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A few months earlier she'd had such high hopes for her sophomore mock-prom. Somehow Mamãe had convinced her father to let her attend, the first time he'd ever allowed her to go to a dance. Her Auntie Branca had taken her shopping in Gloucester for something to wear, and afterwards they'd gone to a matinee of The Great Gatsby.
Though she would have liked to wear a mini-dress to the dance, Papai would never stand for it. So she settled for a burnt-orange, double-knit pantsuit of bellbottom hip-huggers and a modified bomber jacket. A wide-collared blouse of chocolate silk and beige platform shoes completed the look. She was so excited she thought she might burst. For once she'd be dressed in style. She spent hours examining herself in the mirror, experimenting with hairstyles and makeup while listening to Barbra Streisand's "The Way We Were" over and over again, pretending that she was dancing to it with Robert Redford.
But on the morning of the dance a bright red pimple appeared on her chin, and her father attached a last-minute condition: Renie would be attending the mock-prom with a date of his choosing.
Ricky Alpande was a distant cousin. He was a senior at Gloucester High School, and in the fall he would attend UMass to study engineering. Ricky had short-cropped black hair in a cut that was long out of style. He was short, plump, and soft, with breasts that rivaled Renie's own. Scores of pimples and blackheads covered his bespectacled face and neck and, she felt certain, the rest of his body.
Ricky had come to collect her wearing a suit that was two sizes too small. A white carnation boutonniere graced his lapel, and he had brought a purple wrist-corsage for Renie.
At the dance, she felt the eyes of her peers, especially the other girls, on her and Ricky, and she knew that their titters and sniggers were directed at her.
"The Way We Were" began to play, and Ricky, with a confidence born of being the oldest student in the gymnasium, seized Renie and clumsily dragged her about the dance floor. He winked and gave her a self-assured grin, and Renie wished she were dead.
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She looked up from her sketchbook in time to see the light keeper approaching. As usual, there was a broad smile on his face, and he waved his right hand and arm "hello" in a wide arc.
Renie smiled back, gave a small wave of her hand, and then stood up and headed home. Maybe someday she'd speak to him, maybe even tell him that it was she who had picked up two cans of food at the A&P parking lot long ago and placed them on his doorstep. Maybe someday, but not today. A few days ago, Papai had become enraged at the dinner table when he tasted Mamãe's fish stew. He had screamed that the meal wasn't fit for chum, and then flung his bowl at the wall. Mamãe had tried to flee, but Papai chased after her. When Renie tried to intervene, Papai had dealt her a back-handed blow, and her cheekbone was still bruised and swollen.
Chapter 39
RENIE CARRIED TWO MUGS of fresh coffee to the kitchen table. Mark noticed that her hands were trembling. But she made it without spilling a drop. She sat down and resumed reading the journal. Mark studied Renie's face as she read the words his uncle had written so many years ago. He watched her expression change as she read something trivial, funny, or poignant.
From time to time Renie would look up from the Keeper's Log, gaze at Mark, and comment on something she'd just read, or ask for help in deciphering Pete's scrawling cursive. He found himself wishing that Pete's handwriting had been even worse. When Renie asked him to interpret the particularly messy words, he had an excuse to lean in toward her and enjoy her fresh floral scent.
Having already read the journal, Mark knew exactly what Renie was reading, and he began to watch her reactions more closely as Peter's entries began to address a new subject: Renie herself.
August 28, 1974
The Portuguese fisherman's daughter still comes to the lighthouse grounds. Sometimes she sits and sketches, but she never gets too close to me. She's either afraid of me or painfully shy. I don't know why, but I have a feeling she'd like to talk, maybe even needs to talk. I think she actually smiled today, although it was one of those sad smiles. She reminds me of a wounded bird, so skittish and fragile.
A sad expression crossed Renie's face and her eyes welled up but no tears fell. Mark wondered what it must be like for her to read Pete's assessment of her emotional state from so long ago.
