“What does your family come with?” she asked.
“The all-American package.” He gazed at his mug. “Two parents who still like each other. A brother in college who’s not too bad. And a sixteen-year-old kid sister, who was born so late that I never got over the fact that she was cute. Still is, unless she’s eaten too much junk food.”
Beneath the observation, offhand and affectionate, Caroline heard an undertone of regret. “So why don’t you go home?” she asked. “You don’t have to live in exile just to feel lost.”
For an instant he gave her a funny look—vulnerable, caught—and then his gaze grew veiled. “Losing yourself,” he said, “is not as simple as you think.”
The comment puzzled her. Scott looked away; she found herself studying the unfinished letter on the nightstand, and then the book on Robert Kennedy. She nodded toward the book. “Did you work for him?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. I sacrificed a few weeks of college to the Indiana primary.” He seemed to study his mug again. “The night he was shot was the worst thing I’ve experienced that didn’t happen to me personally. Sometimes I wonder how many other people died because of it. Or just lost hope.”
Scott was not looking for a response, Caroline saw—he could have been talking to himself. It made her quiet: as wrong as this might be, as lacking in what her father would call perspective, Scott seemed to feel, as Caroline sometimes did, that something irretrievable had been lost.
“I was a little young for that,” she said at last. “Later, it hit me that maybe our best leaders are dead and without them all the rest of us are slowly drifting apart.”
Gazing at his coffee cup, Scott did not answer. And then he looked up, giving her a faint smile that mingled irony and kinship. “We’re a sad pair, aren’t we. Nothing to look forward to but the rest of our lives.”
“Like sailing trips and graduate school. If you can ever figure out which graduate school you want.”
Scott shrugged, silent. Perhaps, Caroline thought, he was simply glad to have backed away from seriousness. But the moment had left something behind that was not there before; once more, she was aware of the ocean sounds, the smell of salt, of him. And that, until tonight, he had pretended to be someone nowhere close to who he was.
As if sensing her thoughts, he shifted subjects again. “Your brother-in-law,” he said. “What’s his Ph.D. in?”
“English. From Syracuse.”
“And Betty?”
“Wants to have a baby.”
Scott’s look was quizzical. “Is your father paying the freight?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Ouch.”
Caroline pondered whether some explanation was more, or less, fair to Betty. “Betty’s nice, really. But I think somehow she felt displaced, and now she’s got an image of family that goes deeper than for other people.” Caroline paused. “The problem is that it’s making her a little crazy. Like everyone from here to Mongolia is pregnant except for her.”
Scott gave a comic wince, and then inspiration crossed his face. “Wait,” he said, got up, and went inside.
He came back with his guitar.
“What’s this?” Caroline asked.
He sat on the edge of the bed, assuming a pose of great seriousness. And then, eyes suddenly limpid, he gazed at Caroline and began to sing in a mock-soulful voice.
“She’s having my ba-by…”
Caroline grinned. “Oh, no…”
Scott seemed undeterred. In a parody of blissed-out rapture, he closed his eyes. His features in the pale light looked sculpted, fine.
“She’s having my ba-by.
What a lovely way to tell the world she loves me…”
Caroline burst out laughing.
With a look of wounded dignity, an artist misunderstood in his own time, Scott sang each heartfelt line.
“Could have swept it from her life but she wouldn’t do it…
She’s having my ba-by.”
The lyrics, Caroline thought, were preposterous, What silenced her was how good he was.
Only when he was finished did Scott open his eyes again.
His sudden gaze startled her. “My favorite song,” she told him. “It captures my whole worldview.”
Scott grinned, giving her a mock bow.
Caroline sat with her elbows resting on her knees, face cupped in her hands, looking at him. Quietly, she said, “You’re really good, you know?”
He tried to make a joke of it. “Just good enough to become a bad lounge act. ‘Scott Johnson, coming to a Holiday Inn near you.’”
He said it lightly, smiling. And then their eyes met, and they both no longer smiled. In that instant, Caroline sensed that he was more than lost or sad or sweet, felt that something in each of them called to the other, and that he felt it, too.
Caroline did not know what it was. She knew only that—in a fleeting, imperishable moment—something changed for her.
Scott put down the guitar. He stood, gazing at her, silent. There was only a few feet between them.
Walking toward him, Caroline saw nothing but his eyes, felt nothing but her own pulse.
His mouth was warm.
Where had she been? some part of Caroline wondered. Who had she been? Her arms went tight around him.
Slowly, gently, Scott pulled back, forehead resting against hers. Only then did she think of Jackson.
“Jesus,” Scott murmured.
So he felt it too. This strange pull, yet the instinct to resist.
Her voice was quiet. “I’d better go.”
She went to the door, hardly aware of her own movements. He did not try to stop her.
She turned in the doorway. Scott stood by the bed, gazing at her as if at something he could not have.
As though in consolation, Caroline said, “Tomorrow we’ll go sailing, okay?” And then, hearing herself, she softly added, “If you want to.”
He watched her, not moving. “I want to,” he said at last.
