“Right-o,” said Gem’s friend. “Four bells, got it? I’ve got to rattle the bushes for some extra lures.” He took Gem’s arm and escorted her out into the night.
Vincent flopped down on the double bed and sighed.
“Horizontal at last,” he said. “What does ‘rattle the bushes’ mean, I wonder? What does ‘ginormous’ mean? He said the striped bass were ginormous.”
“It obviously means big,” said Misty.
“I feel like a fish,” said Vincent. “I feel like a big, ginormous fish too exhausted to move a flipper. I am now going to rattle this pillow and go to sleep.” He threw off his clothes and got into bed, rolling the blankets up under his chin.
“It’s cold in here,” he said. “Would you please hop in here immediately? A person could freeze waiting for his wife to keep him warm.”
The next morning, Misty was up when the light woke her. It was seven o’clock. The sky was a bright gray and the water was dark blue. Under the covers, Vincent smiled as he slept. He claimed to have a recurrent dream about a computer—a very complicated dream full of jokes. He found sleep very entertaining for this reason. Misty had often heard him chuckling in the morning, but when he got up, he could never remember any of the particulars.
Misty wrapped herself in her coat and walked down to the water. The beach curved, like a cup. The tide was low. She walked with her hands in her pockets, thinking about Vincent.
The big surprise that marriage to Vincent had sprung on her was contentment. She had moments of desolation and moments of great joy, but underneath was some steady current of feeling. Misty’s propensity toward pessimism and Vincent’s toward optimism really did complement. Vincent was no less cheerful, and Misty was only slightly less judgmental, but they seemed to have formed a third person who smoothed out their edges and made life together possible and profitable. Misty excepted Vincent from the rest of human kind. He had his faults, but he was genuinely kind and true. He played fair and was generous. The difference between them was that Vincent really did believe that things worked out for the best and Misty did not. In Misty’s world, the happy, comfortable, intelligent wife is left by a good, well-intentioned dummy who goes off with a woman whose childhood was ended by a dead horse.
On the far side of the beach, a speck of red appeared. It drew closer. It was Gem’s companion dressed in bright red foul weather gear.
“What ho!” he shouted.
Misty was not certain how this greeting was properly answered. She said good morning. They began to walk together.
“What’s your name, anyway?” she said.
“John,” said the man.
“Gem doesn’t call you that,” said Misty.
“Gem likes to call a person by all his names. My name is John Raymond Deering Perkins.”
“That certainly explains it,” said Misty.
“Gem doesn’t introduce,” said John Perkins. “Ripping day, what?”
“What?”
“Bloody gorgeous out, no?”
“Yes,” said Misty.
“Say what?” said John Perkins. “Are you married to that one or the other one?”
“The other one,” said Misty.
“Difficult to know. Gem doesn’t introduce.”
“Have you known Gem a long time?”
“No, I haven’t actually. Knew her husband, Clifford van Allen. Ingenious fellow that. Raced cars and horses. Does international finance now, whatever that means anymore.”
Misty detected a slight drawl in his voice.
“Where are you from?” she asked.
“Eastern Shore,” he said. “Maryland, what. Have you had breakfast? Let’s go to the inn for a jolt of java.”
He took her arm and led her up the steps to the inn. Misty cursed the day that she had stopped carrying a pencil and paper. She wanted to keep him talking but was not sure how to do it. It turned out he didn’t need much prompting.
“Ghastly road that Harbor highway,” he said. “Wizard prangs all over the place. Ices in winter, fogs in summer. Still, fabulous fishing out in the rip. Ginormous stripers. Come sit down.”
They sat at a little table and Misty ordered coffee.
“What, no breakfast?” he said. “Why, you’ve got to grease the gullet.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Most sensible thing, probably. Nasty habit, breakfast. Can’t function on an empty stomach.”
While he waited for his eggs, he began to discuss Gem’s ex-husband, Clifford van Allen.
“After the bust-up, poor Cliff just lay doggo,” he said. Misty kept perfectly still. As he spoke, her lips almost moved, memorizing. Even the most metaphysical linguist perks up as a new language is invented.
