by Luanne Rice
“My, what a shock,” Margo said after a while.
“I can’t get used to it—Lily with a baby.”
“So much for her resumed career.”
“But you can’t be dependent with a baby, can you?”
“She’d better have a girl.”
Matt and Sam waited patiently while Margo and I tried to control our wonder. Lily was four months pregnant; she had known for three, but she and Henk had wanted to savor the secret. At first they had planned to tell us at Thanksgiving, but Lily had been too bowled over by Margo’s and my news to wait.
“And you’re half of the year’s best soap couple,” Sam said after a while.
“What a riot,” I said, feeling gleeful.
“What do you think Chance meant about going to Europe?” Margo asked.
“Oh, I’m sure he means army bases. He’s convinced that lots of our fans marry army guys or join the army themselves, go overseas, and lose interest in the show. Then, when they come back, we lose them to different shows. He’s always wanted to send some of the actors to army bases in Europe, just to keep our loyal viewers loyal.”
“October in Europe,” Matt said. “Not too shabby.”
“Not too,” I agreed.
While we ate our dinner, I kept sneaking glances at Sam. I focused on his blue shirt, ragged around the collar, a condition I attributed to the coarseness of his beard. His face, clean-shaven this afternoon, was now handsomely shadowed with dark bristles. I imagined the rough hairs tearing the shirt’s fibers. When he finished eating his lobster, he held up the carapace and explained how each part functioned. I watched his long finger trace the red shell and listened to the professorial tone of his voice. The pleasure of the conference call remained with me, and I sank back into my chair, relaxed, waiting for the time to pass. The black zone of shore had told me what I wanted to know.
After dinner Sam admitted the possibility for seduction by saying he would love to see the turret room. We climbed the ladder-stairs. Naked bulbs lit the narrow staircase; the stark, whitewashed walls enclosed us; the original doors were now cracked with age. Young guests would be tempted to slip notes through the cracks. The turret itself had no trappings of luxury. I opened the door, and Sam walked straight to the east windows. I had not yet turned on the lamp; the black vista stretched from shore to shore, broken only by lines of rollers. We heard them crashing onto the rocks below.
I gazed at Sam’s narrow back. The folds of his blue shirt fell loosely; only his shoulders stretched the material.
“So,” he said, turning toward me and smiling. He had a wide, easy grin. “All three of you Cavan girls have happy news tonight.”
“You might even say monumental—a marriage and a baby.”
“Don’t forget the award.”
“Hardly in the same class,” I said, smiling back.
Still grinning, he drew me toward him and kissed me. His lips tasted like lobster.
“You taste like lobster,” I said.
“I’m an oceanographer,” he said.
We kissed again, and I ran my hands along his arm muscles. He began stroking my ass. A September breeze blew through the open windows. The bed loomed just beyond the limit of my peripheral vision. Our tongues touched. By now I knew we would go to bed, but I wanted to prolong the tingling sense of not being sure.
But even as we kissed, the thought snuck up on me: sure of what? Sure we were soulmates, made-for-each-other, or simply horny? What of the resolution I had passed in Newport last summer? Never to have another casual involvement—did the fact that this was my vacation make a tiny fling acceptable? Exploring Sam’s arms with my fingertips, I found a tiny threadbare patch above one elbow. It seemed touching. It bore a message, like the black zone of shore. It said to me: I am vulnerable too. Suddenly passion surged and I leaned against Sam’s chest. I gave myself totally to the kiss.
I wanted to press against him and not do anything else, but he rolled me onto my back and started to unbutton my shirt. His big hands were no longer careless; he kept one around my back and tenderly undid the buttons with the other. Even in the dark his eyes were bright, with gold flecks, staring into me. We relaxed, smiling at each other. Then he looked down at my breasts. He passed one hand across them, back and forth, and then we started kissing again. A chilly breeze came through the window; it made me want to get under the covers.
“Excuse me for a minute,” I whispered after a while, trying to remember whether my diaphragm was in the bathroom or still in my duffel bag.
“Hurry right back,” he said.
