"Nope, but I know it's expensive."
"Well, move out and come to a place that isn't. Mine."
A grin slowly spreads across his face. Now we're talkin'. After a few more moments and Rachael saying nothing, only returning the grin, he says, "Okay, I accept. Thanks."
"See, that was easy, wasn't it." She smiles and they continue walking and talking, eventually coming out of the park at the Plaza. Before he can, she hails a cab with a whistle that matches his the night before. She grins proudly, "I was a tomboy."
The remainder of the day goes without a hitch. Is a fun day, light. Some hand holding, kidding each other, flirting, and many do-you-remember-type questions which bring on laughs and some misty-eyed looks. Near the end of the trek, leaning on the rail of the ferry and while looking out across the water, Sean becomes pensive. He stares down at the water and seeing the fluttering reflections seemingly bounce off the wake causes his mind to drift to the past. Back to doing the same thing, staring at the water on his way to Korea years ago aboard ship, the APA George Clymer, known as the Greasy George. His mind flicks back to the present only to spawn concern. I hope I can make it out here. Not my world, and I've been a long time with the Corps, my mistress. Rachael, sensing the moment, snuggles closer at the ferry's rail. Squeezes his arm and places her head on his shoulder.
Sean tilts he head, his cheek touching her hair. He breathes deep taking in the shampooed freshness of her hair blended with her musky fragrance, contrasted with the dampish and somewhat brackish smell of the water. Straightens his head, tilting it back slightly and gazes out to the city. I wonder where this is heading, if any place.
It's late afternoon when they arrive back at Rachael's apartment. Once inside she pours each of them a glass of Chianti Classico. An expensive one, like the room. They sit in the two straight back upholstered chairs by the window overlooking the park. He passes the glass under his nose, sniffs, then takes a sip. "Whoa, this is good. Especially good."
"Yes, mellow. Like the time of day. It'll relax you. Us."
This room, the stage, the fashion floor, as they sit now takes on the casualness and warmth of the moment and the woman. It's amazing. The room is the woman, or vice versa. She stares at him for an instant. Takes a sip of her wine, tilts her head to the side and asks, "Sean, on the ferry coming back. By the rail. What were you thinking? You were far away. Far from me, and already I'm not sure I like that." She pauses, frowns, then whispers, "And I'm frightened as to why."
He says nothing for what seems like minutes, hours. He looks down at the glass in his hand. Then his eyes come up and settle on Rachael's face, his eyes subtly taking in all her features. Then settle on her eyes. "Oh, thinking about going home. Starting over. Being a civilian. Not being a warrior, and although I despise that environment, I'm at home there. I'm on familiar terms with it. I understand it. When I get back to the Cedars I'll be nothing other than a warrior without a war, perhaps lost in a world that today seems to reject me . . . even hates me, us. Vets. Do you know each time I came back from Vietnam, there was no welcome. No parades. No confetti. No hugs. Nothing, except either indifference or hate. Wasn't the same when I came back from Korea. Or for the guys from WW Two. It might be the same in the Cedars. Perhaps I won't fit in . . . and not make it. Not allowed to do so, as it were."
She sits in stunned silence for a moment. Gazing at him. This man. This confident man just bared his soul. To me. She imperceptibly shakes her head. Then with a deliberate motion she puts her wine glass on the table next to her chair, rises thoughtfully, and crosses over to where he sits. Unhurriedly sits in his lap, not playfully as she had done the night before, but with purpose. "Sean, welcome home." Her eyes mist. "And thank you for what you've done for your country, and for me, and those like me. And for the folks in the Cedars." She pauses. "And even for the ones with the hatred." She kisses him on the cheek. Preventing him from responding, she places her fingers on his lips. "I don't understand everything you've been through. I heard what Martha said but I'm not sure any of us can grasp it. But I do know strength of character when I see it. I know and can sense success. I recognize dedication. Those things I do understand, and you, my dear friend, have all those traits in spades and more. You'll be fine, and you'll succeed in whatever you choose to do . . . and for damn sure, Harvey Cedars, or anywhere, will be a better place with you there." She kisses him on the cheek again. Brushes the back of her wrist across one eye then the other, wiping away a tear that has leaked onto her cheek. She takes in a deep breath, stands and adds, "Now, we've got to get ready for tonight. I've got to make myself look sexy, and you have to get back to the Waldorf to change."
