He pointed to a bouquet of white flowers that sat in a refrigerated display case.
"I'll take those," he said.
"Don't be in such a hurry. Are they a gift?"
"Sort of."
"Now then, what's the occasion?"
Peter bit his lower lip. "No occasion, I'd just like to buy the flowers."
"Peter, I can't help you if you don't let me. Getting the wrong flowers can send the wrong message. Those are white dahlias. They symbolize a lifelong commitment of love..."
"Mrs. Anderson, are those flowers for sale or not?"
Mrs. Anderson let out a sigh of exasperation. "It's $3 for the flowers, $4.50 if you want them in a vase."
"Thank you, I'll take the vase too."
Peter drove home carefully with the dahlias stowed in a cardboard box on the passenger-side floor of the car.
At 2:00 p.m. he stood shirtless before the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand. He blew out a great sigh and began to cut away more than three years of cinnamon growth from his face. After trimming as closely as he could with the scissors, he wet a facecloth with water as hot as he could stand and held it to what remained of his beard and mustache to soften them. Peter placed the red and white striped Barbasol can on the edge of the bathroom sink, then pressed down on the nozzle with his thumb and released far too much lather into his palm. He worked the foam into his beard and mustache and then rinsed the excess from his hand. Though he tried to be careful with the double-edged safety razor, he still nicked himself multiple times.
After he showered and toweled off, Peter examined his face in the steamy bathroom mirror. The cuts were still bleeding. He splashed Old Spice onto his face and almost cried out from the sting. The cologne did nothing to stanch the bleeding. He dressed the tiny wounds with little wads of toilet paper.
Later, he stood before the full-length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door, pulled his eye patch on to cover his lifeless eye, and assessed his reflection. His right eye was clear and deep blue. Long, wavy, blond hair, parted haphazardly in the middle, fell almost to his shoulders. His sideburns were auburn and flared slightly where they ended parallel to his earlobes.
Except for his square-toed brown boots, everything he wore was new: the socks, the underwear, the long-sleeved, brown and white patterned, wide-collared, polyester shirt, and the tan, double-knit polyester bellbottom pants that were held up by a wide, white patent leather belt with a shiny faux-brass buckle.
He stood erect and felt another of emotions that had been buried beneath his heavy heart: confidence.
He glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It was 4:00 p.m. Renata was to arrive at 6:30, and he had much to prepare.
Chapter 42
PETER WAS BENT OVER, holding the oven door open, when he heard a soft knock at the door. He glanced at the kitchen wall clock. 6:30 already?
"Come on in," he called over his shoulder.
§
Renata entered the kitchen and immediately caught sight of Peter bent over the oven. Her eyes were drawn to his narrow hips and tight buttocks. She stared for a moment and imagined... She blushed at thoughts she shouldn't be having, and quickly diverted her gaze, as if she had walked in and found him standing naked before her. Renata cleared her throat. "Good evening, Peter."
§
Peter straightened and turned around. He broke into a broad smile. He was surprised to see that Renata's cheeks were red, and there was a stunned expression on her face. "What's wrong?"
He watched her blush dissipate as she brought her hand up to her mouth and giggled.
"Oh, yeah," he said, "I forgot. I shaved. Is it that much of a shock?"
"No. Well, yes, but it's not just that," she shook her head and laughed harder.
"What, then?"
Renata took his hand. "Come, look in the mirror."
She led him to the mirror in the living room. His face was covered in all-purpose flour and speckled with a dozen tiny toilet paper bandages stained with dried blood. And his brand new shirt and pants were covered with flour images of his own handprint.
"God, I look like The Mummy. I'm surprised you didn't run from the house, screaming."
"It's not that bad," she chuckled.
"It's not?"
"Yes, it is." she laughed and snorted. "Come."
Back in the kitchen, Renata wet a dishcloth with cold water. She faced Peter and rose up onto her tiptoes. She placed her left hand on his shoulder to steady herself.
Peter was captivated by the way she tilted her head, her lovely smile, and her spellbinding eyes, caramel with microscopic flecks of green. She brought the cool, wet cloth to his face and slowly washed him with gentle dabs and strokes.
"There," she half-whispered when she had finished. They stood face to face, their lips just inches from becoming a kiss.
Peter slid his arm around her slender waist, and gently pulled her close to him. Just then, the kitchen timer buzzed and broke them out of their trance.
Renata felt disoriented, as though she had been sleepwalking and had come awake in Peter's embrace. Her face reddened, her eyes sought the floor, and she pushed herself away from him.
It took Peter a moment to collect his thoughts. "The...the potatoes are done," he said in a quavering voice.
Renata raised her focus from the floor and saw his hardness straining against a white flour handprint on his trousers. She diverted her gaze once more.
"You...you have flour on your...pants," she said. She handed him the dishcloth and took a good look around the kitchen for the first time since her arrival. Two bottles of red wine sat on the kitchen counter next to an ancient cookbook titled The Butterick Book of Recipes and Household Help.
"Oh, good, you have wine. May I have some? Please?"
"Renata, I..."
But she cut him off. "Don't." she said. She walked toward the stove. "Can I do anything to help with dinner?"
