And thus it is. And in their minds, therefore it will be. Without another word, they head inside the fine lady Belle Maria II to get a good night's sleep before their adventure begins. When Sean's head hits the pillow, he has one last thought before sleep comes. Plan the work; work the plan.
The old man's head hits the pillow, he blesses himself, mutters, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost" He squirms and settles himself, then murmurs, "Thank you, Lord . . . and don't forget the plan. Work the plan."
Work the plan? Probably will take more than seven days though.
CHAPTER 14
On the same bay that Sean Gallagher and Ponzio Vaccaro paint the portrait of their future, Holli Callahan is looking at the same moon, the same stars and figuratively the same splashes in the water of fish jumping. However, she is worried about the picture that was sketched years before. Colton has eaten, helped with the dishes, and went to "hang-out" with the guys with a promise not to be late. After all, she had reminded him, he had a long day today and another tomorrow. In fact a trip every day this week with one exception. He left her on the dock in the back with a shout over his shoulder, "Don't worry, Mom. I'll be home early. By the time I get there, all the guys will probably be talkin' about this dude, the Major." She doesn't respond. Shudders and lifts her Scotch on the Rocks and takes a sip. Dangles the glass, her long fingers gently holding the rim, slowly swirling the iodine colored liquid creating a small eddy . . . like her life at the moment, although it is more akin to a whirlpool. Her mind wanders. Adrift clear of the incoming tide licking at the sandbars out in the bay. Beyond the stars lighting the sky tonight. Sean Gallagher. You swept me away. Then left me, high and dry. Well, not dry.
Grace Holli O'Riley was, like Sean, without parents. Hers too had died in an auto accident when she was a teenager, like Gallagher's. Only she moved from Sacramento to her maternal aunt's home in Sherman Oaks, California. Her aunt and her husband had a sprawling, palatial ranch-type house with pool and tennis court. No children. The plan was for her to live there, finish school, go to college with the money from a trust fund and her parents' insurance money. That was the plan, and it was working. She finished high school and was in her first year at Southern Cal. All was well. No serious complications other than missing her mom and dad. Then, like a bolt of lightning, it happened. She met Sergeant Sean Padraig Gallagher.
Her girlfriend had talked her in to going to the Marine Memorial Club in Los Angeles. It was something like the USO during other wars. The Club sponsored a dance every Saturday night in LA. It was a place for Marines to come and meet girls, dance, drink inexpensively, and in general have a good time. It was heavily frequented by young Marines heading overseas, to Korea. To the war. There was another club like it in San Francisco that provided the same atmosphere for those returning from the war.
Grace went, danced with a few Marines, then saw this tall, husky blond Marine Sergeant sitting at the bar, alone. She had noticed that more than a few girls had stopped and talked with him. None for long. Strange, since this was a place to meet gals, and vice versa. As a result, she went to see what the difficulty was. It wasn't thorny at all. She said, "Hi, my name is . ." He said, "Hi, I'm Sean. Sean Gallagher. Would you like to dance?" And that was it. They clung to each other, no time for others. It was here that he had made that comment about her eyes. Made her knees weak. They danced all evening, and when it came time to leave, he got her coat for her and they got on the elevator. He said "Up," to the operator. She said, "Down." And down it was. As he explained later that evening, he was staying at the hotel and thought the girls were brought in for a purpose. She explained that the gals were asked to come, but not for that purpose. Were there to dance. Meet the men. Be nice and ensure they had a good time since they were far from home, and going farther . . . to war. They laughed over the misinterpretation. And she went home with her friend, however, they did kiss goodnight at the car in the lot. A nice, warm kiss and when over, a momentary gazing into each other's eyes fusing the budding relationship.
The next two weekends she came again to the MMC. He was there. They met, danced, had a few drinks and when they left, he took her home to Sherman Oaks in her aunt's car that she had borrowed. No friend along which in itself was a hopeful indicator. Everything was fine. Grace's aunt and uncle asked him to stay for the weekend. He did. They swam late at night on Saturday, and more of the same on Sunday. Went to mass on Sunday morning which was more than her uncle did. They drew close, quickly. Exceptionally close. In fact, Grace was falling in love for the first time in her life. She thought he was as well. Their love making was more like the definition of the time, petting. Sometimes, heavy, but not beyond.
