Woo Woo

by Joe Coccaro

  Coach Kate stood and motioned Carter to do the same. She was about five feet ten in heels, two inches taller than Carter.

  “Come here,” she said. She opened her arms and gave Carter a hug. “You’re a good guy, Carter Rossi, and you’re cute. A little short for me, but cute. And I’m guessing you’re a bit of a romantic. Stop being so damn morose, and go have some fun. Starting over ain’t so bad. I’ve done it twice.”

  “Two-time loser, huh?”

  “Two-time winner, Carter. I knew when to move on. No martyr here.”

  “The real estate lady I’m buying my house from in Cape Charles said almost the same thing. I guess I should have paid her a higher commission. So, how much do I owe for your wisdom?”

  “Give me another hug, and when you see Uncle Sid, tell him he owes me dinner and a very good Oregon pinot noir.”

  ***

  When Carter got home that night, he thought more about Kate than Sophie. In the morning, he sent roses to Kate’s office with a note attached:

  Kate,

  You’re right. I’m a wuss. And you were wearing heels. No fair! Call if you ever get bored or want to share that bottle of pinot. And if you visit, bring the field hockey stick and handcuffs.

  Carter

  CHAPTER 6

  CARTER DECIDED TO spend a few hours Saturday on the beach. He never could stand the idleness of sitting in the sun. He was constantly up and down, walking, or wading in the water or going for a run. It was that stupid boredom thing. It had driven Sophie crazy. She could lie idly on the beach for hours. Carter lasted fifteen minutes, tops.

  It was sunny and dry. Not much wind either, which was unusual for this tiny patch of land by the sea. Carter sat with his darkest sunglasses, a pair of Oakleys he had bought at an outlet mall. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed that perfect ass again—the one from the park. Carter had spotted it as soon as he crossed over the path between the sand dunes. The woman was standing and stretching, facing the Bay. Her legs were slender and long; her firm arms dangled, slightly curved at the elbows. Her yellow-striped bikini bottom cut along her pube line. This had to be the woman Gil had described, the one he had seen in the bar. Carter needed to make sure. He quick-dialed his iPhone.

  “Gil, it’s Carter. I’m at the beach. You working?”

  “Of course I’m working, moron. It’s the weekend. It’s summer. We can’t all lie around whacking off all day like you. Some of us have responsibilities. What do you need?”

  “That girl you told me about, the pretty one with the nice ass—what was her name?”

  “Rosie, or maybe Rose. Can’t remember.”

  “What color was her hair again? How long?”

  “Shoulder length. Blondish-brownish.”

  “Long legs, right?”

  “Yeah, and nice lips. Why you asking? She there?”

  “I’m at the beach, and I think I see her. You said she’s cool, right?”

  “Yeah, but she may be a lesbo.”

  “Christ! Another lesbo!”

  “Well, one way to find out, moron: Grow some balls, and go for it.”

  “What does she drink?” Carter asked.

  “She likes pinot gris, the same stuff Jill likes. You want a bottle? Stop by the back of the pub, and I’ll slip you one. But I’m charging you double.”

  It only took Carter five minutes to walk from the beach to Gil Netters. Waiting by the back door in a brown bag was a chilled bottle of the white wine and two glasses. A note was inside.

  Bring back the glasses, and if you don’t get laid you had better lie and say you did. Grow a pair, and good luck, moron.

  ***

  Technically, there was no drinking on the beach. But it was tourist season, and if the cops clamped down, the beach would be empty and the town fathers would go nuts. As long as people were discreet, everything was cool.

  Carter plodded through the sand. He spotted her chair. Beside it was a pink and green umbrella, a book, a small cooler, and a beach towel. Perfect. Carter craned his neck to see what the woman was reading: The Book of the Damned by Charles Fort. She also had a copy of Psychology Today magazine in her lap, the same magazine that had sat on top of Dr. Kate’s coffee table.

  I need to get a subscription. Great chick magnet.

  “Can I help you?”

  Carter startled. Caught gawking. Dammit!

  “Sorry, I was just—”

  “Being nosy, that’s what,” the woman said.

  “Yeah, I guess I was. I apologize. Want me to move? This is the spot where I usually sit. I just didn’t want to plop without asking first.”

  “You don’t need permission. The beach is free. Can’t stop you from sitting on your spot.”

