Ponzio stands staring after her. He mutters, "Dadgum Irish women are meaner than a snake and more dangerous than a lioness with cubs. Well, I gave my word to George, and other than that slip just a minute ago, I've kept it. And I will." He waves as Holli drives off. Turns toward the boat, then stops suddenly as if he forgot something. Looks up, pleads, "Dear God, please get your plan movin' before it's too late." Takes a step, stops, blesses himself and says, "Amen."
He turns and shuffles back toward his Belle Maria II where the boy is now standing at the stern, looking at Pete in wonderment. Then to his mother's car streaking out of the parking lot and then back to the old man. Ole Pete slows his pace to delay the confrontation, still muttering, says, "Glad Sean will be here tomorrow." Shakes his head and starts to shuffle back to the boat. "I'm gonna need to get myself a helmet and one of them flak jackets with that woman on the warpath. Damn Irish."
An unheard melody haunts the dock.
T'was Grace that taught my heart to fear
John Newton
At the boat, the boy climbs out and fronts the old man. "What was that all about, Mister Pete?"
"Oh, nothing much, Colt. Your Mom had some things on her mind and had to have her say. Everything's fine."
"Well, I know when she's pissed, and she sure looked that way when she passed me."
"You shouldn't use language like that, but she did seem to have a barracuda in her bait tank. It'll be okay." He forces a smile, then, "Hey, here come our customers for the day. Are we ready?"
"Yes, sir. Shipshape. I'll greet 'em and get to the lines."
The boy does and leads them to Mister Pete, and introduces the group to the Skipper of the Belle Maria II. The boy's good at his job. Not only with the fishing, but with customers and business in general. The old man says, "Welcome. Climb aboard. I got a feelin' we're going to catch our limit on everything today."
Pete's dock phone rings startling him. He's not expecting any calls, except maybe Sean. Hoping, he answers it cheerily. He listens, smiles, shouts, "Sean. How are you? When will you be here?" Again, he listens. The smile disappears, turns into a grimace. He tries to speak, "Sean, no--". He's cut off by the voice on the other end. Finally, he stands, staring at the receiver. Slams it on its hook. Kicks the phone pole, winces in pain. "Damned, Jezebel. Satan in the flesh."
"Hey, Mister Pete," yells Colt. "We're all on board and ready to cast off."
Pete waves his hand, stomps aboard the boat, muttering all the way to the bridge. Starts the engines. Looks about. Then shouts gruffly, "Cast off."
Colt looks up. Shrugs, and casts off the lines.
The customers watch in wonderment, hoping for a good day regardless of the skipper's tone of voice.
"Hustle up," shouts Pete and he starts pulling out of the slip. Colt has to take a running leap to get aboard.
Colt grabs the boat's rail, steadies himself, gazes up at the old man and mutters, "What the hell happened? My mom's pissed. He's pissed." He saunters to the stern and breathes a sigh as he looks back at the shore.
"Oh well, doesn't concern me."
CHAPTER 9
"Who was that you just called?" asks Rachael. She turns around and adds, "We need to hurry."
Sean smiles, "I like the view too much to hurry."
Rachael has yet to dress after the shower tango. She's standing at the closet contemplating her choice of outfits. "I won't, but I should." She mockingly pouts, waits a moment, then, "Who did you call?"
"Was the old man, Pete. Have just one more call to make to let folks know I'll be getting there a little later than I said. And to set some wheels in motion." He dials Chuck Barto, discusses a fair price for the restaurant, and tells him to set up the purchase through the bank; he does the same for the 56' Matthew Voyager except it will be a cash transaction; Sean sets his price for both. If the sellers don't agree with the offer, he'll negotiate when he gets home. Both purchases will be pending his seeing them when he arrives. The last item is the pick-up he ordered while in California. It's arrived. He instructs Barto to complete the purchase and have it and all paperwork waiting for him. It, too, is for cash. When asked when he'll be home, he whispers, "Wednesday, most likely."
"I heard that. That's not for sure yet. I have three days to work on you," yells Rachael. She's moved to the bathroom and progressed to panties and bra to apply makeup.
