“I should say not. Devora had no use for the slots. ‘Slots are for sissies,’ she always used to say.”
He had to know. “Then, what did she go there to play?”
“Craps. And she was a crackerjack at it, too, let me tell you. She knew when to quit and when to let it all ride…to shoot for the moon. ‘I can feel it in my bones, Gus,’ she would tell me. ‘Tonight,’ she’d say, ‘we shoot for the moon.’”
He turned to gaze out the window, looking not at the road but up at the sky.
They rode in silence for a moment or two. Then Griff spoke, mostly to avoid thinking about how many other things he didn’t know about Devora. The question he posed was purely rhetorical; his fate had been sealed the moment he walked into Gus O’Flaherty’s room, and he knew it.
“Are you sure we can make it in forty minutes?” he asked.
“Sure, I’m sure,” replied Gus, perking up. “I know a shortcut.”
Gus’s shortcut required leaving the highway and traveling along winding, narrow country roads that Griff was certain did not exist on any map. While he concentrated on driving, Gus talked, and much of what he talked about involved Devora.
Gus told Griff things about his aunt that made him smile, and things that made him proud. It occurred to him that he had known her in the limited way a child can know an adult. He’d stayed in touch, true, but his visits had become shorter and less frequent as his career became more demanding, until there were only letters and phone calls connecting them. And memories. But he hadn’t had much time even for the memories. He’d been too driven, too focused on his own agenda.
When he’d received news of her death, he had felt guilty—guilty that he hadn’t made time for her…guilty for short-changing her, for failing her in some way.
Now, listening to Gus, wishing the drive were longer so he could hear more, it wasn’t guilt he felt, but regret—not for Devora, but himself.
“I thought I knew everything there was to know about my aunt,” he said to Gus. They were nearing the outskirts of the Pequot Reservation, where Foxwoods offered the only legal casino gambling north of Atlantic City.
Gus chuckled knowingly. “I made that same mistake myself once. I learned better as the years went on.”
“One thing I definitely didn’t realize was that you and Aunt Devora were such good friends.”
“Oh, the best of friends, to be sure.”
Griff tried again. “I knew you worked for her…”
“In a manner of speaking,” agreed Gus.
“But from the sounds of it you two were…close. Very close.”
Gus offered nothing.
Griff gave a short laugh and shook his head. “Rose said the craziest thing the other night. She said maybe you and Devora were, you know…lovers.”
“Did she, now? She’s a smart cookie, that Rose— You want to watch for that sharp right I spoke of—it comes up on you fast.”
“I’m watching,” Griff assured him. “So are you saying she’s right? You and Devora were lovers?”
“I’m saying a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell—and if you need it spelled out for you better than that, you’re dumber than dirt.”
“I’m not dumber than dirt,” Griff told him, not nearly as shocked or puzzled as he’d expected to be, to learn that Rose was right, after all. “How long?”
“Nearly forty years,” said Gus. In a softer, almost reverential tone, he added, “A lifetime, it was. My lifetime.”
“You loved her.” He wasn’t asking, didn’t need to ask. Just needed to say it, to hear the words out loud, to make them real.
“Aye. I loved her.”
“She had to have loved you, too. Otherwise, she never…Why didn’t you two just get married?”
There was a weariness to Gus’s short laugh. “Why, indeed? I suppose because it never seemed like a question of just getting married. It was always more complicated than that.”
“Complicated how?”
“She was Devora Fairfield, you see—a lady, and a woman of means. And I was Gus O’Flaherty, who mowed lawns and hauled trash and always had to scrub the dirt from under my nails before I dared to touch so much as her cheek.”
“That’s bull,” Griff retorted. “I may not have known all there was to know about Devora, but I sure as hell knew her well enough to know she wasn’t like that. She may have been proud, and maybe even a little fussy, but she wasn’t a snob. She never looked down on anybody, and if she loved you as much as you say, she would never have refused to marry you because of the size of your bank account or what you did for a living.”
“You’re right about that. She would never have refused me. That’s why I could never ask, you see. It was me who wouldn’t marry her, laddie, not the other way ’round. I knew from the first time I looked her way and she looked back that I wasn’t good enough for her. For years I lived in dread of the day when she would figure it out, as well.”
Griff was struck by the bleak honesty of Gus’s words, so full of sorrow and acceptance, as simple and as wrenching as the final, lingering note of a bluesy sax solo.
“I couldn’t bear to lose her, you see,” Gus went on. “So I settled for what I had…what I could be sure of, rather than risk losing everything. I’m not sure if that makes me more a fool or a coward.”
“Neither,” Griff said, his own voice firm. “Your way worked…for a lifetime, just like you said. That’s what counts.”
“It did work in its own way,” Gus agreed, forcing a grateful smile. “I’ve a lot to be thankful for, to be sure. Look sharp, laddie, there’s that turn I—”
“I see it,” Griff said, taking the turn that brought the sprawling casino complex into view in front of them.
Grinning, Gus patted his back pocket. “Let’s hope I’ve a speck of good fortune left in me.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Griff muttered, following Gus’s directions to the valet parking area closest to his favorite table.