Then came that weekend late in December, 1952. His last. They met as usual at the MMC, but left early. She had driven herself in her aunt's car as before. He was to stay over again. Different in that this time he had told her at the Club that this was his last weekend. He was boarding ship on Tuesday in San Diego and heading for Korea. The replacement draft had finished training and processing and was now leaving. They danced closer that night, held each other tighter, said less and nuzzled more. On the ride to the house, he was peculiarly silent. Although not a talker, he always sat close and spoke to her and of them. Not this night.
When they returned to her aunt's home, the couple was out for the evening. At a neighbor's party they had told Grace. Sean and Grace sprawled on the couch, watching TV, started kissing lightly, then it turned into what it had reached on occasion, heavy petting. Only this time, it went further, and they made love on the settee in the TV room. Then again on the coffee table in front of the sofa, experimenting with a different position, sending the magazines and an ashtray splattering to the floor. Finally, a third and fever pitched time on the floor in front of a smoldering fire in the stone fireplace. Then exhausted, like the fire, they lay in each other's arms brushing lips and whispering, much like the embers now. It was at that point they heard the kitchen door open, close, and the voice of her uncle.
The wild scramble for her clothes and his uniform were only partially successful when the uncle entered the room. Grace retreated to her room, embarrassed and frightened, clothing dangling from her hand. Sean, nodded, grunted, and finished dressing. He was assuming the worse was about to happen, therefore he went into the kitchen to face the music. He was not one to shy away from trouble. The uncle was in there, arms wrapped around a gorgeous peroxide blond, her hands groping at his beltline and their mouths coupled. The lady was not Grace's aunt. Uncle and Sergeant stared at one another. No words were spoken. One man and one young, husky teenage Marine came to a mutual, silent understanding. Nothing would be said by the other. No need. Unfortunately, after her hurried retreat, Grace reappeared. Now the momentary secret was no more.
As Grace remembers everything, Sean tried explaining the situation. It was fruitless, consequently he decided he should leave, and quickly. Remaining there wasn't a viable option. Grace and Sean not only said their goodnights, but ostensibly goodbyes. He was leaving, and he told her that he wouldn't forget her, but she should forget him, trying to explain that the odds were not good for him returning from the war. That, of course, was not true. The odds were good he would, but then young warriors 'to be' are much more dramatic than the warrior 'that is.' Grace resisted this supposition with logic, emotion and professions of her love. All this was cut short by the arrival of her aunt. This precipitated the immediate departure of Sean to his hitch-hiking adventure to the base some one hundred miles south. A screaming aunt was on the prowl, for the uncle and probably any male creature in sight.
And as life would have it, there was no further contact between Grace O'Riley and Sergeant Sean Gallagher. No letters. No word. Nothing. Except for Grace. She was pregnant as a result of that wild night of lovemaking. The piper always must be payed. And her aunt and uncle were done. Her uncle, as it were, left and she never heard from him or of him again. "Good riddance to bad rubbish" was the most civilized utteran
ce from her aunt. Her aunt fell ill and died shortly thereafter. A heart ailment strange enough. Grace, left alone, had one relative in the world. One she had never seen nor spoken to, until the phone call. Her Uncle George in Harvey Cedars, New Jersey . . . wherever the hell that was. Subsequently at three months pregnant, Grace O'Riley called her Uncle George, presented a convincing argument, and arrived as G. Holli Callahan, widowed wife of Lieutenant junior grade, Mark Callahan. A Navy pilot, who had died in a crash while flying a mission in Korea. Her trust fund intact; the insurance money effectively untouched, she left and joined her uncle in the Cedars. Worked for her Uncle; gave birth to her son, Colton Callahan, and raised him. All the while doing so she attended school at night, got her degree, got her real estate license as well and was successful working for her uncle. When he passed away in the storm of '62, she was his only heir, and he left all to her. His business, savings and insurance. And it was substantial. Since 1962 she grew the business on her own; ventured into a property management business as well; and opened an antique shop that was moderately successful. Became well known in town as a heady, strong businesswoman. An important and key member of the Chamber and several other civic organizations. She was a person to know. She was a person to fear. And not much happened in the world of real estate and development in Harvey Cedars that didn't carry her fingerprints.
