Pete says, "You want me to come get you? It's not much of a drive. Just up the Parkway and over into the city."
"Naw, Pete. Just go check out those two boats I told you about. The '71 Concord and the Matthews Voyageur. Take a quick figure on how we can rig 'em out to handle small fishin' parties . . . guys who are flush and want comfort. You know, class and booze with some fishing, all accompanied with bull stories of death, destruction, beautiful women and angry seas . . . or the great white whale."
"That I can talk about. You sure I can't come pick you up?"
"Nope, but I appreciate the offer, Mister Pete. Truly do. Besides that old jalopy of yours probably can't make it. Listen, is there a rental car agency in Cedars?"
"Yeah, a Hertz. But if I come --"
"No need to, but thanks, Mister Pete. I'm lookin' forward to seein' you again, my good, good friend. It's been much too long, wouldn't you say? Listen, I've got to hurry. Have to meet a gal for breakfast."
"A gal? What gal? You up to monkey business?"
"Yeah, you could say that. An old high school classmate. Lives up here but possibly movin' back to Harvey Cedars. After she goes to Paris."
"Paris?" The vision Pete conjures up in his mind brings on a fretful, mumbled, "Oh, Lordy."
"What's that, Pete?"
"Nothin'. Was thinkin' out loud. You know we've got a lot of work to do here. Not only the boat deal." The tone of his voice goes from one of concern to eagerness. "I found a bar and grill that's for sale. The old man wants out, and it can be fixed up into a nice place real easy. It's on the bay with a great view. This place is gonna be gone quicker than a Jersey Skeeter can light. Things are jumping around here now, Sean. He pauses, his voice reassumes its troubled tone. "We don't have no time to be messin' around with wild woman and stuff."
Sean laughs. "We? You got something goin' yourself, Pete?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind, Ponzio." He pauses for a flicker of a second. "Never mind, ol' friend. I know we've got a bunch of things to do. We'll get it done, don't worry. But," he sighs, "this gal is extraordinary. Rachael Jezebel Waters. Man, what a name. You probably don't know her. I didn't recognize her right off."
"No, I don't, but all Rachael's are wild. Says so in the Bible. And Jezebels are worse trouble. . . them's real bad."
"Ohhh, Pete. The Bible doesn't say any such thing. None of that other stuff is true either."
"This isn't good. I know. I got that EPS . . . uh, stuff."
"It's ESP, and you may have it for fishing, but that's all. Listen, I've got to run. See ya probably on Monday unless plans change. I'll call ya. Go fishin'."
"I can do that anytime. Only get to see you once in twenty years, for Pete's sake."
"A play on words. Way to go, Ponzio." Sean hangs up. Laughs. Mutters, "Ol' Pete. Some things never change." He strolls into the bathroom, looks in the mirror and says to his image, "Sean, my man. Let's take another slide down the banister of life."
He picks up his toothbrush, reaches for the tube of paste and adds, "Whoever said that must have lived well, but perhaps not long."
* * *
Pete shakes his head, distraught. Says aloud. "A presto, Ponzio. Ia non penso . . ." Returning to his accented combination of Boston, Jersey, and Italian he reiterates, "I don't tinka so." Pounds the heel of his fist on the phone pole. "Oh, this isn't good. No sirree. Not good at all. This isn't God's plan and for sure not mine." He steps down into his boat from the dock phone pole at his craft's stern. Mumbles something indistinguishable and slumps down into his weathered folding canvas deck chair. His mind begins churning. I've got to steer him away from this Rachael person. This . . . this, Jezebel. She's the Devil in the form of a woman. Satan can do that. Change. Be whatever he needs to be to get what he wants. Well, he's not goin' to get my Sean. Sean needs to get here. The sooner the better. I'll fight Satan with gaff, anchor and chain. Sean has to see the boy and then in time he'll figure it all out. See Grace and he'll win her over again.
Pete gets up, steps to the side, leans over, arms folded on the rail, and gazes into the water between the hull and the slip. He mutters, "God will see to it. Have to trust Him. Turn it over to Him as the good Father Grace says." Stands erect, looks up to the sky, "I don't know for sure what Your plan is, but all this couldn't have happened if it wasn't Your doing." He lowers his head, nods as he looks out over the water. "Yep, gonna trust the Good Lord on this." Then looking up again he mumbles, "But I gonna be watchin' real close, just in case."
