Loretta A. Murphy
Irish themed novels, short stories, and poems
BEACHFRONT PROPERTY
BEACHFRONT PROPERTY
Loretta A. Murphy
The Thursday evening was hot for June, certainly too sultry for Ireland as she drove across the country to the beachfront cottage in Mayo. There wasn’t much on Muirenn’s mind except escaping the stifling air of Dublin city. She’d called off sick for tomorrow. Ah, to hell with it. It wasn’t like she was rising to the top of the real estate agency where she worked part time. She didn’t give a rat’s arse about real estate anyway. It was a means to an end that enabled her to continue her art work.
The sculptures Muirenn worked on hadn’t sold well, not well at all. But she knew in her heart one day some rich Italian socialite would wander into Declan Roarity’s Gallery of Irish Art on Grafton St. and insist on buying one for an outrageous price. Large muscled men with phallic sea horse tails, full breasted mermaids, an elaborate bust of Manannan, God of the Sea – she found each hidden in the huge blocks of clay, lovingly carving out their faces and forms with delicate flicks of her knife until the moment he or she emerged from earthy captivity.
“For Gawd’s sake, Muireen, can you just do something half way normal like say, the Daughters of Lir?” Declan would ask her. “The rich ones are always lookin’ for those to put by the ponds in their gardens, ye know.”
But no, she couldn’t do the Daughters of Lir. Her muse wouldn’t permit it. She was terminally stuck chauffeuring around pregnant 30 year olds in her mini while looking for the perfect house at a bargain price. Rarely did a husband come along for the ride. It was probably wise they didn’t because it was crowded enough in Muirenn’s little economy car with her and the pregnant wife. Besides, the men were too busy driving lorries, or constructing department stores, or being salesmen in Ireland’s booming economy so they could afford the elusive bargain priced house in a good section of Dublin.
Like one existed in Dublin these days. Irish real estate was among the most expensive in Europe . Muirenn would smile and nod sympathetically after showing Dierdre or Niamh or Molly yet another too small duplex in a “growing suburb” of the city. They would think about it and get back to her. Sometimes they did and she got a fat commission check that saw her through next month’s rent for the flat on St. Stephen’s Green.
Three hours of driving, a trek through the boggy mists, then finally, she felt the car hit the rocky sea road that led up to her family’s ancestral cottage. The little car bounced up and down like a bobbing rowboat on a stormy sea. The air tasted of salt. By now the bumping had caused the CD player shut itself off out of sheer trauma. The roar of the sea took over.
The cottage was dark. It sat outlined against the purple sky. It wasn’t quite night yet nor would it be for at least another half hour. No one but Muirenn came there anymore. She stacked her art supplies, a carefully wrapped block of wet clay, and her overnight bag next to the door and headed to the cliffs. She’d take it all in and unpack later. Tomorrow she would work.
For a moment she stood, surveying the white frothy seafoam left churning after the waves crashed against the black rocks. A cry of joy, almost orgasmic, escaped her lips. Generations of her family had stood on these cliffs and looked to the ocean. Muirenn, named for the fair sea, came home often. It was essential to her survival not only as an artist but as a person.
Seconds later, despite increasing darkness, Muirenn raced down the narrow winding path that led to the rocks below. At the bottom, she stripped off her jeans and white tank, then her bra and panties. The scorching heat of Dublin was receding. Naked, she climbed atop a huge rock, the salty spray cooling her fevered skin. Standing as still as one of her statues, Muirenn basked in the mellow light of the risen moon. She threw up her arms in a gesture of abandonment before diving into the waves. Her lithe body curved into a perfect arc.
She had not yet hit the water when her legs morphed into the unmistakable shape of a two-finned tail covered with shimmering scales. They reflected the light of the night orb, casting a faint moonbow from water to shore. The loud splash, when her body finally broke water, drenched the clothing left strewn on the rocks.
And had anyone had been watching, which they were not, they might have glimpsed Muirenn frolicking in and out of the waves for a good long time before eventually heading out to sea.