“Just lay doggo,” he continued. “Terrible thing, a man so bruised. Used to soak, you know, but he got over that. Then he ran around. Then he pulled himself up.” He leaned across the table as if concluding a shady business dealing. “You women. Stronger than us. Hardier. Take the cold better. Run the marathon better. Live longer. Stand stress better.”
He ate his eggs in three large gulps.
“You shouldn’t bolt your food,” said Misty.
“Do bolt. Always have. Awful for you, but there you are. Right-o. Must jump. Got to wake Gem and get this dog-and-pony show together. See you at the docks. Cheery-bye.”
Misty dashed off down the beach. This meeting had lifted her spirits in spite of herself. She ran back to the inn, where she found Vincent wrapped in a blanket, half awake.
“Where were you?” he said. “I woke up in this strange room and you weren’t here. I thought my whole life was a dream and that I had never met you. Get over here.”
He covered her with blankets and kissed her.
“You’ve been drinking coffee,” he said. “Where did you get coffee? Where’s mine?”
“I had coffee with Gem’s friend.”
“Oh, yeah? While I was asleep?”
“Vincent, he speaks a different language.”
“He looks too dumb to speak any language.”
“Well, he does. He says ‘wizard prang,’ ‘cheery-bye,’ ‘lay doggo,’ and ‘bloody gorgeous.’ I’ve got to write this all down.”
“Does this mean I have to listen to this lingo all afternoon?”
“I hope so,” said Misty. “You have to listen close and tonight we compare notes.”
“Well, cheery-bye,” said Vincent. “I’m going to take a shower.” He wrapped a towel around his middle and walked off to the bathroom.
The boat held five with a skipper. Someone, it was clear, would have to stay behind.
“I’ll stay,” said Misty. She felt tears in the back of her eyes, tears of pure self-pity. Wasn’t it right that she should stay back and let that happy, homogeneous party float off without her?
“I’ll stay with Misty,” said Vincent.
“I’ll stay,” said Guido. “I don’t like jigging. I’m a fly-casting man.”
“No,” said Holly. “I’ll stay. I hate fishing. If Misty hates fishing too, we’ll stay together.”
They stood together on the dock and watched the boat pull out.
“Let’s go have breakfast,” said Holly. “Then we’ll have to go into town. Our room has cooking facilities and I thought if the boys get lucky we’d have a feast.”
They walked down the beach toward the inn.
“Is something wrong with you and Vincent?” Holly asked.
Misty had always kept up an elegant defense around Holly. It was necessary that they get along, but not necessary that they be friends. The fondness between them was based on acceptance, Misty felt. Holly had never asked her such a question before.
“I realize that we’ve never had a really personal conversation,” said Holly. “It’s just that you looked so stricken at dinner the other night and were so silent in the car and at dinner last night. That isn’t like you.”
Misty wrapped her coat more firmly around her. There was a lump in her throat.
Holly slipped her arm through Misty’s. This gesture undid Misty entirely. She stopped walking and began to cry.
“Gracious,” said Holly. “You are upset. Sit right down.”
They sat down on the cold sand. Holly put her arm around Misty, who continued to weep. Then, abruptly, she stopped.
“I’m all right now,” she said.
“You certainly are not all right,” said Holly. “What on earth is going on?”
“Nothing,” said Misty. “Nothing except self-pity. Just a little spate of it.”
They sat on the sand in silence watching the gulls. Then Holly spoke.
“I know something’s wrong and I’m sorry you won’t talk to me. I’ve often wished you would talk to me. I always feel you like me out of accommodation to Guido and Vincent’s friendship, but that if you had to pick, you wouldn’t in fact like me one bit.”
“That’s not true,” said Misty.
“I think it is,” said Holly. “For example, the other night at dinner I was in a panic. I was so embarrassed listening to that idiotic cousin of mine go on and on and on. I said to myself: ‘Lucky Misty. She has that adorable, smart cousin Stanley. I have a cousin who reflects badly on me.’ I thought to myself: ‘Well, if Misty ever thought I was useless, she’s sure of it now if that’s what I’m related to.’”