Sean answers Barto's question as to who that was in the background with an abrupt, "Not important. A friend." Then says, "Thanks, see you Wednesday," and hangs up without giving Barto a chance to continue.
Still in his skivvies he goes to the end of her closet where she has crammed his clothes in on hangers and mutters, "If we keep going at this pace, I'll be dead before Wednesday, and it'll be a mute point."
"I heard that, too." They both laugh. Get dressed and head out the door of her apartment for the Tavern on the Green in Central Park for brunch. They walk. After a leisurely meal, they go to Yankee Stadium and take in a double-header. Yanks and Senators, and the Yankees are having a bad year. They lose both games: 2-1 and 8-zip. Murcer, White, Alou and Munson aren't enough, nor are Stottlemeyer and Bahnsen.
They dine out again, this time at the Boathouse Restaurant in the park. After several brandies while watching the paddle boats and canoes on the lake, they go back to Rachael's apartment and again spend the remainder of the evening and early morning in Rachael's mirrored lair.
Monday and Tuesday are spent in virtually an identical fashion. A dawner each morning, followed by brunch. Then sight-seeing in the park and elsewhere. On Monday, they visit the Bow Bridge, Shakespeare Garden and the Belvedere Castle. All within walking distance of Rachael's place; across to the west side. Monday night dinner Sean takes her to the Goose and Gurkin on 50th, only a short jaunt from 3rd Avenue. After dinner the cab ride to Rachael's apartment is followed by a mad scramble to her lair. However, exhaustion dictates their love making. The night culminates in a slow, single act of love. Then they slink into the marble tub to soak and relax, satisfied and exhausted, followed by a mutual willing collapse into the bed and sleep. A worn-out Queen Bee and a drained Drone. The hive with its mirrors be damned.
Tuesday morning they sleep until well after nine, and fully rested they begin the day with another dawner, simply later. After toast and coffee, they tour Lincoln Center, catch a light lunch at a nearby deli, and tour the Top of the Rock. When arriving home late in the day, Rachael and he shower together and don't engage in any playtime. After toweling off, she murmurs, "Sean, my luv, we are now dressed for dinner."
"Ah, now that's interesting."
"Yes, it will be. Here at home, at the glass top table."
"Is this your final move? The big play for the Paris trip?"
"Oh no, darlin'. Just the beginning."
Rachael prepares the meal clad only in an apron. Sean tries to play, distract her, however she will have none of it. She keeps him sitting at the table enjoying a glass of wine and the view. The dinner is breaded veal, fried small potatoes and green beans preceded with a salad. It is served with a wonderfully light, dry Chablis. When she finishes serving, she faces Sean, unties the apron and lets it drop to the floor. Then sits across from Sean. No tablecloth. No place mats. Just plates, silverware and her . . . a coffee, tea or me enticement.
While they dine, Rachael carries on a stream of conversation centered around Sean coming to Paris with her. He resists. As he eats, she quips, "You needn't eat so fast, I'll be here all night. However, perhaps the journey has been too much for an old guy like you."
"The hell you say. Last evening's pace allowed me to recoup. And, tonight is our last night together for a while. I don't want you to forget it . . . or me."
"I can hardly forget you." She finishes her last bite. Gets up and gathers up a bottle of Sambuco, puts three coffee beans in each glass, and pours. Then sits, and runs her fingers slowly around the rim of her glass not only producing a musical tone but also prompting a pensive expression to spread across her face.
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Sean, also finished, holds his glass high, looking at the beans, then sets it down and says, "I know about the coffee beans. But why three?"
"It's an ancient tradition. They represent a wish. For health, happiness, and prosperity. I know I'm prosperous and it appears you are as well. We're both healthy. So all we need to concentrate on is happiness; hopefully it will begin tonight in some form and in Paris." She purses her lips, asks, "Toast? To happiness."