  “I’m sorry, I think.”

  “Take it easy. Just messin’ with you. What’s your name?”

  The woman eased into her beach chair and covered her legs with her towel.

  “Carter Rossi. You?”

  “Rose Portman. Nice to meet you.” She reached to shake Carter’s hand. “You a local?”

  “I am now, I guess. Just moved here last month. You?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “How long?”

  “Not sure yet,” Rose answered.

  Carter started feeling relaxed and even welcomed. Rose seemed nonchalant, but not disinterested. Her blue eyes seemed to smile. They had the same sharpness as the cat that murdered the goldfinch. When Carter stared into them, her pupils pulsed and dilated. He had read once in National Geographic that dilating pupils were a sign of attraction.

  “Want a glass of wine?” Carter offered. He pulled the pinot gris from the brown bag and two small wineglasses. He showed her the label.

  “Interesting. You always come to the beach by yourself with a perfect bottle of wine and two glasses?”

  “What if I said yes?”

  “Then I’d say you’re exceedingly optimistic, or you’re lying.”

  “Then you’d be right about both.”

  Carter figured that if he had any shot with Rose, he’d better fess up. He told her about Gil and how he texts the locals. And Carter admitted to seeing Rose in the park.

  “So, this was a setup?”

  “Kinda. A spontaneous one. Obviously ill-conceived. Gil has been riding me about meeting people, specifically girls, so I figured I’d try.”

  “Girls? So you prefer boys?”

  “Christ no!”

  “So, how did you know it was me on the beach?”

  “Honestly, your ass.”

  “Stand up,” Rose said. Carter did, reluctantly. “Now turn around . . . Yours isn’t so bad either.”

  They laughed and toasted.

  ***

  The next couple of hours passed quickly. The Bay breeze swept away the summer humidity and cooled their skin. They sipped the wine, talked some, and paused to stare over the water, watching parents and kids splash around in the shallow tide. Rose asked Carter to rub sunscreen onto the back of her shoulders, and she did the same for him.

  Her skin felt like a wedding veil, his like oak veneer.

  Rose and Carter didn’t talk about anything serious or pry too much into each other’s resumes. They chatted mostly about Gil Netters, the town, its characters, and its charm. Carter mentioned his ex once or twice, just to signal that he wasn’t married. Rose didn’t hint at her status, but she wasn’t wearing a ring. She was also coy about where she was staying, saying only that she was on a friend’s boat.

  “You at the jellybean piers or the old town harbor?” Carter asked.

  “The jelly what?”

  “The old harbor or the new one?”

  “Oh, the new one,” Rose answered. “The one with all of the orange, purple, and yellow houses.”

  “Right, the jellybean houses,” Carter said. “That’s what the locals call them. It’s all that faux West Indies architecture, the stuff all over golf courses in Florida. Kinda tacky, I think.”

  “Not so bad,” Rose said. “Nice faci
lities at the pier, clean. I like the Oyster Reef restaurant there too. Gorgeous view of the Bay. But don’t tell your friend Gil I said that. His place is cool too, but in a gritty, old-school way.”

  “Gil knows all and sees all. He’s like the Wizard of Oz. He probably knows what you had for dinner last night and how much you tipped the waitress.”

  “Small town,” Rose said.

  “In every way,” Carter said. “I like the historic district. Lots of funky old houses. You into old stuff?”

  “If you mean old houses, yes. If you mean old men, not really.”

  “Yes, houses.” Carter laughed. “You know, old architecture, gables, cupolas, stained glass, creepy attics, and leaky basements.”

  “I like them, but I have to be careful around them.”

  “Careful of what? Why?”

  “Old buildings. Never mind,” Rose said.

  The sun began its final daily descent over the Bay, an orange fireball seemingly rebelling and gasping, throwing off deep reds and then purples as the horizon doused its glowing embers. At dusk this time of year, cars lined Bay Avenue to watch the orange ball fade into the sea. The sunsets were a blaze of deep hues, a magnificence captured all over town in photographs and paintings hanging in shops and art galleries. This was one of the only places on the East Coast to see the sun set over water.

  “Have you seen the sunsets here?” Carter asked.

  “This was my first on the beach. Spectacular,” Rose said. “Getting chilly fast, though. Want a ride home? I’ve rented a golf cart. Beats walking.”

