by Susan Wiggs
“Eight years?” He shook his head. “Jesus…”
Then he stripped off his clothes and jumped into the icy cold water.
Fifteen
By Thursday, when the boat arrived, not one of the Winslow women wanted to leave the island. The same was true on the next Sunday. By the following Thursday when the boat had come and gone again, her girls were sailing by themselves in the cove.
Catherine and Michael had settled into an old routine, like the friends they found they still were. They talked about so much, and yet there was some part of him that he seemed to keep private.
She wasn’t certain if he was ashamed of what he did for a living, but he always changed the subject, so she didn’t bring it up anymore. As a safety net she didn’t talk about her career either. They had plenty of other things to talk about. Sometimes it was almost as if there weren’t enough hours in the day.
The noon day sunshine beat down on them, and it was warm and snug sitting on a huge rock at the water’s edge. They shared a lunch basket between them, while they watched the girls sail in the cove.
“You’re spoiling them,” she said as he took a bite of fried chicken.
He waved the chicken leg in the air. “You’re spoiling me. Lunch every day and dinner every night.”
“Hmmm.” She ate a potato chip and tried not to ogle.
He was sitting back on his elbows, a position that stretched his white polo shirt across his abdomen, which she knew from their second day out in the boat was still flat, and rippled and fit for a Calvin Klein ad.
The first time he’d taken off his shirt she’d almost fallen overboard. She’d spent the whole rest of the day trying to look everywhere except at his chest.
She sat there munching on another chip—just what her thighs needed—and looking at him. Half of her was still unable to believe they were sitting on this very rock, here and now, that it was real and not some wishful daydream.
His long legs were stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. The breeze would bring his scent to her every so often.
“I feel seventeen again,” she said, then laughed because it was a stupid thing to say. “I just wish I looked seventeen again.”
He turned to her and cocked his head. “Why?”
“Only a man would ask that.”
“Why this obsession with getting older?”
“It’s not an obsession.” She sat straighter and crossed her legs Indian-style.
“You sure make enough comments about it.”
“I do not.”
He laughed.
She chewed her lip. “Do I?”
He nodded.
She rested her chin on her fist and thought about it for a moment. “Don’t you ever feel it?”
“What?”
“Old. As if life has passed you by?”
“I don’t know, Catherine. With each year I find I feel more comfortable with who I am.”
“Really? Hmmmm. And here I feel older and more uncomfortable with who I am.”
“Women.” He muttered in that foolish male way.
She was quiet for a moment, gathering control so she wouldn’t haul off and punch him. “Women feel this way because men age so well.”
“Women only think they don’t age well.”
She turned. “Do I look that stupid?”
“You don’t agree.”
“Society doesn’t agree.”
“Lauren Bacall, Goldie Hawn and Raquel Welch are all gorgeous.”
“Clothing models are twelve.” She sat up a little straighter and hugged her knees to her chest. “And look at all the older men with pretty young things on their arms.” She gave a wry laugh. “All we women have on our arms is flabby skin.”
When he didn’t defend his sex, she looked at him.
“Suddenly you’re not saying anything.”
“I have a feeling this is a ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ discussion.”
“Chicken.”
“No thanks. I’ve had enough.”
She gave him a look that said his tactic wouldn’t work.
He sighed in that aggravating way men had. “I like you just the way you are, Catherine.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I thought we were talking about you getting old.”
“You think I’m old?”
“Hell no. You said you were old, not me.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never dated someone a lot younger than you.”
He was completely silent.
She laughed. “Ha! I got you on that one.”
He looked at her while she crowed, then said, “I dated a woman for two years who was five years older than I was.”
“I didn’t ask you about older women.”
He grinned. “I know.”
She sat there while the sunshine beat down on them. After a moment of silence she said, “There must have been a lot of women in your life.”
“Yes,” he answered honestly, then looked at her and added quickly, “But they all looked like you.”
She was horrified.
“Okay, then,” he said in a rush. “None of them looked like you.” He tried to look serious and failed.
She burst out laughing and shook her head. “You are awful.”
“Yeah, but you love me,” he said in a flippant and teasing way.
But it was so close to the truth she couldn’t laugh. What would her life have been like if she had married Michael? Her daughters could have been his had things been different, had he not gone to war, had she not let her father come between them. Had they been older.
Perhaps, she thought, being young wasn’t such a good thing.
He slid his hand behind her head and before she knew it he had pulled her face toward his. Then he was kissing her deeply, but gently, as if he had all the time in the world to just savor her mouth. It was the first time he’d kissed her since that night in the boathouse. She gave herself up to that kiss, because she felt it clear through to her heart.
And it ended oh, so soon.