He stands, "You're a heckeva woman, Rach. Thanks. I'll be fine. Merely have to find my way. Hey, what time do I need to pick you up?"
"Eight. We're going to dine late. Stay up late. And have a helleva date." She walks him to the door, whispers, "And check out, and bring your stuff here. You can use the guest room."
She gives him a peck on the tip of the nose, gently pushes him out, and grins as she slowly closes the door.
CHAPTER 6
The old man prowls about his boat searching for nothing other than peace of mind. The boy has arrived and is getting poles, reels and bait ready for the day's fishing. The four men from the Mainline area of Philadelphia arrive and are anxious to get out on the water. Today will be blues, possibly some strippers although April is better for the latter. And of course, finish with flounder near Barnegat Light. Pete will stay in the sound all day.
Pete's boat, the Belle Maria II named for his deceased wife, is nine years old but immaculate for any boat let alone a fishing boat. The boy helps him keep it this way, as did Sean with his other boat years ago. The boy is Sean all over again, every bit of his six feet and 175 pounds screams to an observer, a Gallagher. His blond hair, several mannerisms, the deep sea blue eyes, and him being left-handed seal the likeness as tight as a Sub hatch. Most people would miss the similar eyes between the two men. His eyes aren't as hard as Sean's, but time, or what life deals, will make that change. No hurry for that. And although well muscled, his body will continue to fill out and harden; he's still growing at seventeen.
Ol' Pete has looked over the two boats as Sean asked. Although it's the more expensive of the two, the Matthew 56-footer is a better match for what Sean wants, and they can afford its asking price which is low. The owner is anxious to sell. It will be a home for Sean since he will allow Anna to continue renting his parent's cottage.
The interior of the Matthew is luxurious. Pete will keep his Belle Maria for fishing, the all-day boat of the two. The Matthew's aft deck can be rigged for "fishin' in comfort," and it will also be chartered for pleasure cruising for one or two couples at a time. He went by the bar and grill again. Could see and smell it as he envisions it will be. Beside the fresh seafood, some of which they will supply themselves, the steak will be only the best. Get that from Davis Hamblin, the former Navy cook that bought Sean's dad's butcher shop years ago. There also will be special Italian recipes of his Maria, both their mamas, and from Anna. A smile of satisfaction prompts, "God wants it this way. I know it."
The boy says, "What did you say, Mister Pete?"
Always Mister Pete. Ever polite.
"Nothin', Colt. Nothin'. Just an old man mumbling to himself."
The old man goes about his work, maneuvering the Belle Maria away from her slip and heads out into the bay after the boy takes in the lines. Once in the channel Pete gooses the throttles then lets his mind wander again. That woman is a Jezebel. Satan's work. God is allowing Sean to be tempted. That's the plan. Must be, so when he returns here to us, God will steer him to Grace, or maybe He'll have the boy become the shepherd. He mutters, "Yes, that's it." Then louder, "That's it. The boy." He smiles, as he eases the throttles forward a bit more.
"I might have to give Him a gentle helping hand though. As a disciple. After all, I'm a Peter too."
Colt, standing on the ladder to the bridge, pops hi
s head above the level of the deck. Shouts, straining to be heard over the wind and roar of the engines, "You're talkin' to yourself again, Mister Pete."
"Old people do that. Pay it no never mind. Get below and tend to the customers." Pete sees the water surface ahead splattering by fish in a feeding frenzy. Gulls swooping and diving. He yells to Colt, "We're comin' up on some blues."
"Aye, sir."
* * *
Each are dressed comfortably. Rachael wears a pants suit once again. A rich dark brown with a subtle beige see-thru blouse. Again ample cleavage showing. Her shoes, high heels, are beige as well and they bring her to a striking five-ten. Not quite eye to eye with Sean. She's wearing a South Seas pearl choker, matching stud-like earrings, and a matching pearl ring on her right hand. Nothing on the other, however her fingers are long and graceful, ornamental in their own right. Pink lipstick, nails.