They were the third car in line and the one drawing the most stares and grins. Gus was loving it. Griff hated intruding with one last question, but he had to know. “Gus, if you could go back and do it over, still not knowing how it would turn out…”
“Would I do things differently?” Gus finished for him. “Now, there’s a question I’ve asked myself a million times or so. The answer is, I don’t know. I only know what I hope I would do if I had the chance. I hope I’d be quicker to learn what Devora always knew—that any love worth having is worth trusting.
“Next time,” he said, an almost cocky gleam in his blue eyes, “I’ll do it her way and shoot for the moon.”
Chapter Eleven
Hours after their furtive departure, Griff and a happy but worn-out Gus returned to Willow Haven. Conscience and common sense had ganged up on Griff and demanded he phone from the casino—if only to prevent the rest home from launching an all-out search for Gus. He explained to the woman who took his call that he had been so eager to fulfill his “Uncle Gus’s” wish to visit the Maritime Museum that he had completely forgotten to stop by the nurse’s desk on the way out. The combination of charm and profuse apology succeeded in smoothing things over.
He parked outside the front entrance this time, opened the passenger door and waited as Gus took a long, final look around the interior of the car before swinging his feet to the curb.
“So what do you say, Gus?” asked Griff as he helped him out. “Same time next week?”
“Maybe. At my age, it’s best not to go making long-range plans.” The older man took a couple of steps and stopped. “But if we do go next week, don’t forget it’s my turn to drive getaway.”
“I’m sure you’ll remind me.”
Gus was weary enough to permit Griff to help him up the steps, as well. The woman seated at the front desk noticed their slow approach and moved to open the door. Before she got there, Gus gave Griff’s arm a gentle pat.
“Thanks, laddie,” he said. “This was a day of days, to
be sure.”
“For me, too, Gus. I…”
Gus waved him to silence. “Don’t go getting sloppy on me. And don’t go running over any rugs with my car, either.”
“No rugs, I promise.”
“See to it.” He glanced once over his shoulder as the door opened. “You did a pretty good job of getting her running again—the engine sounds as smooth as ever.” He didn’t allow time for the compliment to settle before adding, “You might try looking for work at the filling station down on Main Street. Tell ’em I sent you.”
Griff just nodded amicably. He didn’t have time to explain all over again that it was not because he couldn’t find a job that he was out of work. The fact was, he could pick up the phone any time he wanted and claim the job he’d been offered as a technical advisor for the Air Force. He just plain didn’t want to. And to a man like Gus, who’d had to work hard every day of his life until he was no longer able to, that was just plain inconceivable.
A day of days. Gus had always had a way with words. Griff had to agree that it had been a good day. A great day, actually, in spite of the fact that it had not gone according to his plan. Any of them. It felt good being with Gus again. It felt real good to be able to pay the man back in even a small way. It also felt good to have a purpose that meant something to someone other than himself.
There had also been some sadness, to be sure, mostly at seeing the physical changes a couple of decades could make in a man. But once he’d gotten past that, Gus was…Gus. The same Gus he’d always been, still with his own take on life and still knowing more about more things than many people with a string of letters after their names. History and baseball and honor—in the course of this one day Gus had managed to teach him a little about each of them.
Griff just wished he’d thought to ask if Gus knew any shortcuts back to Wickford. Ironic, thought Griff, pushing the old car as hard as he dared. After all his griping about having to wait so long to see Rose again, he might end up being late.
He wanted to take her somewhere really nice for dinner, and that meant stopping home to shower and shave and iron another shirt. He wouldn’t change one minute of last night, but he wanted tonight to be special in a more traditional way.
Even before he stepped inside, he sensed something different about the old house. No loose planks popped up to trip him as he crossed the porch; the old screen door didn’t scratch him or rip any of his clothes in passing. Plus, the place looked a lot better than it had since he’d arrived and set up camp. But that was because before leaving that morning he’d washed and put away the dishes that had overflowed the sink and covered the counter; then he’d swept the floor and hauled all the empty beer bottles out to the recycling bin.
He’d done it partly to kill time, but also because all those years in the military had left him with a low tolerance for clutter and disorganization. When he’d come downstairs this morning and realized there was not a single clean cup or mug left for his coffee, he knew he had to do something. Either buy more cups or wash the ones in the sink. This time he decided to wash the ones he had.
It might have made more sense to clean up his act before bringing Rose home with him. They hadn’t bothered with lights as they hurried through last night, trying to climb the stairs and undress each other at the same time. But Rose had surely gotten an eyeful in the morning light.
Just as well, Griff told himself. No sense pretending to be something he wasn’t. There was a certain comfort in knowing Rose had seen his worst and was still interested.
He glanced around the kitchen once again, wishing he could figure out why it seemed even neater than he’d left it. Then he saw the shopping bag folded on the counter—the same bag the hydrangea garland had been in since he’d brought it home from Rose’s shop—and he knew why the house felt different.