  “I’m only a couple blocks away, but, yeah, I’ll take a lift.”

  A few minutes later, Rose pulled up in front of Carter’s place and eyed his house.

  “Cute,” she said. “I need to get a better look during daylight.”

  “Yeah, anytime,” Carter perked. “Love to show her off. She has potential, as they say around here. She sags a bit and needs a facelift.”

  “We all will, eventually.”

  Carter wanted desperately to kiss Rose, at least on the cheek, and invite her inside. Get some balls. Grow a pair, Sparky! He could hear Gil’s voice in his head.

  “Nice meeting you, Rose.” He stuck out his hand for a shake. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

  Rose pushed his hand away, leaned over, and gave Carter a hug and a peck on the lips. Her pupils pulsed.

  “Hope you didn’t lose any bets with your buddy at the bar. See you around—maybe.”

  ***

  A couple of hours later, Carter’s phone rang.

  “How’d it go, Sparky? You get laid?”

  “Thanks for the wine, Gil, and no, I didn’t. We hung out, but nothing happened.”

  “Sounds like you blew it, moron. She’s in here now with some dorky old dude with a Scottish accent named Malcolm. He’s holding her hand and keeps kissing her on the cheek. Pathetic! You can’t even compete with a shriveled up seventy-year-old. Seems like the only way you’re getting laid is if I hire another hooker. I’ll start taking up a collection with the boys.”

  “Appreciate the thought, Gil, but no hookers, okay? And thanks again for the wine.”

  “Don’t mention it. I put it on your tab, moron, and don’t forget my wineglasses.”

  CHAPTER 7

  CARTER HAD BEEN taping, sanding, and patching drywall cracks for nearly six weeks. He decided it was time to get some fresh paint on the walls. He strolled into Bay Hardware, past the wooden Indian statue in the doorway and the Trump/Pence sign in the window. The store owner, Cyril Brown, made no secret of his political predilections. Each day, almost every day rain or shine, Cyril and a group of equally strident old-timers sat together cracking jokes or ogling pretty girls passing by on the sidewalk or hot moms in tight shorts stopping in for a paintbrush or furniture polish.

  Bay Hardware had been passed down through three generations of Browns. Cyril, now in his seventies, started working there after serving in Vietnam as a first lieutenant. The store had changed very little in the past fifty years. The aisles were narrow and stuffed on each side with an array of paints, polishes, PVC piping, hinges, nails, and electrical wiring and boxes. The wood-slat floors creaked and moaned, and old decals and signs from the 1940s, advertising tobacco, oysters, whiskey, hammers, nuts, screws, and varnish, were randomly scattered around the old shelves, cases, and windows.

  The store looked more like a hoarder’s garage than a place of business. Rubber boots and waders, mostly bought by watermen, were on racks. Ball caps and jars of local honey were stuffed in bins around the counter. Cyril and his store attendants wrote down every item sold on a piece of paper by the cash register. He preferred to keep track of inventory the way his father had and his grandfather before him—stress free and low tech. Old oval aisle mirrors were strategically placed so Cyril could monitor the entrance and cluttered aisles from his chair by the register.

  In the midst of this hodgepodge of a store was a Fisher wood stove. A couch and two chairs faced its black iron doors. On nice days, “the boys” sat in wicker rocking chairs in front of the store. Cyril’s chair bore his name, carved into a white wooden tag attached to the back of the headrest. He kept a bungee cord stretched from arm to arm to keep anyone else from sitting on his throne when unattended. Cyril’s court jesters all had arranged seating as well, each flanking Cyril at the center. Guests and passersby could take an empty seat, but only by invitation from the king.

  When it was cold or wet, Cyril’s court huddled around by the stove. It was raining this morning, so Cyril and a buddy settled inside and commented on stories they read in a local newspaper.

  “Mornin’, Carter, can I help you?” Cyril asked.

  “Hey, Cyril, looking for some interior latex.”

  “Gettin’ ready to paint, are you?”

  “Yes sir. Gonna be a long process.”

  Carter had been introduced to Cyril a couple of times, first by Hattie Savage when she was showing him the town, and once by Gil when they were having breakfast in the coffee shop, just a few doors down from the hardware store.