“I will,” I promised.
I rushed into the hall, into the tiny white-tiled bathroom. My diaphragm was not there. I went back to the bedroom, found Sam standing where I had left him. We smiled; I shrugged with embarrassment as I hauled my duffel bag out from under the bed. Struggling with the zipper, I finally unearthed the round plastic case from beneath a pile of sweaters. Palming it and the tube of jelly, I hurried out of the room.
In the bathroom’s bright glare I inserted the diaphragm and regarded my naked self in the spotty old mirror. My nightshirt (which, like my beach shirt, was one of John Luddington’s castoff dress shirts) hung on the back of the door. I slipped it on. I rolled up the sleeves. Not sexy, I thought, and took it off. Buried somewhere in my makeup bag was a tiny sample bottle of Ivoire, and I considered dabbing it between my breasts. But I never wear perfume, and it would have made me feel more self-conscious than ardent. So I returned unadorned to the turret room.
Sam had removed his blue shirt and was sitting on the edge of the bed. Black hair covered his tan chest. He opened his arms, and we hugged as though I had been gone for an hour. Then I unbuckled his belt, but we didn’t take off his pants right away. We leaned back on the white bedspread, kissing for a long time, holding each other close.
Sam stood up and undid his zipper, letting his pants drop to the floor. He stepped out of them, and I saw his tall erection as he walked toward the bed where I was already burrowing under the cool sheet and blanket. We pressed against each other. We hugged and tried to fit our bodies to each other, getting warm. Then he touched me, to see if I was wet, and he kept touching me, pressing against me. He looked serious, no longer smiling. I let myself float. Tension tugged my shoulder blades, my belly, my knees, but I concentrated on letting it flow out. Lying on my back, I watched Sam above me, touching me with gentle hands, never taking his eyes away from mine. He ran his fingers all along my ribs and breasts. And I arched my body toward him, stroking him the way he stroked me. Gently and not gently. Around, around, and then I had to stop touching him because he found a perfect rhythm, and I rolled my face toward his shoulder and kissed it while he moved me into crashing lines of waves. Then I looked up at his face, which was smiling again. He slid on top of me and we were zooming together, he wouldn’t let me worry about him; suddenly I was unconcerned about time.
We fell asleep embracing.
When I wakened, the morning air was cold and we were in the midst of another Karsky sunrise. I cuddled closer to Sam and realized that we were covered with an extra blanket. Deep in the night he had wakened, gone away from me, and covered us. I hadn’t even noticed. I tried to stay awake, but the bed’s warmth lulled me back to sleep.
“Did you sleep well?” Sam asked me, sounding polite and tentative when we wakened for good later that morning. Then he hugged me, proving that the tentativeness had been my own illusion. I traced swirly patterns on his skin. I wrote my name, then drew a pine tree. I waited to feel disconnected, the way I usually did in a romance’s early stages, but the feeling never hit. He brought his face close to mine and said, “Let’s not get up today.”
Of course we did get up, but not until we heard voices on the porch below, heralding the lunch hour. I realized that, for the first time, Margo had not delivered coffee to me in bed. Wise sister! How had she known? Sam and I dressed in bathing suits and walked down to the beach. Neither of us was hungry for lunch. We dove straight
into the water.
Una, I told myself, swimming alongside Sam, this is love. Then: no, this is crazy. Maybe Sam is just a prop. Then Sam proved I was crazy, that he was no prop, by stopping short in the water, treading water as he kissed me with his salty lips. We sank below the surface. Our legs fluttered, and water went up my nose; I came up choking. Then I laughed, but I couldn’t help the salt tears that streamed from my eyes.
On the beach we lay on our backs and talked to each other, facing the sky. The cirrus clouds had moved closer; they washed across the sun, leaving us cold and shaded for short interludes. Then the sun would break through.
“You know, sea turtles are dying out in these waters,” he said.
“Why?”
“Because they live on a diet of jellyfish, and they keep eating plastic bags thrown overboard by sailors. They think it’s their dinner.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yeah, it’s really bad.”
