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Ernest sprawled out carelessly, his body a stark contrast to the vast expanse of Atlantic City's shoreline. The ocean, that exorcist for the weary spirits, cleansed him of the unrest and agitation of recent days. Wind whipped through his hair, sea mist mingled with his breath, while the sun's fiery fingers caressed his exposed skin. He writhed in ecstasy in the sand, its sparkle competing with the pure thrill of existence.
Occasionally, a daring ripple ventured deep onto the shore, reaching out to touch him but dying before achieving its desire. It was as if the lovesick ocean itself yearned to embrace him. Perhaps beneath those crystalline waves, a sea nymph with piercing green eyes or a youthful Poseidon with brine in his curls was gazing lustfully at Ernest's flushed lips. Those ocean beings, they crave humanity's red-blooded vitality—forever seducing the young and vibrant, never the withered bodies marching gravely towards their end.
Wrapped in such daydreams, Ernest reclined on the beach in just his swim gear—a vision of bliss and careless abandon—a creature of pure instinct.
Sun and sea jockeyed for his affections as he relished their courtship. The abrupt shift to this serene realm had lulled his usually defiant spirit into stillness. He had merged into something larger—becoming one with every gust of wind, each wave, every grain of sand and seashell. His hand sensually played with the hot sand that slinked smoothly through his fingers, gently enveloping his torso and shoulder under its scintillating weight.
A flirty beach belle tiptoed past; her gaze demurely dropped in playful suggestion. He observed her passively—a mere observer too ensconced in leisure to offer a smile or a wink; an effort too great against the gravity of relaxation.
Ernest remained so for long stretches; time was lost on him until noon beckoned him back to reality with a sigh. Rousing himself from this seductive lethargy required a sheer force of will as he reluctantly traded his breezy beachwear for stiffer dining attire.
His temporary abode was swanky—the kind of place that spoke of opulence. A spat of fortuitous freelance work that paid obscenely well had graced him with this reprieve from financial woes—an interlude where money concerns were like distant echoes drowned by ocean waves.
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A single essay he'd penned, signed with nothing but sheer willpower, had hurled him into more limelight than a string of exquisite sonnets ever did.
"Damn it," he mused, "change ought to roll downhill from the penthouses, right? What's a brickie got to moan about, pocketing nearly as much for laying blocks for a week as I do for crafting melodies?"
Chewing on that thought, he wandered into the dining hall. The view was cliché: tables groaning under the weight of excess, ladies drowning in too many layers of silk and sparkle.
He sauntered into the luncheon melee already in full swing. A half-hearted excuse tumbled out as he claimed the last seat at the elbow of what could pass for a mannequin in a pricey suit. His eyes roved listlessly for someone—not this—until they snagged on her across the way. Enveloped in silk that flowed like liquid, its web-like embroidery gave just a glimpse of the delicate pulse at her throat. The stark elegance of how her chestnut locks were twisted up seemed to throw everything else into sharp relief. Her profile alone rang bells in his memory. Then she turned to lock eyes with him—a beat skipped—as a familiar smile graced her face: Ethel Brandenbourg. The thrum of unexpected recognition made him nearly drop his glass. And when she spoke, that voice—that unmistakably haunting lilt—confirmed it was no mistake.
"Tell me," she whispered, her voice tinged with a longing that seemed to echo through the empty spaces between them, "have I become a ghost to you? It seems like everyone else has already let my memory fade."
He was quick to calm her fears, assuring her that her image hadn't slipped through his mind's fingers like sand. He vividly remembered their first meeting at Walkham's place, years back when he was just a naive kid from college snagging an invite to one of the grand soirées. Back then, she radiated determination and joy – so starkly different from the woman who now gazed with such haunted eyes across from him in that Broadway diner.
This chance meeting felt like kismet, as though some unseen force pulled their paths into alignment. The tapestry of her past was familiar to him, almost intimately so; it was as if they had woven in and out of each other's lives for much longer than time accounted for. She shared this sense of deep familiarity, as if their connection ran deeper than casual acquaintance. And yet, amid all this silent recognition and unspoken history, they didn't let Reginald Clarke's name slip past their lips – his shadow loomed over them both, an unacknowledged puppeteer intertwined in the narrative of their lives.