She looked up from the page and stared straight ahead for several moments. Mark could tell that her mind had taken her back to the 1970s.
After a silent moment, she continued to read. She hadn't progressed very much further when she sat up straighter and her eyes grew wide.
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September 10, 1974
Her name is Renata and she is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Her hair is black as the night sky, and her eyes are the color of caramel. She was set up on the lawn, painting the lighthouse, and I marched right over and introduced myself. I didn't know what to expect, but she just looked at me and smiled as though I had two arms and two eyes. She is so beautiful but there's a sadness about her, even when she smiles. I snuck a peek at the painting. I'm in it. Just a speck with an eye patch, but I'm in it. She's a really good artist and I told her so. She said that she'll come back tomorrow. I can't wait to see her again.
September 11, 1974
Renata came back at about 9:00 this morning to paint. The day was warm and beautiful, not a cloud in the sky. I asked her if she'd mind if I set up my easel next to hers...
Peter had been watching for her all morning, hoping she would come back as promised. Finally he caught a glimpse of her walking up the lane from his kitchen window, and his heart leapt.
She was wearing the same thing she'd had on yesterday—a button-front, cap-sleeved dress with a round neckline. It was navy blue with a tiny white flower print. The full skirt was hemmed just above the knee. Her legs and feet were bare.
Renata's left arm was threaded through a small wooden stool, and she was carrying a large wooden paint box by its handle with her left hand. Under her right arm she carried a folded pine easel with the canvas secured to it with thick jute string.
Peter's first thought was to rush out the door and run to her. He could relieve her of the load she carried, like a lovesick schoolboy would carry a girl's books. The thought made him wonder if a boy had ever carried Renata's books for her.
But Peter Ahearn only had one hand. He worried that he'd look clumsy and awkward to her, and that his eagerness would frighten her away.
So he continued to watch her from the kitchen window as she moved gracefully closer. She carried her slim body with faultless posture. Her hips and breasts swayed with each step she took.
Renata stopped at the exact spot where she had been the day before and set up her equipment. Peter sensed something different in her face. Was it just his imagination, or did she look a bit less sad today?
When she finished setting up and finally sat down on the stool to paint, Peter's line of sight was blocked by the canvas. He was eager to go to her—more eager than he could remember feeling about anything—but he held himself back for as long as he could stand it. And while he waited, he went to bathroom and checked his hair, his beard, his teeth, his nose, his clothes, and then he checked them all again.
After what seemed like an eternity, Peter emerged from the light keeper's quarters and sauntered with forced casualness towards Renata. He deliberately altered his path so that she would see him coming from a hundred feet away and not be startled by the sudden appearance of a one-eyed, one-armed, flying purple lighthouse keeper. The thought made him cringe. He wondered if Renata had heard him called that, or worse, perhaps even recited it herself. What if the difference in her face wasn't an absence of sadness? What if it was amusement? Maybe she was laughing at him.
He stopped short. He held up the remnant of his left arm and stared at it for a moment. Then he brought his right hand up to touch the black patch that covered his left eye. What a fool I am. Why would someone like her ever want anything to do with me?
At leas
t she hadn't seen him yet. He swallowed a lump in his throat, turned and walked back toward the lighthouse.
"Peter."
Peter turned back around when he heard her call his name. Renata was waving to him and smiling, her teeth gleaming.
"Good morning," she called, waving her right arm in a wide arc. "And isn't it just a glorious one?"
Peter felt such relief that it made his knees tremble a little. He quickly regained his composure and returned Renata's smile and wave as he walked toward her.
They stood a few feet apart, smiling at each other.
"Weren't you even going to say 'hello'?" Renata asked.
"Oh, I was coming to do just that when I realized that I shouldn't have come empty-handed. I was just going back to get you a cup of coffee."
"Oh? And how would you have made it?" she chuckled, "Would I take sugar or not? Do I like cream in my coffee? Do I even like coffee?"
"I hadn't thought that far ahead. Do you like coffee?"
"Is your coffee any good?"