Gulls and terns yelped overhead. Sam said, “If you ever come across tern eggs on the beach, you’d better take off. Tern parents are wildly protective about their brood—they attack anything, even humans.”
What a riot, I thought tenderly. My own private professor. “What else?” I asked.
Sliding closer to me, he rolled onto his side and kissed my right eyebrow. “You swim like a dolphin. And dolphins are the most beautiful swimmers.”
Did he mean dolphins the mammals or dolphins the fish? Then I remembered my dream of the blue fish and realized the fish had been a dolphin, a blue-green tropical dolphin, the kind that would never be found in New England waters.
“Delilah?” a female voice asked.
Shading my eyes, I looked up. Two young women wearing terrycloth robes stood over me, their heads bent down for a closer look, to see if I really was Delilah. I nodded my head, and Sam struggled into a sitting position.
“We just watched your show!” one of them said. “Just fifteen minutes ago! They announced about your award. We both think you’re wonderful—you really deserve it. Don’t we, Callie?”
The other girl nodded. I smiled at them upside down. “Thank you,” I said. Sam leaned back on his elbows, taking the sun on his chest, watching me. I knew it, but I didn’t catch his eye.
“I’m glad you’re finally out of prison,” Callie said. “But you should watch it here—you’re getting really sunburned.”
They walked away, and I shot off my back. My arms and chest were a tender pink. “I can’t believe I forgot sunscreen,” I said.
Sam wrapped a towel around my shoulders, the essence of concern, but his expression was amused.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “I haven’t had a sunburn in more than three years.”
He was staring with earnest concentration at my face.
“What are you doing?” I asked, nearly breathless.
“Counting all your new freckles,” he said.
The sunburn didn’t amount to much. It stung a little, but Margo gave me some vinegar to rub on it. I lay face down on the bed while Sam massaged clear, biting vinegar into my skin. I began to smell like a marinade. “The clouds saved me,” I said dreamily.
“Actually, it’s possible to get a much worse sunburn through clouds,” he said.
“You know so many facts,” I said, with true admiration.
Waking up beside Sam in the turret room two days later, I listened to rain splash on the windows; it seemed to be coming from all directions. Sam was asleep, his wide mouth slightly open, his dark lashes resting on his cheek. I brushed his messy hair off his forehead, noticing for the first time the fine white scar above his left eye. It was tiny, delicate, and nearly invisible. I thought it must have happened when he was very young. I pressed close to him, making our curves fit together. My skin felt stiff from the sunburn. We had touched all night. Once I had wakened, after a dream, and discovered space between us. But then, as if he were awake also (which he was not), or could dream right into my mind, he rolled against me.
By then Margo had started delivering coffee to both of us in the turret room. We were awake, already dressed, scanning the horizon for whale spouts, when she arrived that morning. She called through the door, “Chance Schutz is on the horn.” Then she entered to give Sam his coffee while I flew through the door and down the suicide stairs.
“Una dear. I apologize for the intrusion on your holiday,” came Chance’s brisk voice through the telephone wire.
“Please—you’re not intruding. How are you? How’s Billy?”
“Marvelous. We’re marvelous. First of all, congratulations on your award. It is quite a coup. For you personally and for the show. We are all proud.”
“Thank you.” I was beaming. I was accepting my Emmy.(…And I would like to thank everyone who made this possible…)
“Secondly, and I hesitate to ask this: would you be willing to cut short your time away? We could make it up to you later, of course, but we’re thinking of a European tour. Of the American army bases. Two weeks or so of different cities; strike while the iron’s hot, we thought.” He paused. “Also, it happens that Emile Balfour is at home in Paris this month and would be willing to see you next week. Would that be convenient?”
I loved the way Chance used euphemisms like “convenient,” knowing full well that I would slit my throat to read for Emile Balfour in Paris. “Of course,” I said, burbling, a brook flowing through a lush green meadow. “Of course it’s convenient.”