The old man sits for a spell, sucking on his empty pipe. He stares up at the gulls circling above the dock area. Inhales deeply, letting the sea air drift up into his nostrils. Feels the early morning sun burning across the ocean, and hurrying over this spit of land and spilling onto the bay. The distress lessens with each lung full of salt air. He cocks his head to one side. The Marina is stirring with shouts and boat engines coughing to life. Harvey Cedars is taking its morning breaths. He thinks to himself, in a few weeks it will be full of bellowing throngs of vacationers. The beach will teem with children with small tin shovels and pails, and mothers shouting warning orders to little boys chasing sand crabs at the water's edge. Others foolishly chasing bubbles and digging for clams. Sneak Boxes will be sailing all over the bay, and at low tide the crabbers will be out with their netted poles. Then, whoosh, Labor Day weekend will pass and the '71 season will be gone. All will nap until next year. He takes in another deep breath, "And soon, my Sean will be here for all this and for all time . . . with Grace." He nods, "God's plan. God's will."
He gets up, stretches, arms reaching for the welcomed sun. He clambers onto the dock to drive over to see the two boats. The one is a 1971 Concord 47-foot yacht. A two stateroom, two head layout. The other is also a '71, but a 56-foot Matthews Voyageur Wide Body. This latter one is plush with a master suite with a head, and two other berths; one forward and one port with a forward head. She's huge.
He gets into his truck. Pulls the door closed. It doesn't. Then opens it and slams it shut. "Got to get that fixed." Cranks the pick-up to life and heads up the island toward Barnegat Light, mumbling, again to God and himself.
CHAPTER 5
Sean arrives as Mickey's big hand is on the twelve and the little hand on the eight. The apartment doorman, a cheerful, elderly man greets Sean with a warm "Good morning." He's more of a greeter than a guard. After Sean explains his presence, the gray-haired greeter in his dark green uniform with thin gold piping calls Miss Waters on an intercom system. He nods while listening, then points Sean to the elevator and holds up five fingers. Sean gets on, pushes the button and waits patiently as the door slowly slides shut and the elevator lurches into its slow-motion assault on the fifth floor. The blinking numbers of each floor drift by at a snail's pace. It seems as if the lift will never reach its destination. However it finally shudders to a halt, the doors grind open and Rachael is waiting. "Bonjour, Sean. C'mon in," she coos and takes the few strides to her door. Her natural husky voice is as alluring in the morning as it was the night before, and her outfit more so. White shorts that show off her long athletic legs and a simple pale blue T-shirt with Jez's stitched in silver thread across the top. No bra. The Jez's is not easy to read under the circumstances. Her breasts are not huge but certainly abundant, and for whatever reason, if any, they distinctly announce her arousal or intentions known only by her at the moment. Rachael's blonde hair, short and nicely styled, is again set off by her well-cared-for thick, dark brown eyebrows. She is wearing white fluffy slippers, ostensibly not finished dressing. Her appearance has that "try me, you'll like it" look. If a woman can look homey and sophisticated in one package, Rachael has the gift.
Before Sean can say a word, she scolds, "You're giving me that look again. Ogling. Undressing me," and closes the door behind them.
"Yeah, well, just an early morning eyeball reconnaissance. You're throwing out multi responses again. Must be a French habit, not a rag trade trait, since you slipped in your 'Bonjour'."
"Wow. I'll be on guard then."
"That's, En garde," she laughs and slides her arms around his neck and gives him a warm kiss, parting her mouth slightly and with her tongue encourages him to do the same. She releases her grip and leans back. "Well now, that wasn't too bad, was it? Welcome to my home. Come, let me show you around real quick, and then we'll have some breakfast. Coffee's made."
"Okay, and a nice welcome. It seems we're gainin' ground. I wasn't so sure."