Six
They went sailing the next morning, and the two days after that.
It was different now. There was a new gentleness between them, an unspoken affinity, although, for Caroline, something about Scott remained elusive, just out of reach. At odd moments, she felt them try to read the other’s thoughts. But neither crossed their unspoken line. He never touched her.
He was always ready for her company. They hiked in the hills near Menemsha; went to hear Tom Rush sing and play guitar; swam in the freshwater pond at Long Point, the rough surf of the Atlantic a mere hundred feet away. Sometimes it seemed close to effortless; Scott knew the grace of silence, of letting Caroline think her own thoughts. His sarcasm now was sparing, turned solely on himself; he treated Caroline with respect, as if coming too close might harm them. The days fell gently, one upon the other, until time seemed not to matter. There was nothing to tell Jackson.
Perhaps, Caroline later thought, Scott knew more than she did. But for her—almost to the moment when it happened—the night that changed this seemed like any other.
The idea of eating lobster on the beach was hers.
Scott had smiled. “You mean like Faye Dunaway and Steve McQueen in The Thomas Crown Affair?”
Caroline shook her head. “Did you ever wonder how they got the lobster pot in his dune buggy? I’m talking take-out lobster. From the Homeport.”
Scott rolled his eyes. “Take-out lobster? Where’s your New England work ethic?”
“Dead and buried,” she answered firmly. “Come on.”
They drove to Edgartown for bread and a bottle of chilled wine. Caroline found bread; looking for Scott at the package store, she saw him eyeing the California Chardonnay with a certain practiced leisure, as if such a grave decision should not be rushed.
“Hard to choose?” Caroline said from behind him.
He turned to her, surprised. “Only when you don’t know wine,” he said, and seemed to pluck a bottle at random. “Let’s take a chance on t
his one.”
By some unspoken consensus, Caroline always drove now, taking her time. They reached Menemsha a little before eight.
The fishing village was quaint and quiet—the trawlers were in, the beach was almost deserted, and the sun was slipping beneath the distant line where ocean met a darkening sky. The gentle putt of an outboard motor echoed in the harbor.
All that was open was the Homeport restaurant. People wandered in and out of the wood-frame building, a few tourists on the deck watched the sunset over dinner. Caroline led Scott to the take-out window and ordered two lobster dinners. Patient, he waited with the wine and a woolen blanket tucked beneath his arm until their food was ready, and then they set out to find the right spot on the beach.
There was no hurry. The night felt close and warm; the moon, slowly replacing the sun, cast a first glow on the waves. Caroline felt the luxury of time.
They walked the beach until the lights of Menemsha were far behind, and they were alone.
Scott broke their silence. “I was looking at your catboat the other day. The dinghy’s sprung a leak—you should have it fixed pretty soon. And one of the ribs in the hull looks weak.”
Caroline smiled at this: among the bonds between them, she sometimes thought, was the proprietary interest he had taken in the catboat. “After I leave,” she asked, “would you look after my boat for me? I might decide to keep it here.”
Scott stopped, facing the water. “If I’m here,” he said at length. “But I don’t think I will be.”
Caroline turned to him, puzzled by her sadness. Perhaps it was the impermanence of things: as days went by, and the summer grew more precious to her, Scott and the Vineyard had come together in her mind. She could not quite imagine this place without him.
Together, they spread the blanket.
Caroline laid out the bread and the lobster; Scott took a corkscrew to the wine, filled two glasses, and handed one to Caroline. He seemed about to propose a toast, and then looked at her again.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Caroline made herself busy with the blanket. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said at last. “I think in some stupid way I imagined you still here when I came back. Like I’m entitled to arrange every corner of my world just the way I want it.”
“And populate it too?”
“I suppose.”
Scott studied her. “I guess that happens when things seem good. But they always change. It’s a little hard to imagine you, your husband, your kids, and me all going sailing together.” He smiled, as if to remove any sting. “For openers, you’ll need a bigger boat.”
Caroline smiled back. “How many kids do you think I want?”
Scott grinned. “Don’t know. Just more than I think I want.” He raised his glass. “To population control.”
Caroline touched her glass to his and sipped. The wine, she realized, was the best she had ever tasted.
She settled back on her elbows. “So what will you do?”
“I don’t have a clue—I just know I can’t stay here.” He gazed out at the water. “Maybe it’s the flip side of what you were saying. That when you go off next month, to begin your real life, the island will seem a little lonely.” He gave a dismissive shrug. “There are other places—I’m not that big on nostalgia.”
She turned to watch him. There was something very still about him, as if he were holding some moment in his mind. And then, with the sudden realization that she knew parts of him by instinct, came the certainty that he was lying to her but not to himself: that he carried pieces of the past within him, and that this summer would become one.
“Well,” she said, “we’ve got the time we’ve got. Which hasn’t been so bad.”
He turned to her, smiling. “Not bad at all. Unless the lobster’s cold.”
She spread out paper plates and drawn butter. The lobster shells were already cut; all they had to do was eat.
