A Fate Worse Than Life

by

pennythepyro

Clarissa C. Lyons sat in the coffee shop, sipping espresso and thinking.

When the seagulls fly over

The white cliffs of Dover

The boys will be coming back home...

She hummed a bit in silence, smiling to herself. Those white cliffs were spread out behind her, but she was more interested in the sea. She always had been. It was the sea that ruled the ships—the cliffs were just an interesting landmark. Beautiful, but rationally insignificant nonetheless.

Turning back to her book, she sighed. It would be a long, lonely trip without Marc—but she would make it. After all, regretting his death only made it hurt more...

"Excuse me? Miss?"

She looked up. Her dark eyes spared a moment's scrutiny to examine the man in front of her. He was of average height, with light brown hair hanging loosely to one side over sweet, timid brown eyes.

"Yes?"

"Sorry to disturb you—"

She smiled. "Not at all. What do you need?"

"I was wondering if you could direct me to Pier Eight," the man said nervously.

She pointed it out to him. He thanked her and began to walk off. Suddenly a seam split in one of his bags—it sprang open and things scattered out onto the floor.

He began to pick them up—she got down to help him and spotted the play The Merchant of Venice.

"Do you read Shakespeare?" she asked him, holding up the book.

"When I can," he replied, "and not as often as I'd like to."

"Have you read Hamlet?" she asked.

"Oh, more than once." He smiled.

She smiled back. "What did you think of the way Shakespeare got Hamlet off the boat to England?"

"You mean the pirates? I think our dear Will was drunk the night he wrote that."

She burst out laughing, and he followed her. "I'm inclined to agree with you there," she told him. "By the way, I'm Clarissa Lyons."

"Tom Ripley," he said, taking her hand.

"Sit down with me?"

"I should really be getting off to the pier."

"Oh, don't be silly. I'm Pier Eight—I'll go with you." Clarissa gave one of those rare smiles that showed her even teeth. "Sit with me."

There was something strangely compelling in her expression. "Thanks," he said, and sat.

She handed the last of his papers to him and sat down across from him. "Now," she said, leaning conversationally over her cup of coffee and replacing the bookmark in Wuthering Heights, "what brings a nice young man like you to Dover?"

"I'm trying to get back to the States," he replied, meeting her eyes. "I used to live in New York, but I've been...avoiding it for a variety of reasons."

"Personal?" she asked sympathetically.

"Very," he replied.

"I wish you didn't intend to go back," she said. "I would love to have you come with me to San Francisco."

"Oh, I don't intend to go back." Ever, his eyes told her, but he didn't say it. "I was actually going to catch a train out of there...to San Francisco."

"Well, then, isn't that a stroke of luck, Mr. Ripley," she said, laughing. "Why don't you just tag along with me? I'm sure the Golden Gate City would be happy to have a talented man like you in its clutches."

He laughed. "Well, then, my dear Miss Lyons, I guess you're stuck with the talented Mr. Ripley for the rest of your trip."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said, smiling. "And I'm a Mrs., by the way."

"Oh," he said, almost surprised but hiding it well. "I thought..."

"I was very young when I first married Seth Lyons," she said, smoothing it out, "and he was very old. He died recently, of a heart attack."

"I'm sorry," he said. He sounded sincere, but it was hard to tell nowadays.

"Don't be," she said, her smiling fading slightly. "I didn't enjoy being married to a man three times my age with ten times my cash and less love in him than water in a rock. I'm not happy that he's dead, of course, but I'm free of him, and that's really all that matters right now."

Tom looked surprised but sympathetic, and changed the subject. "So why are you heading to San Francisco?"

"Family there, and I've got the cash now." She finished off her coffee. "I could ask you the same question."

"No reason," he said, evading her piercing gaze. "It's very far away from...certain places."

Places you don't want to be, she thought with a silent, mental laugh. You slick bastard, you make me laugh and I like you, but you're not going to get past me. You think you can get away with murder but I'll take care of you.

She stood up and handed her cup back over the counter. "We should probably head out to the pier, don't you think?" she asked casually.

He nodded. "I'll just get my things and we'll—"

"Here, let me—" She tried to help him with the bag while simultaneously trying not to spill its contents and managed to slip it inside one of hers.

"I'm going to need those back," he said with a wry smile.

"Don't worry, you'll get them back," she said, smiling back as she carried the bag towards the pier. He followed her.

"Oh, look, you're right next to me," Clarissa pointed out as they walked to their rooms. "How convenient."

Normally Tom would have been irritated by such attention from a woman like Clarissa, but she was different. Her secrets were intriguing and she was beautiful. Normally he would have hated her, pure and simple—but he found it impossible to hate someone so interesting, so mysterious, so likeable.

Someone who was so nice to him without asking him to be anything.

"So what have you been doing in Europe?" she asked him, dumping her bags on the floor in her room.

"A lot of things," he replied. "Mostly things I don't want to talk about."

She nodded. "I came with my husband."

She had described her husband in such great detail that Tom felt like he knew the man, and hated him as much as it was possible to hate anyone. In the first place, marrying poor Clarissa when she was so young, and in the second, being just generally a horrible person! It disgusted Tom, and pity was part of what made him cling so hard to Clarissa.

Clarissa was the first person he had ever been around who didn't bother him about his past and didn't seem to mind. It wasn't that she didn't care about him—that would have driven him crazy. It was more that she didn't ask because she already understood.

It was that feeling that let him consent to dinner with her.

She dragged his bag out of hers and held it out to him, carefully putting her hand in the center so that the seam didn't fall open again. "If you want I can fix that for you," she said as he reached out a hand.

"No, it's—" he began, and in taking the bag, touched her hand.

There was a silent moment where they met each other's eyes and touched each other's souls and there seemed to be no secrets between them. There's a lot more than a ripped bag about me that you could fix, he thought quickly and for no apparent reason, and practically ran out the door.

So, that's it for now. I hope you liked it. No insane disclaimers this time—I didn't feel like it—but I hope the story's still good. I don't own The Talented Mr. Ripley, movie or book. R/R, and ciao.

More Italian in later chapters. Penny out.