For Renata

by B Robert Sharry

  Peter stroked his chin. "You obviously have a much better imagination than I do. You see, I imagined that it was from two teenagers who shared a beer about a year and a half ago."

  "I like my story better," she smiled.

  "I do too."

  They meandered in silence for a while. Peter walked slightly behind, and he stole glances at Renata while she scanned the beach for more treasure. Renata examined each piece of sea glass they found, and then placed it in her sweater pocket for safekeeping.

  Peter spotted it first: A thick, smooth piece of cobalt glass the size of a silver dollar. He picked it up and presented it to Renata.

  "Oh, Peter, it's beautiful," she said with obvious pleasure, "and this color is quite rare."

  Peter's eye grew wide. He looked around as if to see if anyone else was nearby.

  "What is it?" she whispered.

  Peter took the blue glass from her, held it high, and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. "A lowly cabin boy fell in love with a princess during an ocean voyage. The princess wore a tiara encrusted with an enormous sapphire..." Peter's inflection implied that the story was not complete.

  Renata was delighted. "And... the princess was on her way to be married to an evil prince..."

  "But," said Peter, "when the cabin boy delivered her supper one evening, he found her distraught and in tears..."

  Renata took over. "What was she to do? Her marriage to the evil prince had been decreed by the King himself. To thwart it would mean certain death..."

  Peter continued, "The cabin boy didn't care. He told the princess of his love for her and said I'd rather die than see you unhappy..."

  "And so it came to pass," Renata giggled, "that they devised a plan of escape..."

  "But their plan was discovered," Peter said, "and the cabin boy was tied to the mast and flogged to within an inch of his life. The captain forced the princess to watch, and said Let this be a lesson: A princess may never love a commoner..."

  Renata took the sea glass from Peter's hand and became very animated. "Then I will be a princess no more she cried, and with that she removed her sapphire tiara and pitched it into the sea. She grabbed the captain's sword and cut the rope that bound the cabin boy. She took the boy's hand and whispered, now or never. And hand-in-hand they leapt from the ship into the dark and stormy night."

  Peter nodded his head in approval.

  "See?" said Renata, holding up the blue glass, "Isn't that better than saying someone drank milk of magnesia?"

  "Much better," Peter agreed.

  "Here," she said, holding out the piece of cobalt sea glass, "You keep this one."

  "Always," he said.

  §

  By late morning they were back at the lighthouse. Renata had set up her easel and implored Peter to pose for her by the lighthouse door.

  "But I'm hungry," the reluctant model said.

  "You're just saying that because you want to know what's in the basket."

  "Well, yes, that too. But I am hungry, aren't you?"

  "Please, Peter, just for a little while? I want to paint over what I have and make it better. You have such a kind and handsome face. I want to capture it as best as I can."

  "Well, how can I refuse when you put it that way?"

  Peter posed by the lighthouse door, crossing his legs at the ankle and leaning against the building with his only hand. "How's this?"

  "Perfect. Now, stay just like that, please."

  Peter watched as Renata's caramel eyes alternated focus between him and the canvas as she painted. Her expression was pensive and she bit her lower lip.

  When she finished, she called Peter over to her. "Well, what do you think?" She stood back to let him examine her work.

  "Wow," Peter said.

  "Yes?"

  "I really am handsome, aren't I?"

  "Oh, you..."

  "No, seriously, I had no idea I was so good looking. But you have the patch on the wrong eye."

  She looked at him, and then at the canvas. "I do not. You're impossible."

  "And you," he smiled, "are very talented. It's beautiful. Thank you for making me look so good."

  "Do you really like it?"

  He looked into her eyes for a long moment. "I love...it."

  Renata blushed and cast her eyes to the ground. Peter sensed that he had made her uncomfortable again and quickly tried to lighten his tone. "Now can we eat?"

  "It's about time. I am starving," she said.

  "Good, then I can have my surprise now too?"

  "Yes, little boy, you may have your surprise."

  Inside the light keeper's kitchen Renata opened the cake basket and took out a covered record album. "You told me yesterday that you love music. My mother gave this to me but I'd like you to have it now. I hope you'll accept it. That would make me very happy."

