5/13/11

The Rain and Paul Armentrout
By Margret Phillips


Paul Armentrout was not happy.

The morning news had predicted a chance of showers and by late afternoon, pregnant gray clouds rolled in looking for a place to give birth. It wasn’t that he didn’t like rain. Lord knows the yard needed it. After Claire moved in last year, they spent countless hours landscaping the backyard, coddling and babying the plants through the endless winter cold. Only now, after a few days of warm weather, were the tender leaves and blossoms beginning to open.

No, Paul Armentrout loved the rain. He just didn’t want it tonight.

A light drizzle began to dampen the sidewalks as he and Claire made their way to her favorite restaurant for a late dinner. He gazed up at the sky before they ducked into the foyer, hoping for a sign that the heavens would clear. All he got for his trouble was a wet face and tie. Clare laughed.

“Why all the bother about the weather?” she asked, taking her place at the table Paul had reserved.

“It’s your first birthday as Mrs. Clare Armentrout and I want it to be something special. I had it all arranged but the weather is not cooperating.”

Claire’s smile was that of a young bride, contented but still excited. She placed a manicured hand on her husband’s thick fingers, allowing the light to play off new bracelet gracing her wrist.

“Flowers this morning, jewelry, beautiful lingerie, candlelight dinner tonight. You don’t miss a thing.” She paused. “You know, rain can be very romantic.”

“I know.” Paul studied the menu, feigning interest in the wine list to disguise his disappointment. He felt her gaze and looked up. “What?”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“So, are you going to tell what the rain is spoiling?”

“No. Because if I tell you and the rain stops, it won’t be a surprise. But if I don’t tell you and it stops, I still have a chance. Now what would you like to drink?”

“Sometimes you’re really impossible, you know that?”

Paul smiled smugly and felt himself relaxing. “I know. Aren’t you glad you married me?”

By the time Paul and Claire left some two hours later, a light rain had begun to fall. Raindrops danced gently on the large umbrella that sheltered them as they strolled through the neighborhood holding hands like new lovers, looking at store windows and enjoying each other’s company. The city’s night life buzzed all around them. Locals stood chatting in doorways or under awnings while others rushed in and out of clubs, hailed taxis, and cursed speeding cars that baptized them with run off from the streets. On their third lap around, Clare laid her head on Paul’s shoulder.

“Ready to go?”

“Yes. Can we work on the rest of my birthday surprise tomorrow when the rain quits? I’d like to go home and try on my new nightgown.”

Paul pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you want, birthday girl.”

And with that, they went home.

The clouds began to part grudgingly by the time they reached the house. Paul pointed overhead to the few stars that sparkled bravely while the storm grimaced from the far corner of the sky.

“It’s clearing!” he said excitedly as they walked up the back steps. “Now you can have the rest of your surprise. Remember all the fun we had in the hot tub in Mexico, looking at the stars and drinking champagne? The night I asked you to marry me? Go put on your robe and I’ll meet you out at the spa.”

Claire hurried in and returned just as quickly to the backyard. Paul had opened the tub and dimmed the lights so the deck was bathed in steaming mists and shadows. She began humming softly and untying her robe until a heavy raindrop rolled down her cheek. Another fell on her hand. And then another and another until the deck was wet. She glanced up at the house to see Paul walking towards her with the champagne bottle and glasses, a forlorn look on his face. He shrugged apologetically.

“I guess it’s just not meant to be,” he said. “I’m sorry, darling.”

She kissed him gently on the lips. “Come on,” she said, pulling him back to the house and into kitchen. “Wait here for me.”

Claire disappeared down the hall, returning minutes later with two small umbrellas that attached on beach chairs for shade. She stepped outside and popped opened one with loud yellow and orange stripes. “This will work nicely,” she said, looking pleased. “Let’s go drink some champagne.”

They dashed back to the deck under the shelter of the umbrella. With nimble fingers Claire stripped off Paul’s robe and settled him into the steaming hot water, propping the umbrella over his head and tucking him in with a glass of champagne. She stepped out of her robe and entered the tub across from him, carefully balancing a blue and yellow umbrella in one hand and her drink in the other. Paul watched raptly through the rising mist as she lowered herself in. When her body came to rest under the foam, he felt the familiar weight of her feet on his thighs. She began to giggle.

“What’s the matter?” asked Paul, joining in the merriment but not sure why.

“Well, look at us. Sitting in the hot tub at midnight while it rains, drinking champagne under striped umbrellas meant for beach chairs.”

Paul smiled and raised his glass in a toast. “Happy seventy third birthday, Mrs. Armentrout!”


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Margaret Phillips specializes in writing short stories with quirky characters and unexpected endings. She divides her time between writing, working in healthcare and looking after her husband and three cats.