Why couldn’t the electric sander have died at six, when he might have found a store open? He switched arms to get at a spot from the other direction.
It was like a sick kid. Jilly never got a fever on a Wednesday. It was always Saturday around midnight, which meant he had to dig out Nancy’s old Merck Manual and flip through the pages to figure out if Jilly were about to die of meningitis before morning or merely had strep throat. And while he was checking, he had to run a cool bath and get her to lie in it until her 105-degree fever dropped. She hated those baths and he hated making her take them, because that whimper of hers could turn him desperate. Once he got her past the bath, he had to stay up with her to make sure the temperature didn’t spike again. The next day he had to decide if she were getting better or if he ought to take her to the emergency room, which, if she were getting better, would expose her to a thousand other illnesses and make her really sick. That would get them to Monday, when, if the doctor could squeeze them in, would bring them to the place where she no longer had a temperature and was actually almost well.
He was glad Jilly hadn’t gotten sick since they’d moved onto the Nancy Grace. He could have filled the dinghy to bathe her, but that was as close to a tub as they were going to get.
The only difference between a sick kid and a broken-down tool was that the tool didn’t usually fix itself when the store opened.
The sheet of sandpaper disintegrated under his palm. He tore off another, fit it around the wood block he’d made, and started rubbing again. This was 100-grit paper. Next he’d go to 120, then 180.
He slid his hand over the surface. Still knobby. He wanted it smooth and ready to paint by tomorrow evening, obviously an impossibility. He couldn’t believe how much there was yet to do before he could get out of here and collect his daughter.
He was tired and it was late. He gazed out over the almost-dark yard. The mosquitoes would be out soon, and so would those nearly invisible, gnat-like stinging insects the locals called no-see-ums.
No-see-ums typified parts of the Beaufort/Morehead area that frustrated the daylights out of him. He also hated that everything took too long to get here after you ordered it. He got the same excuse every time: “There’s a shortage on account of the hurricane.”
Everything was on account of the hurricane.
He was still here on account of the hurricane.
He couldn’t go into Beaufort on account of what happened after the hurricane.
Perhaps he should quit for the day and go read a book or listen to music. He hoped Jilly was happy with her aunt. She should be. Liz was probably taking her all over the place. Maybe they’d even gone boating in Dan’s runabout. Dan loved to fish. Maybe he was teaching Jilly.
Will couldn’t imagine Jilly sitting still long enough for a fish to bite. Still, who knew?
He couldn’t get the picture of Jilly’s sad little face out of his mind. Maybe he should have let her go see Tadie, just to say good-bye. It probably wouldn’t have hurt.
But he hadn’t been able to bear the thought of his daughter latching onto Tadie again, expecting things that couldn’t be. And Tadie? What had she expected?
He picked up his tools and carried them inside, where he polished off the last of the iced tea. It was quiet in the boatyard and would probably stay that way unless the yard dog barked or some nocturnal animal came scuffing along. The night watchman walked the yard a couple of times, but didn’t make much noise.
Grabbing the hose, he washed off some of the sweat he’d accumulated in the last few hours. He’d already walked down to the toilets, so now he could make do with the portable potty he’d installed in the forward head. He hated not being able to use the boat’s plumbing, but there wasn’t any place to pump out the holding tank on land. If nothing else, his sanitation needs made him long to get the Nancy Grace back in the water.
He’d replaced the rigging and repaired the holes in the deck. He still had to get the new stanchions and lifelines installed, the deck and hull faired and painted. The insurance money would have paid for others to do the work, and he planned to hire professionals to repaint the topsides, but for the rest, he was doing things the way he wanted them done. The cash he didn’t spend on supplies and painters was going into the bank to increase his reserves. Other than missing Jilly, he didn’t begrudge the time it took to do things right. Not much anyway.
He inserted mosquito netting in the companionway before heading to his bunk. The night was so hot he wasn’t sure his little 12-volt fan would do any good, but it was all he had.