Smiling slightly, he picked up the bag and held it close to his face, knowing the scent alone would stir him, wanting it to. He put the bag aside, but the scent persisted, and he followed it upstairs. Rose’s scent. Rose’s presence. That was the reason the house felt different to him. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself, but that didn’t make the feeling any less real. It was as if the old house was as happy as he was that she was here. There was a feeling of rightness, of contentment, around him and inside him.
His heart was pounding frantically, but his steps were slow. His entire life had been about speed, being the first and the fastest, getting in and getting out. Now he found himself caught in something so good, he wanted it to last forever.
He found Rose exactly where he’d expected—in his room. She was sitting in the old rocker in the corner. Just sitting, waiting. Waiting for him. Something about that nearly brought him to his knees in front of her.
When he walked in, she smiled and stood. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
He was lucky he managed that much. She was wearing something pale and flimsy and totally unsuitable for having dinner anywhere but bed. The silvery fabric clung everywhere it touched her, and where it didn’t her skin looked dewy and golden. He wanted to look at her that way forever, and he wanted to rip it off her that instant.
“How did you get in?” he asked. His voice sounded like it felt, like he had a mouthful of burlap.
“Devora and I traded keys in case either of us ever got locked out. Do you mind?”
“What do you think?”
She waited until his gaze finished roaming over her body and returned to meet hers, then she did the same. The corners of her mouth curved appreciatively. “I think you’re glad I’m here,” she said.
“Very, very glad.”
“And a little surprised.”
“Maybe a little.”
“And I’m sure you’re probably wondering what in the world put the idea of coming here this way in my head in the first place, especially after you specifically asked me to wear something fancy tonight because you were planning something special for our first official date.”
Watching and listening, Griff was reminded of a very nervous beauty pageant contestant racing through her prepared speech on how, if selected Miss Whatever, she planned to end poverty and cure kleptomania—all while wearing a bathing suit and spike heels. Clearly, Rose didn’t have a lot of experience in the role of seductress. That pleased him on two counts, because she hadn’t seduced a string of men before him, and because she was doing it now.
“What you’re wearing is plenty fancy,” he assured her. “In fact, it’s perfect.”
“Not for going out to dinner.”
“So we’ll order in.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you, but…”
“Trust me, Rose, disappointed is not even close to what I’m feeling. Impatient is more like it,” he added, moving toward her.
She held up one hand. “Wait. Don’t you want to ask me?”
“Ask you what?” he countered, the need to touch her interfering with his concentration.
“Why I came in the first place,” she replied.
“Not particularly. I’m just glad as hell you’re here.”
“I’ll tell you, anyway,” she said quickly. “I came because I knew that if that garland was ever going to get hung properly, I was going to have to do it myself.” She tipped her head to direct his attention to the garland now hanging on the wall above his bed.
Griff forced himself to give it a fleeting glance. “Looks great.”
The instant he turned back to her, Rose reached for the tie that held together the flimsy, robe-like thing she was wearing, and tugged it loose. “And I came for this.”
As she spoke, her robe fell open. He sucked in air and still felt breathless. It didn’t help when she moved her shoulders and let the robe slide to the floor.
She was standing close to the window. Outside, the sun was low in the sky, and it filled the room with the golden light of a late summer day.
Even now, she didn’t look like a seductress. There was nothing blatant or erotic in t
he way she had captivated his senses. Her appeal was simple and straightforward, and far more potent. Again he had that enticing sense of both wanting to rush, and understanding that there was no need.
“I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t get home before dark,” she said quietly.
“Would that be so bad?” he murmured, much more focused at that moment on what he was seeing than what he was hearing.
“It would have been a disaster. It would have meant coming back tomorrow and doing this all over again, and, frankly, I don’t think my nerves could take that.”
“I don’t get it,” he said. “If this makes you uncomfortable, why are you doing it?”
“Because I want to make love to you in daylight. I need to.”
“Why?” he countered, caught in the middle—his brain was telling him he ought to at least try to figure out what she was talking about, and his body was clamoring “Who the hell cares? Just toss her on the bed and sort it out later.”
“Why?” She gave a small, self-effacing laugh. “I’m thirty-five, Griff. That’s the age when they start filming Hollywood actresses through a filter, you know, to glaze over their flaws. I came here early because I knew that in daylight there’d be no glazing over mine.”
What flaws? This time his brain and body were in full agreement. He didn’t think he’d so much as blinked once since she dropped her robe, and he hadn’t seen a single flaw yet.
He wasn’t looking at details or body parts. He was looking at a whole woman, this woman, Rose, whose unique scent and laugh and eye color were encoded in him so deeply, it was as if they had always been there and he just hadn’t known how to find them. Until now. Until she’d shown him where to look. She was in him so deeply, he could see her without looking. And when he did look at her, as he was now, he saw Rose, he saw woman—and everything in him that was man responded.
“I think I get it now,” he ventured. “It’s some weird sort of Mars-Venus thing, right?” he demanded. “Like…truth in lending between the sexes? This way I’ll know exactly what I’m getting. Because if that’s it, I have to tell you—”
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