  Peter studied the cover. "Amália Rodrigues? I've never heard of her."

  "She's Portuguese. She's not so well known here, but in Portugal and the rest of Europe she's known as Rainha do Fado, Queen of Fado."

  "Where is Fado? I've never heard of that either."

  "Fado isn't a place," Renata laughed, "It's a state of mind, a genre of music that's kind of like the blues here. Fado means destiny. The songs are about love, loss, and desire. They're often sad, but not always."

  "Can we listen to it now?"

  "Of course. Put it on the stereo. Let me choose the first song for you to hear, though. You think you've never heard her, but there's one song I think you might recognize. The song is called "Coimbra" or, sometimes, "April in Portugal," and it's known throughout the world. Coimbra is a place, a place in Portugal."

  Peter put the album under his left arm and walked the few steps to the living room. He turned the stereo on and raised its black, smoked plastic cover, and then carefully slid the album from its cardboard envelope and placed it on the turntable. Renata took over, raising the record player's arm and delicately lowering the needle into position. After a few seconds of scratchy noise, the dulcet guitar introduction began and Amália Rodrigues's voice filled the room.

  Coimbra é uma lição

  de sonho e tradição...

  Peter's face lit up in recognition, and then something else...pleasure. "You're right. I have heard this song."

  ...I found my April dreams

  in Portugal with you...

  Peter closed his eye and leaned his right ear toward the speakers, as if to soak in the music. When the song ended Peter opened his eye to find Renata standing close to him. Her soulful eyes studied his face.

  "I'm so happy that you like it," she said.

  "I love it. It's a lovely gift. Thank you."

  Renata raised the turntable arm and started the album from the beginning. "Now we'll have a Portuguese picnic here on the floor and you can listen to more of Amália."

  Renata went to the kitchen and returned with the basket. She sat on the floor and emptied it one item at a time.

  "Here we have frango escabeche. It's marinated chicken that's cooked one day and then served cold the next. These are papo secos, fresh rolls that I baked this morning—the kitchen smelled so good—a little salad, and a bottle of wine."

  "Everything looks wonderful. I'll get some plates and glasses and things," said Peter.

  "No, sit, sit," said Renata. "Listen to the music. I'm sure I can find everything. Later, you can make some of your terrible coffee to go with our dessert, a custard tart called pastel de nata."

  "You made that too?"

  "I like to cook, but I love to bake. It's a passion for me."

  The afternoon passed too quickly for both of them. At precisely 3:00 p.m., the same time that she'd left the day before, Renata said, "I must go now, but this has been a wonderful day, the best I can remember, Peter. Thank you."

  "Will you come tomorrow?"

  "I can't. I wish I could but there's someplace else I have to be."

  Peter grimaced with disappointment.

  "Maybe I could c
ome in the evening," she said, adding quickly, "just for a short while, though."

  Peter's eye lit up. "I'll make dinner for us."

  "I really can't stay very long."

  "Then I'll make a short dinner," he smiled.

  "It will have to be an early one. Will 6:30 be all right?"

  "I'll be waiting."

  Once again Peter watched her walk down the lane and, once again, he had to stop himself from calling out to her.

  Renata turned around at the bend in the lane. Smiling, she raised her right arm high in the air and waved enthusiastically. Peter did the same.

  When Renata disappeared from view, Peter hurried to the light keeper's quarters. He telephoned Vasconcelos's Market and placed his order with Mr. Vasconcelos for delivery early the next morning.

  Chapter 41

  September 13, 1974

  FRIDAY THE 13TH. It may be unlucky for some, but this has been the best week of my life. Every day I spend with her is heaven on Earth. I want to know everything about her, absolutely everything. Her favorite flowers are lilacs, her favorite color is yellow. "Not just any yellow, daffodil yellow," she told me. Her favorite meal is veal Marsala with little red potatoes and asparagus. Her favorite book is Gone with the Wind, and her favorite movie is Splendor in the Grass.