"No, I can do it. I want to surprise you."
"You already did."
Peter smiled sheepishly. "I meant with dinner."
"I know," she smiled.
"Why don't you have that glass of wine and just relax?"
"Maybe I'll take the wine outside. When I arrived, the sun was very low in the sky. I'd like to watch it set."
"Good idea. I'll have dinner ready before you know it."
§
Renata stood near the edge of the cliff on the south side of Rose Hip Point and looked to the west. The gold September sun inched its way into hiding behind the tiny village of Hollistown Harbor, taking the warmth of day with it. She sipped from her wineglass, wrapped her arms around herself, and shivered.
How close they had come. She could almost still feel Peter's powerful arm grasping her, pulling her so close to him that her whole body was enveloped in his. In that moment, in the warmth of his embrace, she had felt sanctuary and belonging.
She imagined how his lips might feel against hers, and how the sensation of drawing her fingertips over his lean body would make her tingle.
Twice she started for the light keeper's quarters, and twice she stopped. She was frightened by the strength of her own desire.
She had all but decided to bolt, to run home and avoid temptation altogether. But as she stole through the dusk, past the kitchen window, she caught sight of Peter. He stood over the stove, looking happier than she had ever seen him. She imagined how that look on his face would change if he discovered that she wasn't coming back. Renata steeled herself and went inside instead.
§
Peter heard her and turned around, beaming. "Two more minutes, I promise," he said, waving a spatula. "I set the table in the living room, have a seat, and I'll be right there."
The table stood by the old stone fireplace, illuminated by the flickering, buttery glow of a diminutive fire. A folded white bed sheet served as tablecloth. A basketed Chianti bottle cum candlestick sat at the center of the table and threw soft light on an open bottle of wine and a bouquet of w
hite dahlias. A pair of scuffed wooden chairs had been commandeered from the kitchen.
Renata noticed that the forks and knives were placed on the wrong sides of the plates, only the spoons were where they should be. She smiled and thought, He's twenty-three years old, and I think this is the first time he's set a table.
The Queen of Fado sang softly in the background. The record's jacket was propped on top of the stereo. Its cover image—a youthful, pretty Amália Rodrigues clad in a green sundress, wore her dark, wavy hair short, with sideburns so long and wide they looked boyish.
Renata refilled her wineglass and stared transfixed at the short, hopping flames of the fire. Presently, she heard a clatter from the kitchen followed by a muffled curse from Peter. She listened for a moment, and then called, "Are you all right?"
"Just hunky dory," Peter said as he entered the living room carrying a dinner plate. He stopped beside Renata, set the plate in front of her, and said, "I give you: Veal Marsala with little red potatoes and asparagus."
"Oh, Peter, it looks wonderful."
"Be right back," he said, and in a moment he returned with his own plate of food and sat down across from her.
"Surprised?" he asked.
"You remembered my favorite."
"Well, you did tell me just yesterday."
"I know, but it's so...so..." Her caramel eyes welled up.
"Renata, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Did I do something?"
"No. Yes, you did something beautiful. Everything is just...beautiful."
"Then why are you crying?"
"Because I'm happy."
Peter was dumbfounded.
"Peter, no one has ever done anything like this for me—just for me."
"So, you're happy."
"Yes, very."
"But you're crying."
"Yes."
"I don't understand."
"I know," she said, laughing through her tears. "I'm sorry. Let's eat."
The veal was burned and tough, the potatoes undercooked and hard, and the asparagus a soupy mush. But Renata was done crying, and the rest of the meal was seasoned with laughter.
After they finished eating, Renata stood, stepped away from the table, and beckoned to him with her arms. "I want to dance to Amália."
Peter stood and walked toward her.
Renata realized that, from habit, she had raised her right hand. She lowered it and raised her left.
Peter clasped her left hand with his right and only hand. He kept the remaining half of his left arm at his side.
She questioned him with her eyes.
"I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he offered.
"Quite the opposite," she said with a sly grin. "It's very comforting to know that your other hand can't stray and grab something it shouldn't."
And they both began to laugh. Renata laughed so hard that she snorted.
"You snorted."
"Yes, I did," she said, laughing even harder and snorting again.
When their laughter subsided, Peter took her left hand in his right and placed the stump of his left arm against her ribs. Renata put her right hand on his shoulder. She turned her head and laid it on his chest. They moved slowly in each other's arms to the rhythm of Fado.
Peter had no way of knowing that Amália Rodrigues sang of doomed love.
Chapter 43
September 20, 1974
THIS HAS BEEN THE LONGEST week of my life. She won't let me call her, so I just have to wait. Every day I look down the lane hoping to see some sign of her. Nothing. Last night I walked down to her house and stood outside. It sounded like the whole family was arguing and yelling at once. The fisherman must have been drunk. I wanted to rush in there, take her by the hand, and rescue her from it all. No one should have to live like that, especially not her.
September 22, 1974
I saw her coming up the lane today and ran out to meet her. She looked so pretty all dressed up for church...
But as Peter drew closer, his smile evaporated. Renata's face was swollen. As he got closer, he could see the bruises that her heavily applied makeup was meant to disguise. Her stunning eyes were puffy and the lively glint he'd seen in them the previous week had vanished.