He nods, "All but the Paris part. I can't," but he raises his glass. She does as well, only with her mock pouting expression. They drink. She sets the glass down on the table, deliberately rolling it around on its base, head down, eyes gazing at Sean from that position. She whispers, "We'll see." Rachael slowly rises from the table, runs her hands, palm down up her thighs, abdomen, and over her breasts. She sidles seductively behind Sean, leans over, her breasts brushing his neck and shoulder, and nips him on his ear, saying, "Bring some more beans to my lair. I've been watching through the table top entirely too long." She stands, saunters a few steps, bends over more than slightly, wiggles, and strolls toward the bedroom saying over her shoulder in her best contralto tone, "Hurry, I'm hornier than a five year widow."
Sean smiles. That sounds like a country western song title. He gazes in wonderment at this splendid creature as she promenades seductively away.
* * *
Later as they lie on the round play pen's satin sheets, gazing up at the mirror, Rachael unleashes a selection of reasons why Sean should change his mind about Paris. Finally, after his catalog of "No's", she concedes and asks, "Will you at least take me to JFK and see me off?"
"Sure, I'll do that, but you have to promise not to do something wacky. A desperate last second attempt to get me on the plane."
"Like what?"
"Like the apron trick again, or the wiggle and bend routine."
She grins, "They worked." Tilts her head to one side, "Perhaps the airport wouldn't be the place. But it's a thought."
"Promise? Or no ride."
"I promise. Do you promise to wait for me until I return? I'll be back in a few weeks and will come see you in the Cedars. That's more than you can say."
"I came to New York, didn't I?"
"That wasn't to see me."
"Well, I stayed."
"It only turned out that way and then only after my persuasive methods."
"They were that, for sure. Oh yeah. And I'll be resting up until you return."
Rachael stirs, rolls over and starts brushing her lips on his chest and working her way down. After more handiwork, and his groans, she rolls on top of him, takes him deep inside, moaning, "I want you, every moment." She begins to churn, squirm, rock to and fro, like a ship on a storm's angry waves. All her schemes and his logic are lost in the moment.
* * *
Wednesday morning is the first morning since Sean has moved into Rachael's apartment that there is no dawner. The morning is all business. Only time to dress, pack last minute items and load the car. Sean will drive Rachael's canary yellow '71 BMW 2002 convertible to the airport. Park her car in the long term area, and take her to the gate and see her off. Then he will head to the car rental area, leaving her car for her return, and take the rental to Harvey Cedars. She has arranged for her business agent to handle the move and storage of her furniture and closing of the apartment. The sale had been completed last week, as were the farewell parties, with a move-out date of this coming Friday.
Once in the terminal, waiting for the flight, they have a cup of coffee. Rachael asks, "Where will you be living in the Cedars, and how can I get in touch with you? I want to call . . . make you suffer thinking of me and what you're missing."
"Ah, an obscene phone call. Never had one, but you'll have to give me a number to call you. Don't have a phone yet. When I get settled I'll call you. Will be able to give you a number then. Okay?"
"Yes." She jots down her number in Paris and hands it to Sean, reminds him of the time difference and adds, "Call me in the evening, late. I'll be home, and alone so obscene will be good."
"Alone?"
"Yes. I told you. I'm in love."
"Yeah, I know, I heard you. But, after just four or five days?"
"No, after thirty-seven years and five days. I meant to ask you to the Senior Prom but couldn't find you, so I waited until now. Do you believe me?"
"Hell, I don't believe the last few days, but I damn sure won't forget 'em."
"Good. Then you'll wait?"
"Sure. And you'll like being back in the Cedars. You've never been back, have you?"
"No. Have you?"
"Yeah, once. Before I went to Korea . . . in '52."
"For all practical purposes, that's the same thing." She pauses as if to say something else. Then, "There's the call for my flight." They get up, stroll arm in arm toward the gate. She's flying first class and will be boarding in the initial group. As they hear the seat numbers being called, they join the boarding line. She says, "Sean. I love you. Call me when you get situated." Tears well up in her eyes. She whimpers, "Darn it, I wasn't going to cry. Give me a kiss." They kiss. It's as long a goodbye kiss as the line allows and passionate enough to cause heads to turn. When they release one another, she turns and hurries toward the diminishing gaggle of first class passengers. Stops, turns her head and shouts, "Sean, my car keys. You've still got--" Before she can finish, he takes several giant steps jerking the keys from his pocket and hands them to her. She steps toward the gate, turns quickly, and gives him a peck on the lips, says, "Bye, be good." And she disappears into the wobbly hollowness of the accordion-like ramp way leading to the aircraft.