Its whirring should have soothed him. The new stanchions had arrived today. He’d finished the basic epoxy work. There’d be holes to fill once he finished the sanding, and then he’d have to sand again, fill again, sand again until it was smooth and ready for paint. But he’d made progress. He ought to be content.
He kicked off the top sheet and turned on his other side. He could see stars through the hatch screen, but no moon. A black, cloudless night. Breathless.
He turned again when his sweat trickled over his chest. Maybe the fan would cool the damp areas.
It did, barely.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, though he must have, because the next thing he realized on a conscious level was crying out. He bolted upright, his breathing erratic and his mind a confused jumble.
What had that been about?
As his breathing calmed, he groaned and sank back against his pillow, his eyes wide and his senses still reeling. He’d had the dream again. It was the sort he’d often had in the aftermath of Nancy’s death. She would come to him and lie with him, and he’d almost be able to feel her warm breath on his cheek, feel her lips joining his. For those first few minutes after waking, he’d be able to feel her in his arms, her fragrance so real he’d shudder with the memory. Then loneliness would sock him with such an intensity that he’d want to scream.
It had been too long since he’d last held Nancy in his dreams. And then, this one had lured his sleeping brain into joy. How? How could he have responded as he used to with Nancy? This time, it had been all wrong. This time, Tadie’s long fingers had caressed his face. Tadie’s lips had touched his. This time, he’d whispered Tadie’s name.
He slammed his fist onto the mattress. What was she, a temptress? Out to steal his peace as well as his daughter’s?
He’d seen it at her house. He’d known.
But he hadn’t known she’d climbed the barriers, crept in, and could now seduce him in his dreams.
There was no way he was going to close his eyes again that night.
The next day, he worked even more feverishly. If he were realistic, he knew it would probably take another three to four weeks to put everything back together the way he wanted it. But he was going to do everything in his power to keep it from taking longer than that. Too bad he couldn’t control the weather or breakages.
Or his dreams.
As he picked up the new sander, the disgust he’d felt last night churned again until he thought he’d hurl. He must really be losing it.
He hoped the rapidly-approaching fall meant he could expect a few more cool days. They’d had a week of rain and then a few days of cool before it had turned hot again. Rain was forecast for Saturday, which meant he’d be delayed yet again.
His hands were deep in epoxy when the phone rang. Stripping off one glove, he inserted the earplug and answered. “Hey, punkin. How’re you doing?”
“I miss you, Daddy,” Jilly said. “Will you come soon?”
“I’m trying.” Since the thickened epoxy would soon set up, he slipped the glove back on and spread on a layer to fill in the dips he’d exposed with the last sanding.
“I know. But could you please try harder? I need you.”
And he needed her. “I’m working as fast as I can, baby.”
If only things were different. But he was wishing for the impossible.
Chapter Twenty-six
Tadie’s feet barely touched the sidewalk.
Her arms swung at her sides and her hair caught the wind. The autumn sun was cooler at this latitude than back home, and she reveled in the sounds wafting off the Hudson River of a churning tug and cawing gulls. Multicolored trees along the waterfront path rustled impatiently, as anxious as the people scurrying beneath them, so different from the soft soughing of North Carolina pines and the slower pace of hometown folk.
Everything hurried here. She tried not to get caught up in the bustle, except when she walked for exercise. The rest of the time, Tadie worked at slowing her pace and her heart rate as she moved through the days.
There was so much to see. So much color. She marveled at the variations in skin and hair and language. The cooler air brought out the sweaters and jackets: baggy, form-fitting, long, short, sleeveless, or draped over the fingertips. Piercings and tattoos in every shape and color imaginable, on a variety of body parts, stood next to her on the subway and in the park.
