Last of the Romantics

A month’s vacation is over, Ray thought.  In another three days he’d be leaving Lisbon, and by Thursday he’d be back at work in New York.  Which meant he had just three more days to live!  His best friend, Ed, was sure to kill him.  Ed was his advisor and one man support team who had devoted countless luncheons and after-work sessions to building up Raymond’s confidence and determination.  That this vacation could be the turning point in his life where he would find the girl of his dreams and put behind him the irreparable loss he suffered in college.  Ed even had statistics to back it up – a cover story from Holiday Magazine that proclaimed, “The summer of ‘56 will mark the second invasion of Europe.  Only this time by young American singles: predominantly female.”

            Ray had to admit those odds were music to his ears, but still he was afraid that Ed’s ten years of marriage had dimmed his knowledge of boy-meets-girl realities.  For example, had he forgotten that girls don’t travel alone, but in pairs? Typically an attractive, attention-getting girl along with a more discerning or personable friend.  And the same for guys.  Only the point man didn’t have to be handsome.  Not if had self-confidence.  Had it by the ton.  Someone who, even dressed in old, work clothes and sporting a five-day-old beard, could elbow his way up to Grace Kelly and start an intimate conversation.  Raymond’s friend, Gene, who was going with him, was to provide that crucial role.  Then in the last two weeks it all fell through.  Gene backed out leaving Ray, the hapless one, to make his own breaks.  He should have told Ed then and there, that his carefully scripted plans would never materialize, but he didn’t have the nerve to say it.  Not after sounding so upbeat while Gene was still in the picture.  And he rationalized maybe, just maybe, with his back to the wall he would be forced to take some action on his own.  But with 27 days down and three to go that miracle had yet to materialize. 

            Ray opened his eye a crack to the bright sun, not wanting to be fully awake and conscious of the real world, not with the dilemma he faced.  ‘Seventy-two hours and counting.  No one could save him now.’  He was lying face-down on the large bath towel he brought from the hotel.  Propping his chin on his laced fingers, he could barely see above the undulating caps of sand.  From his perspective they looked more like sand dunes in a desert than the smooth white beach of Estoril.  A cool breeze was blowing in from the ocean and he instinctively raised his shoulders and neck to intercept it.  In so doing he could then see beyond the dunes to the rows of bright colored cabanas along the back of the east beach.  At the far end of the beach was a castle, and to the side, facing the ocean, were the steps leading up to the restaurant and then more steps to the railway station.  Beyond that lay the beautiful gardens fronting the casino.  It was perfect, he thought, if only he was with someone.  It was his constant lament throughout the trip, the many wonderful sights he had seen this past month were merely tasted, never fully enjoyed

            Raymond looked up at the wall and the mosaic esplanade that ran the full length of the beach.  Not like France, no bikinis, just wealthy tourists except for him.  His neck became cramped from holding that position but he felt he should scan the beach once more before returning to the pipe-dreams of Holiday Magazine.  From the cabanas down to the water, a wide expanse of beach, there was hardly anyone and the closest female was forty to fifty yards away.  With his head down again and his eyes closed he inventoried what little there was to see.  All he clearly recalled was a patch of blue.  Light blue, maybe even powder blue.  A color blondes seemed to go for.  But Portuguese are rarely blonde, he reasoned.  So maybe she’s an American?  His eyes shot open!  He raised his head as cautiously as a periscope in enemy waters, but even after a careful look he couldn’t be sure she was blonde let alone an American.  He would have to move closer or pass by her to establish that, and either way he might be discovered.

            After weighing the pros and cons, he moved forward surreptitiously a yard or two at a time.  Dragging his towel and few belongings behind him, he made it to a point abou