Sean stares at the gate door which is now crowded with coach passengers waiting their turn to show a branding pass and trundle to the aircraft like cattle into rail cars at a stockyard. He goes to the large window by the gate to see if he can see her. Within minutes he does, face in the window, waving. Maybe I should go. Maybe this whole idea of going home is bull. No one gives a hoot.
He turns from the window, looks at the ticket counter, thinks hard and strains at the bit, but only for a moment or two. Then turns back to the window, gives one last wave, and mutters, "Pete cares, and I owe him." And he's off for his home of a long time ago.
* * *
He uses the time on the Garden State Parkway to clear his mind and go through his mental checklist of things to do. His mind drifts in and out of those thoughts to ones of Rachael. To what it could have been had he gone to Paris, and what it might be down the road. Between the logical thoughts and wishful daydreams, the time and miles pass quicker than an outgoing artillery round. He mutters, "Hell, it was probably just a weekend stand. Like all the rest."
He takes the Barnegat exit, heads to his first stop, the bank and Chuck Barto. If he has everything arranged like he's been asked, Sean will be in the new pick-up he ordered and on his way to check his family cottage and then to see the old man. He mutters, "Tonight a good dinner and small talk; a cold beer while watching the sun set on the bay, and in the morning Ol' Pete and I will begin a new life." He stares out the windshield, eastward toward the ocean in a thousand-yard gaze.
What could be better?
What could possibly go wrong?
CHAPTER 10
The ninety-plus-mile drive passes quickly in the moderate mid-week traffic. As Sean nears the coast the salt air mixed with the marsh aromas smell like home. Anxiety builds with each breath until the water, in this case the bays, come into view with their marshes plumb with cat-tails. After crossing the Manahawkin Bridge, Sean heads north toward his home town, Harvey Cedars. It doesn't look much like the town he left. The March '62 storm, the storm of all storms, took care of that. However, some familiar features remain. The harbors on either side of the bridge are as vast as ever with shorelines developing rapidly. Both bays, Barnegat and Little Egg Harbor, are pond calm today. Not as many Sneak Box sailboats out today as there are on the weekends. They'll need more breeze than what stirs today.
Not in a hurry, he cruises along North Long Beach Boulevard. He passes the familiar recreation park and shortly after passes what was once the old Harvey Cedars Hotel, now the Bible Conference Center. Both on the bay side of the Boulevard. He is to meet old man Barto's son, Charles, at the bank. Barto has made all the necessary financial and delivery arrangements that Sean requested when calling in early May from San Diego and again a few days ago. Barto will have arranged for the purchase of that 1971 Ford Ranger XLT short-bed pick-up Sean had ordered in San Diego to be delivered here. Sean will turn-in the rental car at the same time.
Charles Barto is anxious to meet Gallagher. He's heard of him for years from his father, the founder of the bank, and from the old man, Ponzio Vaccaro. And of course, he and Sean have had numerous business conversations over the recent years, especially the last few weeks, consequently the meeting might be like two old friends getting together.
* * *
After they meet, pass a few pleasantries and small talk of the weather, the two of them adjourn to Barto's office. There Barto outlines the list of events that he has planned with the leading townsfolk to welcome Sean home. Sean quickly rejects all Barto's plans for parades and elaborate events. He convinces Barto that a quiet homecoming is what is in the best interest of the town. However, Barto does convince him to at least meet with the members of the Chamber of Commerce in the near future. Sean agrees since it's in his best interest.
All that is in tune with Sean's plans to purchase a luxury yacht. He and Pete will outfit it for a fish and cruise business for small "flush" duos or trios of businessmen and couples for day and evening cruises. Also, the boat will be his home, at least until the end of the year. That will depend on whether or not Rachael shows up and then events in general. He will be in partnership with the old man, Ponzio Vaccaro, with his boat, and of course the larger venture, the restaurant.
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 7