She playfully punches him in the arm, "I hope so," then loops her arm through his and steers him on their way. The small entryway is warm and inviting with an antique-looking coat rack and umbrella stand by the door. Orderly. The living room looks like a large parlor in an expensive fashion boutique with its French Provincial furnishings and dark hardwood floor mostly covered with an oriental rug. Something else is noticeable. Every item on each table is perfectly placed. Nothing out of order, and not a magazine, paper or crossword book in sight. And no TV. Regardless of Rachael's outfit this morning, she floats about the room as a model might, showing Sean this porcelain piece or another. The room is open as it would be for entertaining.
A central hallway leads to a large dining room with a table and chairs for six. More of the same French influence in the furnishings and again incredibly fashionable. It defines "Jez" sitting at the head of the table in a stylish new ensemble charming her guests . . . ladies and gents from the world of high fashion. Rachael pauses, taking in her room with obvious pride and asks, "What'd ya think so far?"
"It's all beautiful. I hope I don't bump into anything."
She pauses, looking at him, eyes squinting trying to determine if he meant anything by the remark; if it was innocent conversation or his humor on display. She decides the latter and continues.
Sean murmurs, "I'm hungry. When do we eat?"
"Soon. You must see my home first . . . designed it myself." She kisses him on the cheek and leads him on. Across from the dining room is an office housing wall-to-wall bookshelves, a writing desk and a designer's work table with stool. Sketches, loose papers and notes are strewn across its top. Easels with sketches on pads. This room is bright with its overhead recessed ceiling lighting glaring like spotlights. It's not neat at all; appears worked in; actually, lived in. Sean stares, visualizing Rachael, hair askew, bra-less in an extra large T-shirt hanging outside her jeans, working on a new design. This is another room that seems to take on the personality of the woman and its intended purpose. Sean has watched Rachael carefully and realizes her manner changes with the room, regardless of her attire. Folding doors that are open now, surely are closed when she entertains. For in this apartment there is the showroom, and this, the factory floor.
He points at the figurines as he passes, says, "Pretty. It seems they help keep your Parisian background in the forefront. What are they?"
"Lladros, crafted in Spain. These are," with a sweeping gesture encompassing the living and dining rooms, "all collectors' pieces now." Adds, "I like the grace and warmth of Lladros. The pastel colors; the expressive faces; the thought brought out in each pose is so warm and individual. I have others hidden away. Just ran out of room." She leads him on by his hand.
"This is the kitchen."
"Reminds me, I'm still hungry and you promised breakfast. Sightseeing after."
"Don't be a bore."
The room is large enough for a home gourmet chef and with copper pans hanging from a wrought iron overhead rack looks the part. It's like one would find in a wine-country estate, except for the glass-topped table with only two chairs.
Sean says, "Now this looks intimate. The table. Do you--"
"We might if you behave yourself. Come along."
Next is a guest bedroom with a brass queen-size bed done in dark blues. Bedside tables, lamps. Arty pictures, not prints, but original oils on the walls, like the living room. Again here, exceptionally neat. It has its own bath which is left unexplored.
In the rear of the flat is the master bedroom and bath. As they step toward it, her walking style changes from the model strutting the latest fashion to a seductress, nearing her lair. And a lair it is. The bedroom with its draped rear windows is dimly lit. It defines Rachael as Sean visualizes, or wishes. The room's fragrance is all about Jez in a see-through nightie or less. The turned-down recessed ceiling lights give it a warm, sensuous boudoir look, except for a TV. A large round bed, comforter in pale blue with several different pastel-colored pillows, sustain the motif. The mirrored ceiling and two walls prompts a remark from Sean. "Is this a . . .ahhh, a--"
"Never mind, you. Let's go eat before you have a stroke," and pulls him along.
"Are there any cameras in here?"
Elbowing him in the ribs, she murmurs, "You wish." Pulling him by his hand again, she says, "C'mon."
He pulls free. "Wait a minute. Got to see the bathroom." He peers in. She slides up behind him, wraps her arms around his waist and pulls him close and whispers, "The tub will hold two, as will the shower. Now come on. Between this and the mirror you're apt to launch an attack, and I'm defenseless." She tugs once more.