“Now, you understand, I’ve recommended you to Emile with the stipulation that if you get a part, you will return to Beyond the Bridge, bringing with you new glory.” His tone was half serious; no one who made a big hit in movies returned full-time to soap operas. But I went along with him.
“Of course. Beyond is my spiritual home.”
“Now, this little hiatus won’t interrupt anything important, will it? You can resume your vacation later?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, but the thought of Sam took my breath away. Leave Sam? Right now, just as things are getting perfect? My acceptance speech died in midair.
“My secretary will make arrangements for the trip. When will you return to New York?”
“When?” I repeated dully. The fact of my imminent departure from Watch Hill brought me up short against the truth. Only I didn’t know what the truth was. Had I fallen in love with Sam Chamberlain? That was a simple question; why didn’t it lead to a simple answer?
“When will you return to New York?” Chance asked again. “To be truthful, we would like to see you as soon as possible. Would tomorrow be too soon?”
“No, that would be fine,” I said, thinking, Shit, tomorrow.
“Marvelous. The sooner you get to New York, the sooner you can go abroad.”
“Wonderful,” I replied without any conviction.
Before ascending to the turret, I sat alone on the porch for a while. A few guests sat in the lobby reading the Providence Journal and drinking coffee. I rocked myself back and forth on the metal glider and watched the gray rollers, full of churned-up sand and seaweed—Chondrus crispus, probably—smashing on the beach. Storms brought all kinds of debris up from the bottom; walking along my parents’ beach after storms, I’ve found quarters, shark’s teeth, children’s sand toys, rubber soles off sneakers, bleached fish bones, battered lobster pots, rusty teakettles. Everything you can imagine. Margo once found a brand-new playpen, with shiny pale wood slats and bright plastic rattles strung across one side on a metal bar. She ran up to the house to tell us all about it, and the same thought clouded all our faces: what had happened to the baby inside? Lily called the Coast Guard to find out if any babies had fallen overboard, or if any yachts with young families had gone down in the Sound, and they said no. But all that spring we stepped carefully along the high-tide line, watching fearfully for small remains.
Rain splashed into the porch, but it felt good. I heard someone sneaking up from behind. “Boo,” Matt said, kissing the top of my head. “Big doings in New York?”<
br />
“Yes. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Oh, boy. Margo will kill you. She had big plans for a birthday party.”
“Oh, well.”
“She’s loved having you here. So have I. Ever since we met she’s been telling me stories about you Cavan girls. How great you and Lily are. How she and Lily used to watch after you.”
“They did,” I said. “Isn’t that weird? I’m the oldest sister, and they took care of me.”
“I think you looked after each other.”
“Hmmm,” I said, thinking how nice it was that I was having a good talk with Matt on the porch while Margo was having a good talk with Sam upstairs. She was probably drinking coffee out of my cup. From the porch, I could see squalls blowing in from Block Island. Rain poured from the low, brownish clouds to the sea’s surface, and the clouds traveled fast. Lightning slashed out of some of them.
“Tonight we’ll have an unbelievable farewell dinner,” Matt was saying. “Anything you like. What’s your favorite food?”
“My favorite?” I thought about it. My favorite food varied from place to place. In restaurants in New York it was veal, lightly sautéed, with lemon and butter. At my apartment when I was too tired to cook it was take-out Chinese from a small place that did a fantastically hot Capital Chicken with Watercress. At my mother’s house it was Connecticut River shad, the first of the spring, with asparagus and new potatoes. Anywhere else at the shore it was very fresh sole, caught that same day.
“Filet of sole,” I told Matt.
“Filet of sole it shall be,” he said. “And now you’d better head upstairs and prepare to break two hearts.”
“Two?” I asked, wanting him to spell out what he was getting at.
“Your sister’s and Sam’s. Yes, Sam’s,” he said, noting my skeptical expression. I am not an actress for nothing; I know how to use facial expression to coax explanations that might otherwise not be forthcoming. “Sam’s crazy about you.”
“How do you know?”
“The same way I know you’re crazy about him. You can’t take your eyes off each other. You’re together twenty-four hours a day.”