"No," Peter said.
"Then, I would love some," she said, laughing.
"I'll be right back," said Peter. He had already taken a few steps toward the lighthouse when he stopped, turned back around and gave Renata a sheepish look.
"Cream and two sugars," was her answer to his unspoken question.
He returned a few minutes later, and carried a dinner plate with two mismatched ceramic mugs on it. Ordinarily he'd have placed the stump of his left arm beneath the plate for added stability. Hoping to draw less attention to the fact that he was missing half an arm, Peter carried the plate unsupported. He walked slowly, and watched anxiously as more and more coffee splashed over the rims and onto the plate with each halting, child-like step he took.
When he finally reached Renata, Peter could feel his face flush with embarrassment. The mugs had lost a third of their contents, and sat in a pool of coffee that had begun to drip over the plate's edge and onto his hand.
Renata put her hands on the edges of the plate. Peter stared at the ground. After a moment, Peter raised his eye to meet hers.
She smiled and spoke softly. "You should have used your other arm to help steady it."
She took the plate from Peter and placed it on the wooden stool, and then used a rag from her paint box to wipe his hand. She lifted the mugs from the plate and handed one to Peter. With her free hand she raised the plate and poured some of the spilled coffee into Peter's mug.
With a playful glint in her eyes, Renata put the plate's edge to her lips, tilted it, and slurped. She chortled with a full mouth and the coffee ran down the sides of her chin, her throat, and onto her dress. She laughed so heartily that she snorted.
Peter laughed as he hadn't in years. All of the tension in his body, all of the awkwardness he had felt, seemed to dissolve in that single moment.
When their laughter subsided, the two gazed into each other's eyes.
Peter broke the silence. "You know, I'm pretty well caught up on my chores. Would you mind if I set up my easel next to yours and painted a little?"
"I would be honored," Renata said.
Neither of them got much painting done, and Peter was certain that she'd seen through the ploy he'd used to be close to her.
They talked easily together throughout the cloudless morning, laughing often. At midday Peter said, "I could whip up some lunch, if you're hungry."
"Only if you'll let me help," Renata said, gently placing her hand on his arm.
In the light keeper's kitchen, Peter watched as Renata made sandwiches. He took a bag of potato chips from one of the scarred mint-green kitchen cabinets and a bottle of Blue Nun from the Frigidaire, and set them on the kitchen table. He sat down at the table, clamped the wine bottle between his thighs and twisted the corkscrew.
"Peter, it's such a lovely day. Why don't we take everything outside and make it a picnic?"
Peter picked up a large wooden cutting board from the countertop. He held one edge with his hand, rested the opposite edge on his half-arm, and grinned.
Renata smiled and nodded. "You learn quickly," she said, as she piled picnic items onto the makeshift tray.
They chose a lush, deep green patch of lawn near the cliff's edge, where the grass was warmed by the bright September sun. Renata lifted her skirt a bit as she knelt, and for an instant Peter glimpsed her smooth, pale thighs. Then she tucked her calves behind her so that the full skirt of her dress draped onto the grass and covered all but her bare feet and ankles.
Peter sat cross-legged as near to her as he dared, and then used the pretext of pouring wine to move even closer. He watched enthralled when Renata closed her eyes and lifted her face to a warm breeze. For the first time in a very long while Peter Ahearn felt happy and at peace.
At 3:00 p.m. Renata began to collect her painting equipment. Peter suggested she store the accoutrements in the light keeper's garage, where they would be safe and dry and she could access them at will.
They shook hands. Renata turned and walked toward home. She hadn't gone more than ten feet when Peter called her name.
"Renata."
She turned and blinked expectantly.
But Peter's head intervened and wouldn't allow his lips to utter the words his heart had fashioned: Don't go. Don't ever go.
Instead, trembling at the thought of what he had almost said, Peter paused and cleared his throat.
Renata smiled and asked, "See you tomorrow?"
"That's just what I was going to say."
