Free Seduction: A Novel of Suspense by Rose M J Page A

locals talked of cave walls covered with ancient drawings, rooms deep in the rocks that were used in older times as retreats, temples and burial grounds. I’d explored several caves, mostly on the other side of the island at Plemont Bay. They were majestic and mysterious, but I had yet to stumble upon a cavern I could be sure had any mystical significance.
    “Have you been inside any of these caves?” you asked, as if reading my mind.
    “Not here.”
    “Oh, you must. Some of them are astonishing.”
    “You’ve gone in? You weren’t afraid of being trapped? They say the tide in this section of beach can sneak up on you and suddenly your only exit is the sea itself.”
    “I wouldn’t have minded.”
    Such a simple way of declaring your suffering. You said it without pathos, not inviting my sympathy but simply stating the sad truth of your existence. You gave me this confidence, not knowing it would be like a seed that grew inside me. And what misery it would lead to.
    I nodded then, bowed my head to your grief. Sorrow was something I understood. The temptation to seek relief from never-ending sadness was one I knew well.
    “I too have . . .” I hesitated. I could not go on and speak of my own disconsolate heartache. To utter the words was to become lost in them.
    In your way that I have come to know and appreciate, you did not say anything. You didn’t push me to say more. You waited. Your patience is a gift. You trusted our silence. Ah, Fantine. Thank you for that.
    “What happened to you in Paris,” I asked after a time, “that made you flee?”
    When you hesitated, I realized I had done exactly what you had not. So before you could answer I apologized. “I’m sorry. My wife says I am rude and Juliette agrees. She laughs at me and says I am toodesperate for people’s stories. That I am too greedy to hear about the comedies and tragedies of their lives. She claims I listen so I can file away the twists and turns of their journeys and romances. That I collect people’s particulars, add spices to them, stir in other ingredients, cook them up and then present a book to the world. But I am only trying to offer up my interpretation of life as a mirror by which men may see themselves in another light.”
    You remained staring out at the infinite black sea when I finished speaking. I noticed your shoulders were trembling slightly.
    “Are you cold?” I asked. “Would you like my coat?”
    “No. No, thank you.”
    “Then what is it?”
    You gestured to the churning water. “Sometimes I think I hear it calling to me. I wish I were brave enough to listen.”
    “If you were, what would you do?”
    I was afraid of your answer, but something in me demanded I listen to it.
    “I would heed its call. I’d give myself to it.”
    “You want to die that much?”
    “No. It’s not that I want to die, it’s that I can’t bear to live. I can’t bear to miss someone so much. To long for him like this.”
    And then you turned to me, and I could see you were shocked by what you’d said.
    “You didn’t know that about yourself?” I asked.
    You shook your head. “Please forgive me. I have no right to speak to you like this. To inflict my thoughts on you and lay my burdens at your feet.”
    Indeed you looked mortified.
    “Do not insult me, Fantine. All this time we have been talking and walking as equals. A man and a woman who share a common sadness that comes from loss. A man and a woman exchanging confidences under the night sky. If I had not wanted to hear what you had to say, you would have known it a long way back.”
    You bowed your head. I took your chin in my hand and lifted up your face. Your skin was fine to my touch, and despite all our morosetalk I felt the stirrings of pleasure. Such is my blessing and my curse. My passions run deep but are always close to the surface. Sexual enjoyment is my true escape in a way that none of my stories, my plays, my poems or my political writings are.
    Those take me