  Renata means "born again." And that's how I feel every time I see her. But I die a little each time she leaves and I watch her walk down that lane. I think about her every waking moment and I dream about her every night. I want to hold her and take care of her and be with her always. Renata. RENATA.

  Peter's disposition seemed to match the warm, picture-perfect weather. He ate and slept sparingly but still felt revitalized. He rose before dawn and attacked his chores with a vigor and purpose bordering on exhilaration.

  He had once climbed the eighty-nine spiral steps of the tower as wearily as a doomed man ascending the gallows. Now he effortlessly bounded up the steps two at a time. As he cleaned and polished the Fresnel lens, Peter caught himself whistling. He smiled at the realization that the tune was "April in Portugal."

  Just after 8:00 a.m., Peter heard the distinctive clattering approach of Vasconcelos's Market's delivery van. The driver, Jimmy Vasconcelos, had a stocky, muscular body forged by a decade of hard work at the family market. His olive complexion had been darkened by the summer sun, and his face and body seemed to be entirely covered with thick black hair.

  Jimmy steered the van past the end of the lane and pulled up onto the lawn, next to the house's kitchen door.

  Peter flew down the spiral steps at a breakneck speed, and exited the base of the tower just as Jimmy turned off the ignition. The engine seemed to ignore his command, and continued running for several more seconds, rattling and pinging as if suffering from automotive death throes.

  §

  Jimmy stepped from the van and immediately noticed the uncharacteristic broad smile on Peter's face, an expression he hadn't seen since the two of them were in high school.

  "How's it goin', man?" Jimmy asked.

  "Great, couldn't be better."

  "Yeah, I can see that. You seem really stoked."

  "Did you get everything?" Peter asked eagerly.

  "I think so. This is the list my father gave me. I thought it was a mistake, though. I said to the old man, You sure this is for Pete? 'Cuz it sure don't look like his usual order.

  "You really gonna shave your beard, man?"

  "Thinking about it."

  "'Stache too?"

  "Maybe. Why, you don't think I should?"

  "No, man, it's your face. I'm just so used to seeing you with the beard and mustache, that's all. I haven't seen you without it since..."

  Peter interrupted, "So, let's see what you've got for me, Jimmy."

  Jimmy pulled a list out of his pocket. "Okay, besides the shaving stuff, I got olive oil, a pound of veal medallions, a pound of mushrooms, a pound of butter, all-purpose flour, fresh garlic, beef broth, red skin potatoes, asparagus, a bottle of Marsala wine, two bottles of Chianti. That's it for food and wine. Then I picked up the other stuff over at Kresge's: underwear, socks, and aftershave—Old Spice okay?"

  "Anything but Bay Rum. I love my grandpa, but I don't want to smell like him," Peter laughed.

  Peter laughing was something else Jimmy hadn't seen in years. He regarded Peter for a long moment. "You look good, Pete. Life out here must agree with you."

  Peter just smiled in response.

  Jimmy snapped his fingers. "Hey, I know this ain't on the list but I brought a couple of bottles of Seagram's and a nickel bag..."

  "Thanks, Jimmy, but not this time."

  "No problem, man. Here's the receipt from Kresge's, I'll just add it to our monthly bill."

  Jimmy Vasconcelos loaded up as many of the bags as he could and Peter grabbed the rest. They entered the light keeper's quarters and set everything down on the kitchen table.

  "Anything else you need, man?"

  "You don't carry arms and eyes at the market, do you, Jimmy?" Peter asked.

  Jimmy was thrown until he saw the broad grin that was spreading over Peter's face. He shook his head slowly and chuckled. "Sorry, man, we're fresh out of arms, and we only got brown eyes."

  Peter's playful grin became a sincere, close-mouthed smile. "Hey, thanks for everything, Jimmy. You've been really good to me over these past couple of years. Don't know what I would have done without you."

  §

  Jimmy turned the delivery van turned around and it rattled across the lawn to the road. "Catch you on the flip-side, man. Don't let your meat loaf," he called out.

  Peter waved and went back to work. He hurriedly completed his essential lighthouse duties, skipping the tasks that could be left for another day.