The night was calm, peaceful. The water lapped at their feet; a faint breeze carried the smell of sea and salt. Neither of them spoke, or needed to.
“Remember when you were a kid,” he said at last, “and camped out?”
Caroline smiled to herself. It was just right, she realized: the sense of being away from things and yet quite safe, with night closing around you. She knew that Scott required no answer.
All at once, Caroline’s senses opened.
She felt everything come together. Felt the breeze on her skin and hair. Saw the moon-streaked ripple on the water, the stars grow bright and close. Felt Scott lying next to her, as lost in the night as she was.
Time seemed to stop.
She did not know how long they lay there, not moving. She knew only what the night had become, and would not have been without him. Until, finally, she found a way to say this.
“Have you ever had a perfect day?”
Scott did not turn. “No,” he said at last. “But I’ve had a perfect hour. Now.”
Hesitant, Caroline reached to cover his hand with hers.
He turned to her then, looking into her face. Slowly, he reached out and touched her hair.
There was no mistaking what she saw in his eyes.
“Yes,” Caroline heard herself murmur.
He could not seem to move. And then, gently and firmly, Caroline kissed him.
She felt his lips against her face, her neck. Closing her eyes, she held him.
Now it was all feeling. His mouth, slow and unhurried. His lean, hard body against hers. The way his hands seemed to belong wherever they touched. The beating of her own heart.
He slid back from her, and then Caroline felt his fingers on the top button of her blouse.
She opened her eyes.
As he undid the first button, they gazed at each other.
She lay there, silent, as he did this. His eyes did not move until the blouse lay beside them.
Caroline wore no bra.
Gently, she took his head in her hands and cradled it between her breasts.
After a time she felt his mouth on her nipples, her stomach. Felt him unzip her jeans.
She arched her back, helping him.
When she was naked, she lay there uncovered, watching as he undressed. His body was slim, muscular.
He knelt, bowing his head. His mouth grazed her thighs, moving toward the center of her.
Caroline closed her eyes again.
Now it all felt new to her. His tongue. The feel of his body, different from Jackson’s, as she opened her legs for him. The wanting as he entered her. The urgency as she moved with him, this strange, blood-rushing need…
She could not stop now.
With the first tremor of her body, Caroline cried out his name. For there was no one to hear her but him.
She lay in his arms, weak and shaken, the warm feel of his own release inside her.
Neither spoke. It was as if their minds were absorbing what their bodies already knew.
What does this mean? Caroline wondered. Anything?
Or everything?
“Was this just another perfect hour?” she asked.
Silent, Scott pulled her close.
They could not stop.
Sometimes all it needed was for Caroline to look at him. They would go to the boathouse, hardly saying a word, and stand inches apart as they undressed. She spent each night with him.
Each time only fed his hunger for her.
It was as if, some part of Caroline thought, he wished so desperately to talk to her—about what, she was not sure—that he could bear his silence only by making love with her. Sometimes, at night, she would hear him pacing in the next room, so as not to awaken her. Her senses were alive with some unspoken thing.
But when she tried to say this, Scott merely smiled. “I just wish I were that interesting,” he said.
She could not bring herself to call Jackson—the thought of lying, or the truth, were both too painful. And the only truth she understood was that she had a lover who could make her f
eel what Jackson could not.
It wasn’t that she did not try to understand: the Caroline who wanted Scott so desperately was not some other person. But her accustomed world seemed far away. In this new world, Caroline was alone: not even Scott—especially not Scott—could help her. Even the world of Martha’s Vineyard was divided: quite deliberately, it seemed, Scott deflected any suggestion of spending time with Betty and Larry. His only interest was in Caroline herself.
Why did she want him, Caroline wondered, and what did she want from him?
That Betty and Larry said nothing only increased her isolation: their silence told her that the change in her, her nocturnal comings and goings, were so marked that it made them cautious and confused. Perhaps only her mother, Caroline told herself miserably, might have understood.
And yet with Scott—moment to moment—Caroline felt happy.
One morning, she awakened to find him still asleep, the smile of some pleasant dream playing on his mouth. She watched until he awoke.
“You were smiling,” she told him.
The waking Scott smiled again. “Was I? I must have been teaching you how to sail.”
She kissed his forehead. “No,” she said. “I was teaching you how to drive.”
Caroline was still smiling when she crossed the threshold of her father’s home.
On the kitchen table was a note in Betty’s coiled cursive.
Father called, it said. When you get the chance, please call him.
Seven
When Caroline called her father, his tone was careful, neutral; he asked about her sailing, her plans for the remaining weeks, what she had heard from Jackson. Only at the end did he mention that he was coming earlier than planned—the next day, to be precise.
When Caroline put down the phone, she went to find Betty.
She was sitting on the porch, drinking coffee. Glancing up at Caroline, she studied her expression and then said, “So he told you he’s coming early.”
Caroline stared at her. “What’s this about?”
Betty exhaled. “Caroline, we haven’t said a word to him. He’s called several times lately, asking to talk to you, and each time one of us covered for you. But Father’s not a fool.”
The Final Judgment Page 29