She left her cell phone at the apartment when going out and returned calls when she felt like it. She’d chatted four times with Isa, more often with Hannah, although what used to be once a day had dwindled to once, sometimes twice a week. Her mail arrived several days after the Beaufort Post Office received it. She’d stare at it, and then, when the mood struck her, she’d plop onto either the apartment’s big chair or the couch to read it. Most of her bills were paid online, so nothing was urgent. Rita stacked the sailing magazines at the house.
Tadie walked and walked and walked, hopping on the subway only when a destination proved too far or the rain too blighting. Taxis got her where the subway couldn’t. There were hours spent at the Met, the Museum of Modern Art, the Guggenheim, and the Whitney. When she found galleries with jewelry collections, she haunted them.
Sometimes she cooked. More often, she ate out, experimenting with Thai, Cuban, Afghan, and Moroccan cuisine. She’d begun dining fashionably late. It gave her something to do, somewhere to be instead of alone, wondering if the phone would ring and whether or not she would answer it.
When she saw a sail raised on the Hudson, she pined for Luna and whispered that she’d come back soon, after seeing a little more. When she’d convinced herself that her lonely life wasn’t one of default because she lived in a small Southern town.
Perhaps alone was her lot.
There were offers of one sort or another all the time, but none that tempted her. A man eating alone near a woman eating alone seemed compelled to offer the other side of his table. She’d smile and shake her head and concentrate on the food in front of her.
One evening, a handsome man approached her, his hair curling over his forehead in a carefree manner. She had just ordered a dish of linguine con vongole in a nearby Italian restaurant that had become one of her favorite eateries.
“Please, signorina,” he said, “often I have seen you dining here. Alone, as I am. Would you do me the honor of joining me this evening? Allow me to share a meal with you?”
His accent slipped in under her guard. His hair was smattered with grey. It made him seem at once distinguished and safe. She shrugged and agreed. He beckoned the waiter and asked that she be seated with him. The waiter bowed and obliged.
She loved the curl … and his eyes, a deep brown that bordered on black, as if there were no pupil, only depth. His name was Massimo Giardini, and he’d come here from la bella Roma.
“Do you know it?” he asked, and when she shook her head, he said, “Perhaps someday. My home, it is beautiful, high on a hill, overlooking vineyards and not far from the sea.”
The picture he painted and the way his accent filled out the words enticed her. When he spoke of his children, she recalculated. He must be divorced.
“I am here on business often. And you? What is a lovely woman of such obvious quality doing alone in such a city?”
“I longed for adventure,” was all she’d tell him, although she described Beaufort and mentioned her boat and her shop. He listened raptly, making her feel as though each of her meager words held value.
Perhaps the glass of wine had gone to her head. Or perhaps his smooth words intoxicated. She felt heat in her cheeks—and wondered.
When the meal ended, he asked to accompany her to her flat. “Merely to assure myself that you are safe.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’m not afraid.”
“Of course you are not. But it would be my honor.”
At her door, he bowed over her hand. “May I again escort you to dinner? Perhaps tomorrow evening after I have finished my appointments?”
Tadie felt the rush of heat in her cheeks again and longed to fan them. “I would like that.”
The next day, the sky seemed a little brighter as she stepped out for her daily walk. At five-thirty, she showered and chose her clothes. The air had begun to cool in the evenings, and a light sweater seemed appropriate over her red dress. Wouldn’t red be fun?
She felt giddy, like a teenager on her first date. Massimo didn’t arrive until ten after seven, just late enough that she’d begun to fidget. A last pat of her hair, and she opened the door.
“Che bella,” he said, kissing her fingertips. “So beautiful.”
She wanted to say, “You too.” His blue suit and tie were elegant, his shoes a glossy black. But his chiseled bones and the cleft in his chin were what had her thinking movie-star gorgeous.
He took her to a French restaurant. She didn’t tell him she found most French food overrated and over-buttered. His stories of traveling the world entranced her. If she’d come to New York to experience a different life, this was it, but in spite of all the flirting and the dancing eyes, she couldn’t help a moment or two of skepticism.