  By 11:00 a.m. he had finished his labor. He stood in the light keeper's bedroom and tried to decide what to wear for dinner with Renata. His choices were sparse, ill-fitting, and worn. It was early yet. He could still call Jimmy and ask him to pick up some new clothing. He went downstairs to the living room, picked up the heavy, black handset and began to dial the number for Vasconcelos's Market. He stopped mid-dial and hung up the phone.

  Peter walked outside and swung open the garage door, revealing the 1966 red Dodge Dart. He had started it and let it run weekly but hadn't driven it since the day of his last foray to the A & P, almost two years ago. Since then, this tiny piece of Rose Hip Point, less than two acres in total, and just beyond to Bridey Gallagher's house had comprised Peter Ahearn's entire physical world.

  He felt strange sitting behind the steering wheel—unsettled. He had felt the same way when he drove for the first time after he returned from the war. At the time, he hadn't driven since leaving for basic training - almost a year.

  He started the car to let the engine run for a while. The car radio came to life, blaring a song he didn't recognize, "I shot the sheriff..." He turned the radio off and slowly backed out of the garage. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of the two easels in the corner. His and Renata's paintings sat side by side, patiently awaiting the return of their artists.

  Looking at Renata's painting, Peter could see himself through her eyes—a thin, long-limbed young man dressed in worn, ill-fitting clothes, and an eye patch, leaned against the lighthouse door with his only hand. His bearded, boyish face smiled as if he had everything any man could want.

  The Dodge Dart crawled down the lane, past Bridey Gallagher's house and the house he now knew to be Renata's. He'd been by the little cottage in the past and had never paid much attention to it, but now he saw it differently. It wasn't just a house anymore, it was where she lived. At the end of the lane he turned right onto Route 127 toward Gloucester. Twenty minutes later he stood in Foster's Men's Shop where they had been "Offering the Finest in Men's Clothing since 1947."

  Dean Foster stood behind the counter, and eyed Peter with suspicion. It wasn't often that a hippie entered Foster's Men's Shop. They all seemed to favor the Gloucester Army/Navy Surplus Store. />
  "Hi, Mr. Foster," said Peter.

  "Who's that?"

  "It's Peter Ahearn, Mr. Foster."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Peter Ahearn." Foster scurried out from behind the counter, and extended his hand as he approached.

  "Peter, I didn't recognize you with the, um, beard. Why, I haven't seen you since...gosh, it must have been Memorial Day a few years back. I heard you were out at Rose Hip Point now. Keeping the light burning, are you, son?"

  "Doing my best, Mr. Foster."

  "Gosh, you don't have to wear some type of uniform or..."

  "No, it's a civilian job."

  "Well, good for you, Peter. Good for you. I see your dad from time to time over at the VFW. You should come down sometime, we'd be glad to have you."

  "Thanks, I might do that. But right now, Mr. Foster, I need some clothes."

  "Well, judging by the sign on the window, I'd say you've come to the right place. Looking for anything in particular?"

  "Nothing special, really, just a few shirts and a couple of pairs of pants—casual stuff."

  "Let me show you what we've got."

  §

  On the drive back to Rose Hip Point, Peter stopped at Margaret's Flowers. The last time he had been to the flower shop was more than four years ago. He'd come before his senior prom to pick up a boutonniere for himself and a corsage for Cindy. Margaret Anderson had told him to behave himself and not embarrass his parents.

  Now Margaret greeted him with the same distrustful glare he'd received from Dean Foster, her shaky, deeply-wrinkled hand perched on the telephone, as though she might call for help at the slightest encouragement.

  "It's me, Mrs. Anderson, Peter Ahearn from Hollistown Harbor John and Katherine's son?"

  The woman's expression changed from fearful to something less distinct. Perhaps it was pity. "Oh, my soul, Peter, I didn't recognize you."

  "Yeah, I guess it's the beard."

  "That's not a beard. A real beard is kept trimmed and neat. You look like a scraggly mountain man. Don't be one of those hippies, Peter, you'll embarrass your parents and break their hearts."

  Peter felt his face flush. "Do you have any lilacs?"

  "Lilacs? No, not at this time of year."