Misty was startled. She had never heard Holly talk in this way. It rather alarmed her. She was used to the smooth, cool, unflappable Holly.
“And now,” Holly continued, “there’s clearly something wrong and not a thing I can do to help.”
“If I tell you what it is, you’ll laugh at me,” said Misty.
“Try me,” said Holly.
“I was jealous of Gem,” said Misty. “Violently jealous. I took one look at her and knew that she was all those girls Vincent ever fell in love with in one package. Sometimes I think Vincent married me only because he thought it would be good for him—that if he wanted to grow up, I was the sort of person he would marry, whereas left to his own devices, someone like Gem would have been his natural choice.”
“Isn’t this extraordinary?” said Holly. “The things you find out about people you think you know. Jealous of Gem! Dear God, Gem is a smudge on a picture frame. Gem is a public annoyance. Look at the sort of people she runs around with. That John Perkins who speaks British Nautical World War Two slang. Gem isn’t worth the leather on her boots. Gem! Gem isn’t fit to kiss the hem of your blue jeans.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Misty. “Well, there you are. You think I don’t like you and I’m jealous of the cousin you think isn’t fit to kiss my hem.”
“And you think that Gem is out there flirting with Vincent?” said Holly.
“Yes.”
“And you think Vincent will flirt back?”
“Vincent always flirts. He flirts with Juliana.”
“As long as we’re talking about this,” said Holly, “I’ll tell you what I thought the first night I met you. You came to dinner, remember? I was frightened to death of you. This is a girl who can give Vincent a real run for it, I said. I was amazed that he was lucky enough and smart enough to fall in love with you. A few days later I had lunch with him. He probably never told you. Men don’t have much emotional memory for that sort of thing. I know he wanted to know what I thought but he was too embarrassed to ask. So I told him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that if he didn’t marry you fast he’d be making the mistake of his life. I told him he ought to land you quick before you got away. I said: ‘Do you suppose Misty will ever approve of me?’”
“Approve of you?”
“I don’t work,” said Holly. “I’m lazy. I don’t do anything very important. I don’t even know how intelligent I am. I just live day to day enjoying myself.”
“This makes me feel awful,” said Misty. “I was so grateful to you for my wedding breakfast I hardly knew what to say. I’m so mushy that to restrain myself, I never say anything. I’m pigheaded. I never give anyone a chance.”
“Now, now,” said Holly. “None of this self-criticism. I’m fairly impenetrable after all. At least, that’s what Guido tells me. I’m sure it makes a lot of sense that we’re the girls they married. They like coolness on the surface. There’s nothing like a little propriety to keep people shaking hands is what I say. I’m awfully glad we aren’t on that boat. Are you feeling better?”
“Much,” said Misty. “Much better. Thank you.”
“After I call home to check in on Juliana, let’s go into town, have breakfast, and go shopping,” said Holly. “Then we can spend a few hours gossiping, or don’t you approve?”
“I don’t call it gossip,” said Misty. “I call it ‘emotional speculation.’”
They locked arms and walked down the beach toward the inn.
The boat came back in the early afternoon. Vincent was windblown and ruddy. John Perkins and Gem looked a little green. Guido was carrying a large striped bass.
“Vincent and I caught it,” said Guido. “What a struggle. This thing must weigh twelve pounds.”
“We’ve got to go,” said Gem. “Take me away, Deering. We’re going to a dinner party tonight at the Maynards’.”
“Right-o,” said John Perkins. He and Gem got into his little red sports car and drove away.
“What a relief,” said Vincent. “Not only are they boring, but for a pair of seasoned sailors, they both looked sick and complained all day. Deering or whatever his name is says trawling always makes him dizzy.” He took a notebook from his pocket. “See, I do exactly as I’m told. He said ‘bloody good show, old man’ three times. He said ‘heave to, old egg.’ He said ‘rudder up, my girl.’ Let’s see, I can’t read this. ‘Merry hell. Jolly decent. Damned white.’ Is that good enough?”
