’t expecting any of this, but it turned a rather rainy, dull day into somewhat of an adventure. Come, it is wet outside and I don’t have the best means of transportation. Against all propriety, if you wouldn’t mind, you may spend the night here. I can sleep on my sofa. You can sleep on the bed. I’ll go tidy things up. “

She sat back down and thanked him in silent words. She wrapped the blanket tighter again busied herself with looking about the room. The house was a log cabin to be more correct, with little decoration aside from a table or chair here and there, and some candles.

William came down with a shirt and pants. “It isn’t the best, but your clothes are probably still soaked. I didn’t even think of this at the time. You’re welcome to put them on, to stay dry.”

“Thank you again.” Meghan began unfolding the clothes, and then looked up at William questioningly.

His brows furrowed a bit. His eyes widened and he left the room, rather quickly.

She gave him the ‘ok’ and he came back and sat down. The two continued to chat, talking of their lives- William, concerning his mediocre career writing novels and Meghan, concerning which things she liked to bake best.

As evening hit, Meghan spoke up, changing the conversation about Hawthorne into one about dinner.

“Will, if you don’t mind, I would like to make us dinner. You’ve done so much for me today; let me do something for you.”

The two entered the kitchen and scouted for pots and pans and other things. As the water was set on the fire, and the carrots and onions were being chopped up, William stopped.

“Meghan, I’m glad you were in the rain today.”

She, too, stopped and gave him a quizzical look.

“I mean to say, my life doesn’t live this house. It was my father’s. It was our summer cottage. He passed away. I gave up on law school. I never took proper notes. I was busy making up stories. I came back home and worked to help my brother out. He was working as well to support mum. This was several years ago. She passed away and my brother found someone to take care of him. He married Isabelle and they are fine. I couldn’t leave my home. I couldn’t pay for both houses either. I sold the one and kept the cottage. It gave me a place to sit and think.”

He was leaning against a chair, looking up to the ceiling. Meghan’s hand, unconsciously, continued stirring, though her eyes were fixed on him.

“I’ve written a few stories, nothing terribly good. It was a relief to see someone. It was a greater relief to be able to talk to someone. “

Her cheeks were flushed red. A part of her was hopeful. God was good, and perhaps He had given Meghan something to cling to after what had happened. A part of her was skeptical, though he had proven to be a good man.

She dropped the wooden spoon in the soup and went to hug him. His arms enfolded her.

“I’m glad we met. For once, I’m glad I had my head pressed against the window, in hopes that someone would come.”

The two continued their conversations of before over vegetable soup. In the morning William and Meghan returned to Dover just down the road. Every weekend though, Meghan would walk to the cottage in the woods, or William would walk to the market downtown and the two would talk of many things. Sometimes the conversation was about the latest stories, which were improving thanks to some bolstered confidence. Other times, the two shared discussions on the proper ways to make bread or cookies.

All in all, the two had the rain to thank. Together the lived and anytime it would rain, they would walk to a window and sit and listen to the rain and laugh.