What did such a man want with her? He was obviously wealthy and could have his pick of interesting and exciting women. His children were nearly grown, and yet they lived in his villa with their mother. Very cosmopolitan of him, this relationship. Had he actually said he was divorced?
“Shall we finish at a club I know? It is just down the street.”
She’d never visited a New York club. “Why not?”
As he helped her from her seat and ushered her into the street, Tadie tucked away her excitement. She could get used to being treated like a desirable woman. It was heady stuff.
She tried to ignore the noise of too many people and too little soundproofing.
“A cognac? It is good for the digestion.”
“I think not, but you go ahead. I’ll just have water.”
He shrugged in a very Italian way, using his lips and eyebrows instead of his shoulders. When the cognac arrived, he offered it to her. “One taste.”
She took the snifter and sipped a few drops—and nearly gagged trying to swallow. She tried to cough away the fire and then douse it with water.
“Mi dispiace,” he said, reaching out to pat her on the back. “I am so sorry. Too much perhaps.”
Tadie waved him away. Too much, too soon, Never again.
One could not converse in the middle of this din. Tadie sipped her water, Massimo sipped his cognac, and they stared at the people standing, talking, dancing, yelling. She felt old and was relieved when they left.
He called for a cab and, on the way to her apartment, let his arm slip around her shoulders. She shivered slightly. They still didn’t speak.
At her building, he paid the cabbie, but she leaned in the open door. “Wait, please.”
She allowed Massimo to walk her to the outer door and then extended her hand. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“Ah, my dear Tadie. Let it not end so soon. May I not come up to see where you live and perhaps finish with a coffee?”
Here it was. He’d want to take her to bed. This was the way it was done in the world. Two dinners, a smattering of conversation—and not very much of that—and then sex.
The frustrated, lonely part of her felt momentarily tempted. After all, he was very attractive. But had she waited all these years just to give in to a virtual stranger? Call her old-fashi
oned. Call her cautious.
“I’d love to, really, Massimo. But I doubt your wife would be thrilled.”
His eyes widened, but he covered his surprise with a slight smile and a raised brow. “We have an understanding, she and I,” he said smoothly. “She does not tell me of her friends, and I do not tell her of mine. She would not know.”
“But I would.” Tadie kept her hand out. “I do thank you. I’ve had a wonderful evening, but I must say good-bye.”
He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips. “You are quite a woman, Tadie Longworth.”
After he climbed back in the cab, Tadie took the elevator to her quiet, empty apartment. As she dropped her purse onto the small living room table and hung her sweater in the closet, she wondered—momentarily—if she’d been foolish to toss away the offer of an affair with no strings attached. To feel, just once, what loving was like, especially as marriage didn’t seem to be in her future. But without marriage, could she? Would she?
She imagined the morning after. Massimo would kiss her good-bye and return to his wife. And she would have to confront her reflection in the mirror.
Maybe she didn’t want to lose control. Maybe vestiges of her father’s teaching, not to mention Elvie’s, still held sway. Maybe she didn’t want merely to indulge her body and nothing more.
She turned out the lights and stared at the street below her window. There were men out there, multitudes of men, and not one of them to be had for free.
* * * * *
After Massimo, she flirted briefly in galleries when she found herself admiring the same painting as some lone fellow and then found herself in the same room with him a couple of galleries later. They’d laugh, perhaps comment on the work, admit they much preferred the Rembrandt to the Tintoretto, but have you seen ...
It was mildly amusing, but it always ended as one or the other lingered in a particular gallery or headed off in a different direction. She left with a spring in her step because she’d connected on some small level with another human. But these small connections did nothing for her as she ate her lonely dinner or took long walks with only the breeze and falling leaves for company.
Becalmed: When a Southern woman with a broken heart finds herself falling for a widower with a broken boat, it's anything but smooth sailing. Page 21