"He did this to you?" Peter said through clenched teeth.
Renata's eyes sought the ground. Peter put his hand on her left arm. "Renata, there's no reason for you to be embarrassed." He looked beyond her, down the lane, and said "Stay here."
Renata grabbed his arm with both hands and stopped him.
"No." she cried.
"Don't worry. Just wait here."
"Please, Peter, you don't understand...you'll only make things worse. He gets this way when he drinks. You're a good man, but if you intervene it'll only bring more suffering.
"I only came to tell you that I can't visit you anymore."
"But..."
"Please, Peter, you have to trust me, trust that I know what's best."
She lifted her fingers to Peter's cheek. "You've been very kind to me. Thank you."
She turned and walked away.
"But I love you." he called.
She turned back to face him, her eyes studying him as though she wanted to lock every detail of him in her memory. "Don't...don't love me," she said. She brought her hand to her mouth, turned, and ran.
Chapter 44
TEARS SLID DOWN RENIE'S cheeks. She closed the Keeper's Log as though the act itself might put her memories to rest. She stared blankly at nothing, and Mark second-guessed his decision to ask her to read it. Maybe he should have just told her the truth upfront. Or maybe he shouldn't have said anything to anybody, ever.
"Do you want me to go?" he asked.
Renie blushed as if she'd just remembered Mark's presence and was embarrassed by the realization that he'd read every word in the journal too. "No, I just need a moment."
Mark rose from the table, crossed over to the kitchen counter and grabbed the carafe. "Do you mind?" he asked, breaking her trance.
"Help yourself."
"You want more coffee?"
"No," she said, "but I'm going to excuse myself for a moment." She rose from the kitchen table and hurried from the room, down the short hallway to her childhood bedroom. She closed the door behind her, leaned her back against it, and began to hyperventilate. The memories reared in her mind like monsters from under a child's bed.
After a time, Renie did her best to compose herself. She wiped her tears away and made a hasty repair to her mascara before opening the bedroom door.
§
The longer he waited for Renie's return, the deeper Mark's discomfort grew. He had just upset a total stranger and was now sitting in an unfamiliar house that was so quiet he could hear the ticking of the mantel clock in the living room. He had learned that while fifteen minutes can fly by, they could also be nine hundred ticks of a clock.
When the Portuguese fisherman's daughter returned, she avoided eye contact. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, sat down, and said, "Perhaps it would be better if you left now, Mark."
Mark felt himself blush for the second time in as many hours. Somehow, the idea that she hadn't read far enough into the Keeper's Log to learn Peter's terrible secret did not bother him nearly as much as the thought that he might never see her again. He frantically searched his mind for a graceful argument that would buy him some time, but couldn't come up with anything remotely plausible.
"Of course," he finally said. "I understand."
He rose and scooped up the Keeper's Log. Knowing how it ended, he couldn't just leave it with her. He had planned to interrupt her at just the right moment, hoping that he could somehow prepare her for the final entry, and cushion the shock that she would unavoidably feel.
"I'm really sorry," he said, "You've been so kind, and the thought that I've upset you is just..."
Renie's face softened. "I'll be all right." She glanced again at the kitchen clock. "But please, pleas
e, just go now."
Mark nodded. If he couldn't stay, at least he could make sure that she had the ability to contact him. He placed his business card on the kitchen table. "In case you change your mind."
Renie looked at the card but not at Mark, who turned and left the room. Mark closed the front door of the Raposo home as softly as he could, and walked down the flagstone path to his pick-up. He stood at the driver's door and looked back at the picturesque cottage. When he was satisfied that Renie was not watching him from any of the windows, he kicked his front tire and muttered, "Smooth move, Mark. You just managed to alienate the most enchanting woman you've ever laid eyes on."
Chapter 45
MARK WENT TO BED each night thinking about Renie. He considered calling her to apologize, just so he could hear her voice. And he felt guilty that he'd been more concerned with her perception of him—and the thought that he might never see her again—than the fact that there remained a terrible secret she deserved to know.
With so much on his mind, he found it impossible to concentrate on work, which wasn't at all like him. Mark loved his work. He had a satisfying career as a marine mammal biologist and was recognized as one of the world's leading experts on the behavior of humpback whales.
He was eight years old when he had his first sighting of a humpback breaching, sailing into the air, and then falling back into the sea with a mighty crash. He had become determined then and there to learn all there was to know about the imposing behemoths. There had been many a long, lazy summer day when he had peered at the ocean from the shore in the hope that he might glimpse a humpback as it breached, pec slapped, or lobtailed. He could even identify individual whales by their flukes—the undersides of their tails—long before he knew the term itself. As a teenager he had worked summers on charter fishing boats and whale watch excursions—anything to be on the water.
Mark's professional existence was not without its perks. He was an expert diver and worked each winter in the Caribbean, where humpbacks gathered by the thousands to mate or give birth to the next generation. But as exciting and satisfying as his career was, there were holes in his life, an emptiness that work could not altogether fill. He had no siblings, and he'd lost his mother to cancer a few years earlier.
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