“How awful for you two,” said Holly. “Now go clean the fish and then we’ll meet in our room for dinner.”
Vincent and Misty had a conversation in the shower.
“I was jealous of Gem,” said Misty as she soaped Vincent’s back.
“I know you were,” said Vincent. “I’m glad.”
“Glad?”
“I’m always jealous,” said Vincent. “I’m always afraid the Talmudic scholar of your dreams is coming to claim you with his fifteen degrees from French universities.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, it’s true,” said Vincent. “So now you’re jealous, although you might have done me the courtesy of picking someone a little more worthy to be jealous of.”
“Holly said you would be glad.”
“Did you and Holly spend the day talking about us?”
“Yes,” said Misty. “It was wonderful.”
“This sounds dangerous,” said Vincent. “But about your being jealous. How jealous were you?”
“Very.”
“Excellent,” said Vincent. “Well, I forgive you. Now you can kiss me and tell me how wonderful I am and how awful you would feel without me.”
They kissed under the spray, their soapy arms locked. Misty told Vincent how wonderful he was.
Holly had brought to Salt Harbor a wicker basket filled with four plates, four wineglasses, four place settings of good silver, and linen napkins. The Scott’s Fisherman’s Inn rented rooms with kitchens for those inclined to eat their catch. In town, Holly and Misty had bought lettuce, potatoes, and a Lady Baltimore cake.
Holly had not forgotten her homemade salad dressing. She had also brought four wooden candlesticks and four beeswax candles as well as a bottle of champagne.
“Perfect,” said Holly.
The sea air had given them huge appetites. They polished off dinner, but when the champagne ran out they were suddenly sad.
“Never fear,” said Vincent. “There’s another bottle. It’s in our room. I’ll get it.” He dashed off and then reappeared with the bottle under his arm.
“I don’t remember why I bought it,” said Vincent. “Did you tell me to, Misty? You didn’t? Holl
y? Oh, well. Open this thing, Guido. I can’t do it without a ginormous explosion.”
“Well, here we all are,” said Guido as he popped the cork. “Except for Juliana. We always end up sitting around a table drinking champagne.”
“I think it’s very appropriate,” said Vincent.
“What are we going to drink to?” said Holly. “We always end up doing that too.”
“To friendship,” said Vincent.
They drank to that.
“Now what?” said Guido. “We have to drink to something else.”
“Okay,” said Misty. “Let’s drink to a truly wonderful life.”
They raised their glasses and, by the light of the candles, they drank to a truly wonderful life.
A Biography of Laurie Colwin
Laurie Colwin (1944–1992) was an American novelist and short story author, most famous for her writings on cooking and upper-middle-class urban life.
Colwin was born on June 14 in Manhattan, New York, to Estelle and Peter Colwin. She spent her childhood in Lake Ronkonkoma, Long Island; Philadelphia; and Chicago. During her time in Philadelphia she attended Cheltenham High School and was inducted into its hall of fame in 1999. After graduation she continued her education at Bard College, the New School, and Columbia University.
In 1965 Colwin began her career working for Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, a literary agency in New York City. From there she went on to work at several leading book publishers, holding editorial positions at Viking Press, Pantheon Books, G.P. Putnam’s Sons, and E. P. Dutton. Most notably during this time, Colwin worked closely with Isaac Bashevis Singer, winner of the 1978 Nobel Prize in Literature, editing and translating his works.
An aspiring writer all her life, Colwin sold her first short story to the New Yorker in 1969 at the age of twenty-five—an auspicious start. Over the course of the next few years, her work appeared in Harper’s Magazine, Allure, Redbook, Mademoiselle, and Playboy. Many of these early stories were included in a collection, Passion and Affect, which was published in 1974.
Food and the act of cooking played an influential role in Colwin’s life from early on. During the Columbia University campus uprisings of 1968, she famously cooked for student protestors occupying various buildings. “Someone put a piece of adhesive on the sleeve of my sweatshirt that read: KITCHEN/COLWIN,” she wrote in Home Cooking, published in 1988. “This, I feel, marked me for life.”
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