Sean is wearing dark blue slacks with a crease that would appear to bring blood if you ran your finger along it. Black loafers, spit-shined of course, not patent leather. The latter being for wimps, or worse in his mind. A tan jacket and a short-sleeve white cotton golf shirt under the open jacket complete his ensemble, except for one ring, right hand. A large gold school-type ring with a garnet-colored stone with an inset globe and anchor; the Marine insignia. His hands, although manicured, exude strength. The jacket, although it certainly fits and hangs nicely, doesn't mask his broad muscular shoulders and powerful arms. His eyes have that faded blue, social hue tonight.
The restaurant is as quaint as she described. Dimly lit. Pastel colored candles on the tables that are covered with opulent looking white linen. When they enter she says to the Maître d, "J'ai reserve une table au nom de Waters."
“Oui," and he leads them to a table in the far corner, an intimate booth for two.
When they are seated in the semi-circular booth, facing the room, Rachael snuggles up close to Sean. He smiles and whispers, "You aren't going to speak French all night are you?"
"Non." She laughs. "No, it's not that precise anymore. But if you do, I bet I can follow along."
He chuckles. "Nice place. Must have good chow, it's crowded . . . but, did you notice, no truck drivers so I'll wait and see."
"Truck . . .?" She gently nudges him with her elbow.
They have a few glasses of wine before dinner. Talk in soft tones. They have turned slightly, facing one another, fragrance close. Before they finish the second glass of wine, the waiter returns. She whispers to Sean, "Let me order for you. Okay?"
"Sure. But don't forget the hash browns or maybe some SOS." Again a jab, this time more than subtle and accompanied with a "Ssshhh."
She orders, in French. Escargot. A Caesar Salad. A beef dish. The waiter applauds her choices with a kiss of his fingers and a smile. A feeling of momentary isolation drops over Sean, but he enjoys the exchange, grinning at the waiter's actions. Ordering done, another glass of wine poured, and the chatting continues. It's light, void of flirtatious innuendoes. More often than not, and by design, Rachael's talking about Paris. Time drifts by all too quick. The meal arrives by a jacketed server with the nervous waiter hovering, ready to pounce. First the escargot. Sean devours them without hesitation. Rachael watches, shrugs, smiles and finishes hers taking a tad more time. She has no way of knowing that he has eaten many native dishes including boiled silk worms in a little, obscure Vietnamese village, so a chewy snail is truly pleasurable and not much of a challenge. And the iced tea is tastier than the tepid tea in a filthy crock cup with small bugs swimming and floating in it at that same village. This is heaven in comparison, or maybe in reality.
The salad is tossed tableside with care and flair by the waiter who obviously relishes this task. The beef dish follows. The aroma from the sauce covering the beef and noodles engulfs the two of them with a tantalizing expectancy. The sautéed asparagus finishes the entree that is perfectly placed in front of each by the waiter. His flair is worth the price of a ferry ride. They continue to eat, chat about their day, laugh amid the aroma of the sauce, candlelight and soft melodies drifting across the room from the piano bar.
They finish and pass on dessert. Rachael orders Armagnac for the two of them. It's a Janneau. They tip glasses. Sip. Sean smiles, says in a hushed tone, "Life's good. They don't serve this in the slop-shoot." He nods to the waiter who has a puzzled look on his face, but then politely smiles, indicating that Sean's remark is beneath his intellectual level.
Sean and Rachael sip and whisper to one another, her right hand on his knee as she gazes attentively into his eyes when he speaks. A common trait they share. The woman at the piano bar in the front corner is cooing in French in her gravelly voice. It seems to Sean it is what Rachael would sound like if she were to sing. The room is Parisian, and New York is Paris at the moment.
The owner quietly approaches the table, on Rachael's side, excuses himself for interrupting. Rachael nods. The man smiles warmly, whispers to Rachael that the cab she ordered is out front. He also expresses his sorrow she is leaving town and tells her she will be missed. This for a second time since her friends had a dinner party here last week. He is speaking in French so Sean has only a few clues, common words, and Rachael's reactions in understanding. She thanks the owner for the taxi, the wonderful meal, and his remarks. This she does in fluent French. She tries to press some bills in his hand. He will have none of it. A brief exchange of words, still in French, ensues. Then Rachael smiles, and gives the owner a kiss on the cheek. It's settled. It's the owner's way of saying farewell. Rachael quietly explains this to Sean. He nods, and the owner amiably bows ever so slightly, more of an overly-gracious nod, and accompanies them to the door and the waiting taxi.