He watched her as she walked down Rose Hip Point Lane, mesmerized by the way her flawless figure moved. Then, all too soon, she had passed Bridey's house, rounded the first bend in the lane, and was out of sight.
Peter turned on his heel and walked back to the lighthouse with a newfound spring in his step.
Chapter 40
September 12, 1974
DESPITE HAVING EATEN sparingly, Peter had boundless energy. The awful heaviness that had plagued his chest for so long had vanished. He worked all evening and into the night so that he'd have as much free time as possible when she returned.
He slept little, but well that night, and woke long before dawn. He brewed coffee, took it outside, and sipped it by starlight. The dry air and cloudless sky prophesied that the coming day would be just as clement as the one before.
Peter didn't just hear birdsong that morning, he listened to it. And he didn't simply see the stars, he contemplated their beauty. The sun rose in all its magnificence at 6:18 a.m. Peter didn't just watch it: He experienced it and felt privileged to have done so. He felt strangely at peace and excited at the same time. Most of all, he couldn't wait to see her again.
Peter's stomach rumbled. He returned to the light keeper's quarters, soft-boiled an egg and buttered a piece of wheat toast. He took his breakfast to the picnic table at the cliff's edge and watched the sun climb into the sky.
By 7:00 a.m. Peter was getting ready for Renata, even though he didn't expect her to arrive until 9:00. He felt very self-conscious about his appearance and acutely aware of his limited apparel. He thought about calling Vasconcelos' Market to place an order for shaving gear and new clothes, but there just wasn't enough time. After rummaging through his meager wardrobe, he finally settled on tan corduroys, a white oxford shirt, and square-toed brown leather boots. He folded the left shirt sleeve and secured the cuff to the underarm seam with a safety pin.
He was showered and dressed before 8:00 a.m. He'd owned the pants and shirt since high school, and they hung loosely on his thinner frame.
Peter paced the lighthouse kitchen, and frequently peered through the window at the bend in Rose Hip Point Lane.
When he finally saw her, his heart leapt and a smile came to his face. Peter sprang from the light keeper's quarters and rushed out to meet her.
Renata wore a cream colored shirtdress with a tiny yellow and green flower print and a pale yellow cardigan with side pockets. She carried a large, woven cake basket.
"Here, let me carry that for you," Peter said, reaching for it. "Wow, this is pretty heavy. What's in it?"
"Food for us, for later, and something beautiful," Renata tucked her hair behind her ears. "Let's put the basket in the kitchen and then walk the beach for a while before we paint."
"Am I allowed to peek inside?"
"Not yet. It's a surprise that I hope you'll like."
Peter raised the basket over his head and made a pretense of looking for a gap in the weaving that he could peer through.
"Honestly," Renata frowned in mock reproach, "You're like a child who searches for his gift before Christmas."
Her captivating smile reappeared, and she clasped her hands behind her back as she walked. "You will just have to wait," she said in a sing-song voice.
The two of them walked across the lush green lawn to the south side of Rose Hip Point. They started down the steep, narrow, dirt path with Peter leading the way. About halfway down, there was a two-foot-deep drop in the path where it had eroded over the centuries. Peter stepped down first and turned to offer his hand to Renata. She hesitated.
"Don't be afraid, I've got you," he said.
"I'm not," she said, placing her hand in his.
Peter continued to hold her hand, gently but firmly, until they reached the base of the cliff. They turned right and walked westward to where the rocky shore ended and the long, narrow beach where Peter and Bridey had dug clams stretched on for almost a mile. Renata stopped, picked up a shard of glass from among a cluster of broken shells, and examined it.
"Give it to me. I'll throw it away," Peter said.
"You would throw treasure away?"
"Treasure?" Peter examined the smooth, brown shard. "I'm pretty sure that's a piece of a beer bottle."
Renata shook her head. "Where's your imagination? I think this glass is centuries old. It came from a bottle of madeira that a pirate captain shared with a young maiden he had kidnapped, and then fell hopelessly in love with."
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