He pulled his mouth away from hers, but kept his hand on the back of her head. He searched her face and gave her a tender smile. “You are a beautiful woman, Catherine, and though it seems impossible, you are more beautiful now than you were at seventeen. I know you won’t believe me, but those few lines on your face are the most beautiful part of you.” He shook his head. “Sweetheart, don’t regret even one of those forty-some-odd years.”
And at that moment, Catherine wouldn’t have wanted to be seventeen again for anything.
They had all gone on a hike that morning, even Catherine. And she hated every minute of it. But she never let on. Not one word of complaint, even when she lost her footing, smacked into a fir tree, and the needles poured down all over her.
She deserved a medal for valor, or at least tolerance.
They came home sweaty and muddy and all she wanted was a long shower and to never hear the word “trail” again.
She’d headed straight for the shower and Lord, did it ever feel good. She stood there and let the water beat on her, then she grabbed the shampoo and poured it all over her head.
“Mom?”
For heaven’s sake! She couldn’t even take a shower in peace. When you became a mother, you lost all your privacy.
Aly knocked on the door again. “Mom?”
“What?” She turned and let the water beat on her back while she scrubbed her hair into a nice foamy lather.
“Harold got out.”
“He’ll come back, Aly. Stop fretting about him.” Silly cat.
“He’s back.”
“Fine. Now can I please finish this shower in peace?”
“Harold’s in the bathroom with you.”
“I don’t care, Aly. He comes in the bathroom with me at home, too.”
There was a long silence.
“Mom?”
She took a deep breath. She really didn’t have much patience left. �
�Yes?”
“He’s not alone.”
Catherine stopped lathering her hair.
She heard Dana whisper, “Did you tell her?”
“Sort of,” Aly whispered back. “Come here, Harold. Come here. I got him!”
Catherine pulled aside one small corner of the shower curtain and hollered, “There’s a snake in here!”
“We know, Mom.” Her girls had opened the door less than an inch and she could see their eyes watching the snake through the crack.
“Well, don’t just stand there! Do something!”
Sixteen
Her girls did something.
They got Michael.
“Catherine?” His voice came through the door.
The man of her dreams was on the other side of the door, ready to rescue her. She was naked, standing in the shower with a flimsy plastic curtain wrapped around her; it was the only thing between her and a long black snake.
She swore under her breath, one of those words her mother would have killed her for saying.
“Catherine,” Michael called out. “Are you all right?”
“Just ducky.” She pulled the shower curtain even tighter around her. “There’s a snake in here!”
“I know. I don’t want to open the door on it. Can you look and see where it is?”
She peered around the edge of the shower curtain. Oh God…She took a deep breath. “It’s on the bath mat by the tub. You can open the door. Hurry. Please.”
She hid inside the curtain the moment she heard him come in and close the door behind him. She waited, listening to the sounds on the other side. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Did you get it?”
“Just a minute.”
Oh God, oh God, oh God….
“I have it.”
“Take it far, far away, Michael. Really far away.”
“I’m putting it in a cooler.”
“That’s not far enough.”
“It’s the Igloo cooler that locks.”
She heard a sharp snap.
“There. You’re safe now.”
“Is it still in here?”
“Yes, but it’s locked up tight.”
“Do you want a cat?”
He laughed.
“This isn’t funny.” She peered out from behind the curtain.
“It kind of is, Catherine. How can you be afraid of something so harmless? You’re a thousand times bigger than that snake is.”
She stared at him over the edge of the curtain. “I think there are two snakes in this bathroom.”
“Look, I didn’t mean to insult you. That’s not what I meant.”
“Using the word ‘big’ to a forty-seven year old woman who is naked and wrapped in a shower curtain isn’t smart, Michael.”
The fool was still grinning at her.
“It’s not funny.”
“Yes. It is.”
“Would you just leave, please?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking advantage of a great opportunity.”
“Michael. Stay back!”
Then he was kissing her again and whispering to her and running his hands all over her wet body. Who knew where the shower curtain went? And she didn’t care.
His kisses were slow and deep and wonderful.
“Come to my place tonight. Just you.” He ran his lips over her ear. “Only you.”
She whispered his name.
“Mike? Mom? Did you get it?”
He pulled away from her mouth, his finger against her lips. “Just about!”
Then he kissed her some more. “Say yes, Catherine. Say yes.”
“Yes,” she murmured against his lips.
He gave her one more soul-eating kiss, then said, “I’d better get rid of the snake.”
She almost asked “What snake?”
“Seven o’clock?”
“I’ll be there,” she said and watched him leave the bathroom.
Through the door she heard Dana ask, “Is Mom okay?”
“I’m fine,” she called out. But she wasn’t. She was in love all over again.