They arrive at Rachael's, and once in the comfort of her apartment she turns and kisses Sean. It's soft. Lips solicitously parted for him to respond. He does, first as soft, then the passion increases in both. They release one another, gasping. She gathers herself and stalling says, "Wow. Oh. Well, now. How about another brandy? By the window, overlooking the park. It's a beautiful view."
"Sounds good. Just one . . . don't want to be liftin' any bumpers tonight."
Rachael frowns, mutters, "Wha . . ." then smiles. "One's just right," and she slips off her heels. She pads to the cabinet against the far wall for her bottle of 25-year old XO Luxury Janneau and crystal snifters.
After pouring , she once again sits in his lap. They talk. Brush lips. She nibbles. They both sip from time to time while talking, close to a whisper. When she finishes her Armagnac, Rachael shifts her position slightly and more audibly, says, "Sean, come to Paris with me. I have a flat in the city, near the Seine. We'll have fun. I'll show you Paris. One seen by tourists, and one not."
"You're tempting me."
"I can be even more persuasive."
"Rach . . . last evening; today; tonight weren't in my game plan. Something is happening for sure. At least I think so. I know I want to see you again, so I'm goin' to stick around for a few days. If you'll have me?"
"Oh, I'll have you all right. Plan on it. But, Paris . . . think of it. You and me, in Paris. And we can easily get to other places you haven't seen. By train . . . trains can be so much fun. Have you ever been on the Orient Express? Of course not. It's wonderful. Stops in Paris and goes on to Vienna. An overnight trip."
"There you go again with the multiple questions." He laughs. "Just kidding. It all sounds great, but, Paris. I don't know. Have to think hard about that, let alone Vienna or anywhere else. I have people counting on me."
She presses a finger to his lips. "Ssshh. Just think about it for now, and me. I'm going to give you much more to think about." She takes her finger from his lips, kisses him, long, soft and wet. Then nibbles his neck.
"I am." He kisses her on the lips, then on her neck, then ear. He runs his hand gently through her hair, gazing at her face. His eyes drop momentarily.
She leans away, smiling, waits for his eyes to return to hers. "I think fate brought us together. I feel it. I'm
not going to let you get away."
Sean stares back. Scanning her face with his eyes. Touches her eyebrows, and lightly runs his finger across one, then the other. Brushes her lips with his. "Yeah, could be. Fate. Or something. Whatever, it's gnawing at my insides for sure. Rach, there is one thing. . . by the nature of my lifestyle over these years I've had only one night stands or such. Nothing meaningful. Well, except for once a long, long time ago. Anyway, if we have something going, I don't want it to be another one night stand . . . this one in New York as opposed to San Diego, San Francisco or Hong Kong, or wherever."
She smiles warmly, then slips both arms around his neck and they kiss for a long time, tongues exploring each other's mouth; perhaps thoughts and even souls. The passionate kiss turns to brushings of the lips, then she hugs him tightly, clinging, whispers in his ear. "Sean Gallagher, stay with me for a few days. Come with me to Paris." She covers his mouth with the palm of her hand. "And, come with me now," slides off his lap and leads him to her bedroom. He follows willingly, slipping out of his jacket as he goes, then steps out of his loafers, stumbling a little. She drops her jacket after slipping out of it with her free hand. Not quite to the hallway, Sean picks her up and carries her toward his mirrored fantasy, smothering her lips with his as he walks. She writhes, craving for more, emitting soft moans.
He turns sideways, enters the room he sensed earlier was her lair. He sets her down gently. They continue their embrace, lips still clutching the other. Their desire increases and they're engulfed with their lust for one another. They tear at each other's remaining clothing. Still exchanging kisses, nips and nibbles. The kisses are foreplay but also barter for articles of clothing. Last he gently removes her bra and bikini panties finally allowing him to devour the full beauty of this woman. He takes one of her breasts into his mouth, tongue caressing her nipple. She gasps and releases a throaty contralto moan, and squirms loose. Drops to her knees before him, pulls down his jockey shorts and gently pushes him backwards, over and onto the bed, and the mirrored images.
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 5