  “Pull up a chair,” Cyril said. “This here is Belford MacIntosh. We just call him Mac. He’s kinda hard of hearing, so you have to speak up.”

  Carter reached over and shook Mac’s hand. Mac looked like a skinny version of Andy Rooney, with eyebrows as thick as cordgrass and matted gray hair to match. You’d need a weed-whacker to thin the hair in his ears and nose. He chewed on an unlit cigar, the slurry staining his teeth a dark tea.

  “We was gonna have a drink. Care to join us?” Cyril invited.

  “You mean coffee?” Carter asked.

  “No, too late in the morning for that.” Cyril reached behind his chair and lifted a bottle of Inver House Scotch. Cyril usually wore a collared shirt and khakis, and today was no exception. On Sundays, he clipped on a bowtie for church.

  “Thanks, but I don’t drink before noon,” Carter said. “It’s only eleven.”

  “Eleven eighteen to be exact,” Cyril said as he glanced at a Pittsburgh Paint advertising clock above the entrance. He poured a splash into a red plastic cup. “Go on and take it. It’ll make the paintin’ go faster. Go on,” he prodded Carter.

  “So, did you boys read in the paper about that Bruce Jenner fella changing his sex?” Mac said.

  Cyril’s eyes lit up. He leaned over toward Carter and whispered, “This is gonna be good.”

  “That’s old news, Mac. You got a problem with Mr. Jenner—or is it Miss Jenner?” Cyril provoked.

  “Nope, no problem here. Let me tell you somethin’. When I was young, I lived up in Northern Virginia by Alexandria. I had me two or three girlfriends all the time. I had needs, you know, and I liked girls, all colors and shapes. Anyways, I had this one girlfriend, part Asian I think, who liked to do certain things. She weren’t the prettiest—kinda tall and hairy arms. Wore lots of makeup too. But she had a talent. Well, one day Roberta—that was her name—tells me that she’s really a Robert.”

&nbs
p; Cyril smiled. “So, you were dating somebody named Bob, and you didn’t know it? What did ya do about it, Mac?”

  “Can’t hear ya, Cyril. Speak up.”

  “I said, what’d ya do about your girlfriend Bob? You break up?”

  “Nothin.’ I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “You mean you kept seeing Bob?” Cyril asked.

  “You bet. Roberta was doing a fine job—real fine.”

  Two elderly women standing at the checkout register to buy umbrellas heard Mac’s booming voice and Cyril and Carter laughing. They both set down their umbrellas and walked out.

  “Guess they won’t be comin’ back,” Cyril said, a glint in his blue eyes. “Don’t get wet!”

  Carter raised his plastic cup in cheers and swallowed its contents. “I wouldn’t expect repeat business from them, Cyril. Thanks for the drink. Nice to meet you, Mac.”

  “Say what?”

  “I said, ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mac.’ Not everyone has such an open mind,” Carter said.

  “Hold on there, Carter. That Scotch was for sipping,” Cyril said. “You need to have another. Hand me your cup.”

  ***

  Nobody knew more about Cape Charles, past or present, than Cyril Holmer-Brown. He was the de facto mayor, the godfather of wheelin’ and dealin’, a repository of information, gossip, insults, and compliments. Before Hattie Savage’s dad started selling real estate, the Browns matched buyers and sellers. They’d sell you the house and everything needed to fix it. It was like the California merchants who sold shovels to prospectors during the Gold Rush.

  If the Browns didn’t like you, finding a house could be tough in Cape Charles. The Savages and Browns made an easy truce, forging a symbiosis of mutual trust and interests. The Savages sold newcomers hope, and the Browns sold the shovels.

  In modern Cape Charles, rumors fanned by Gil and confirmed by Cyril were gospel. If Cyril didn’t know about something, it must not be true. If he wasn’t sure, Hattie Savage would find out.

  Cyril had an ornery streak, some said hateful. But to Carter he seemed affable, funny, and one hell of a lot smarter than he pretended. He was thin, tall, and had a bad back from years of lifting store inventory. In his younger years, he looked like Charlton Heston. He spoke with a hint of Old World New England blueblood and the accent of a Delmarva waterman. In his office he kept a picture on the wall of his Vietnam buddies, including then-Corporal Mac, and next to it a portrait of the late Supreme Court Associate Justice Antonin Scalia.