Catherine showed up on his door step at ten after seven. She had been standing in the woods for fifteen minutes so she wouldn’t look too eager. When it had started to rain lightly, she’d come out of her hiding place and walked up his front steps, scared and excited and just a mess of emotions.
She took a deep breath, knocked once, and the door flew open so quickly she jumped.
“Hey, Squirt.” He stepped aside for her and took her jacket, then hung it on a coat-rack made of ancient moose antlers. “There wasn’t a problem with your girls, was there?”
“No. When I mentioned coming here for dinner they exchanged some rather pointed looks. Then Aly informed me that they saw us kissing and if I was going to be doing anymore of that sort of thing, especially at my age, she would prefer it if I did so in private.”
“She’s a piece of work.”
“They both are, but I wouldn’t trade them for the most perfect children in the world.”
“You shouldn’t. They’re good kids. Smart and funny. You’ve done a great job, Catherine.”
“You think so?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes I think I’m the worst mother in the world.”
“If you were a bad mother you wouldn’t be worrying about what kind of mother you were.”
“I guess you’re right.” She smiled. “Thank you.”
“So what can I get you to drink?”
“Something potent.” The second she’d said it, she wanted to sew her lips shut. Potent? Good God…
“Strong,” she added in a rush. “I meant strong.”
He looked like he wanted to laugh, but he was a smart man. “I have Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.”
“Not that strong. Wine. I’d like wine.” And a new mouth, she thought. She turned away. You’re here for sex and you say “something potent.” She wanted to kick herself. She looked around the cabin to keep from saying another stupid thing.
The place was rustic and woodsy, the way she remembered. There were dark wood floors that time and wear had given character. A couple of wool rugs in reds and blacks were scattered around, and a fire in a huge rock fireplace gave the room a warm glow.
He was bent over the refrigerator when she turned around.
“I’m disappointed. You don’t have a Dale Evans sofa.”
He straightened with a bottle of white wine in his hand, then looked at her and laughed. “Just old leather like Buttermilk’s saddle.”
“You can remember the name of Dale Evans’s horse?”
“Only from a Trivial Pursuit marathon.”
“Good.” She moved to the kitchen. “I’d hate to think your memory was that good. Most days I can’t find my keys. Aly says there’s too much aluminum in my cookware.”
He laughed.
“Speaking of cooking, something smells great.”
A wonderful looking salad of spring greens was in the bowl on the counter, and a golden loaf of warm bread cooled on a chopping block.
“You made fresh bread?”
“No. I made frozen bread.”
They laughed.
A steaming pot sat on the stove top and gave off the scent of shellfish mixed with sherry and cream.
She leaned over the pot and breathed it in. “Ohhhh.” She looked up at him. “It’s clam chowder.”
He nodded and opened the wine.
Without thinking she picked up the spoon, skimmed some off the top of the pot and tasted it. “Hmmmm. This is so good.” She looked up.
He was frozen, the wine bottle in one hand and a wine glass in the other. His expression was unreadable.
The spoon was still near her mouth and she realized she had just walked into his kitchen and eaten right from the soup pot.
“I’m sorry.” All flustered, she waved the spoon around, then quickly turned to the sink.
“I’ll wash it for you. I do this at my place all the time. The girls aren’t home for dinner a couple of nights a week and usually I’m so lazy I just stand there and eat from the stove. It’s a bad habit.” She was babbling. She stood there feeling stiff and awkward while she vigorously scrubbed the spoon with an orange and red plastic scrubber.
“Catherine,” he said from behind her. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“This afternoon I had my tongue in your mouth and you’re upset about rinsing off the spoon?”
He was right.
She dropped the scrubber and turned off the water.
“Turn around.” His voice was soft and deep and near her ear.
She turned slowly.
He reached around her, picked up a piece of red lettuce from the salad and held it above her mouth. “Taste it.”
She opened her mouth and he fed her. It was one of the most sensual moments she could ever remember.
“Good?”
She nodded and chewed and tried not to be a huge fool and throw herself at him.
He lifted the wine glass to her mouth as she watched him over the rim of the glass. She was leaning against the counter in the small kitchen for support.
His body was only inches away. She could feel the heat from him and something else, something so primitive she felt it clear to her toes.
She took a small sip.
“You’re nervous.”
She took the glass from him and set it down. “Yes.”
“Don’t be.”
“I can’t help it. I feel so naive.”
“This from the same person who once informed me that she knew all about sex?”
“I was eleven and pretty full of myself. Besides, I wanted to get your attention.”
“You got my attention all right.” He laughed. “That’s the first time you’ve ever admitted it.”
“Is it?”
“Still nervous?”
“Yes.”
“You know you can ask me anything.”
She just looked at him and threw up her hands. “How is this whole thing done nowadays?”
“The same way it’s been done for thousands of years.”
She shook her head and looked down.