He doesn't budge. "Good idea, but I doubt you're defenseless." He takes it all in, half smiling in amazement and half smiling in aphrodisiacal anticipation. With a licentious gaze he eyes the large, deep, marble, made for lounging tub. He shakes his head slowly, grinning.
It also has a large separate shower with three shower heads. The decor of the room is a pale blue and off-white tiling. The floor is hardwood, covered with thick, warm off-white mats.
As he starts to turn to leave, she hangs on and turns him around so they are facing one another. On tiptoes, she kisses him softly. Murmurs, "Are you dragging your feet so you can corner me in one of these rooms?"
"No, not me. Just an old friend taking a tour." He smiles, "Well, possibly the thought did occur to me. Seriously though, I'm amazed at the personality of each room."
"Yes, and by design. Much like me. I have designs for everything and everyone. And I plan to do better next time. Next place."
"And for me?"
"Designs? Oh yes. Breakfast. Let's go eat."
"Eat what?"
"Naughty. Bacon and eggs. Come."
He laughs thinking of another quip. But says only, "Okay. Sounds good. I'm hungry; have I told you that yet this morning?"
"Yes, more than once. Me too." She leads him by the hand back to the kitchen. There she pours him a cup of coffee. Asks, "Black or how?"
"Black, thanks."
"Sit. I'll wrestle together some eggs and bacon. I've got juice and whole wheat toast. Jam if you like. So tell me, what do you want to do today that doesn't involve the mirrors or the tub."
He chuckles. "Busted. How about we talk about it over the eggs."
"Yep, at least for now."
He watches her move about the kitchen, setting the table and preparing the food. "Watching you move around makes it impossible not to think along those lines." She laughs and purposely wiggles her butt.
Finally finished with the preparation, she sets the platter of scrambled eggs and bacon strips on the table. "Serve yourself, and please eat heartily because I made enough for an army. I'm unaccustomed to cooking for men." She sees him grin, says, "Don't you say it, or even think it. Not my style." She sits and Sean glances through the glass top at her legs. She squirms, "You do have a one track mind. You'll have to eat a late evening meal here sometime. Perhaps this week, if you'll stay in the city for awhile. It could be interesting." He mutters something indistinguishable. She grins coyly. They eat and chat. The chatting is difficult for him and not just because he's eating. His mind continually drifts from the glass table top, or more exactly the legs beneath it, to the mirrors, then to the tub. And of course, the T-shirt is distracting above the table, particularly when she moves. Nonetheless, after much discussion they decide o
n a walk first, then visiting the UN building after and then a date with the lady, The Statue. He adds, "I'd like to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. Just over and back. I saw a movie one time with the ferry involved and always wanted to ride on it."
"Okay, we can do all this today. Tonight I have reservations at a small, wonderfully quaint French restaurant. My treat."
"Sounds great. Although I must admit, I was thinking about this table and your comment a little--"
"You're hopeless, but cute . . . and it seems objective oriented." She gets up and clears away the dishes. He helps. She moves softly, yet seductively around the kitchen as she places dishes, silverware and cups in the dishwasher. Again, her style of dress and the room seems to dictate her manner of movement. When finished she says, "You can use the guest bathroom to clean up if you wish. I'll be back in a sec."
"Damn. I thought maybe--"
"No. My God, you've been in the bush too long."
"Not at all, that's the problem."
She turns a dark pink. Shakes her head. Says, "Go," pointing to the guest bathroom. He does as told and is finished before she. He drifts into the living room and looks out the window admiring the greenery in Central Park and the people already strolling about. Her return is trumpeted by a "Taa daa," and a change of shoes. Gone are the slippers, replaced by walking sneakers and anklets. Also, she has added a bra.
Sean shakes his head, "You sure are beautiful in the morning. I do miss the look without the--"
"Ready to leave?"
He nods and they do.
It's already nearing midmorning. The day is clear, in the low seventies which prompts them to walk off their breakfast in Central Park. As they walk she says, "Famous place you picked. The Waldorf. Did you know that Herbert Hoover and General MacArthur each lived there in the fifties and sixties?"
"Nope."
"Well, did you know famous gangsters also lived there at different times? Frank Costello, Bugsy Siegel to name two."
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 4