At one weak moment, she had explained the truth to her Uncle George. He swore never to say a word. Grace is not sure if he did or not, but the old man, the fisherman, seemed to know something. If only by the way he seemed to watch over her after her uncle was gone. And her son, Colton, is a dead, spitting image of Sean Gallagher. Everything. Hair, blossoming build, mannerisms, and most of all, his eyes. Those steely blue eyes. She, on the other hand, had no idea that Sean Gallagher was from Harvey Cedars. He never said. He never discussed his home or his family. Said he had none. And she hadn't heard his name mentioned in town anywhere until a day or two before her uncle died in the storm. After that her choices weren't necessarily limited, but the benefits in staying were much too strong. Accordingly she stayed and didn't think anything of it, nor did she dream Gallagher would ever return even when she had heard his name crop up in conversations with the Barto's and others. After all, apparently Sean left years ago and never returned. She thought likely he never would.
As she sits on her dock, scotch gone, breeze cooling a tad, she gets up and stares out into the bay. I don't know what to do. I must avoid crossing paths with him at least for the summer. Then Colt will be away to his last year in school in the fall, and after that on to, we both hope, the Naval Academy. If he's away, no damage can be done to him, or his reputation. And if the day comes I have to face this issue, he will be gone and I will put this to bed, as it were. If it won't sleep, then I'll pack it in. Sell out. Go elsewhere. Start over or just relax.
Now, I need time . . . and some luck.
CHAPTER 15
Sean and Pete are up at the crack of a new born day on board the Belle Maria II. The old seafarer, Pete goes topside to check the weather and finds no red skies while down below Sean scrapes together some scrambled eggs, bacon and a pot of strong coffee. The coffee is as black as the instant coffee in the C-Rations labeled Black Death, but it will taste better. Sean doesn't miss eating the C-Rats but perhaps misses the trading. These thoughts cause his mind to wander even further. Folgers's surely had brought the bean from the mountains, or whatever, but not to C-Rats. Yeah, and that gal I met who did the Folgers commercials. Beautiful hands, and legs . . . and everything. Wonder where she is nowadays. Pete returns saying, "Beautiful morning . . . hmmmm, that smells good," and snatches a piece of bacon from the napkin next to the stove.
They eat hurriedly with minimal conversation, only a few words of the day's activities. As they finish, and before the last of their second cup of coffee is downed, Colton arrives on his bike. He boards, says hello and starts about his chores to ready the boat for its day of fishing. A party of six down from the Big Apple are already at dock's edge. Pete gulps the last of his coffee, goes ashore and welcomes them to the boat. Sean nods to them as he passes on the way to meet Chuck Barto to execute the day's purchases. . .boat and restaurant. He's carrying his mug of coffee.
The boy looks at Pete and says, "Mister Pete, the Major sure looks familiar."
"He should."
"Why's that?"
"Nothin', but if you work at it you might figure it out someday. You should try to meet him and talk with him. You could learn a lot . . . about life."
"Yeah, but he isn't especially talkative. You know what I mean? Doesn't mince any words with anyone, 'cepting you."
Pete sighs. "Yes, I know. Maybe someday he'll warm to you. Until then, mind your p's and q's. Are we ready to put out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay, get ready to cast off. I'll get her cranked up." He gives the boy a pat on the shoulder, turns and says to the gentlemen on board, "Gent's, pour yourselves some coffee and get seated in the cabin. We're getting set to depart. Will be going after some blues and weak fish to start, then later up bay for some flounder. Depending on when we get in we might drop some lines with fish heads and get some crabs for you. Not exciting but tasty with flounder."
They smile, chorus various remarks of thanks, okay, great and so forth as Pete climbs the ladder to the fly bridge to crank the lady up. At the helm he turns the ignition key, thumbs the starter button, and the engines purr to life sounding like a well-fed cat. Still, a small cloud of blue exhaust smoke belches from the stern and drifts across the docks and other boats. Pete shouts, "Cast off, Colt."
"Aye, sir." And they're gone, slowly making their way out of the Marina and into the channel. Once there, turn to port heading first to the lower bay, perhaps down to Egg Harbor.
* * *
Sean meets Chuck Barto in his office. All parties for the two sales are present and anxious to proceed. The boat is the less complicated. Therefore they'll complete that transaction first. Barto invites old man Trim, the dealer, into the conference room along with Sean. Since this is a cash transaction, Sean gets clear title, keys, all papers and instructions for the boat which are captured in an envelope. The title being signed is followed with a handshake and a smile from both Sean and the old man, Trim. Trim has brought the boat to Harvey Cedars and she's tied-up at Barto's slip at a nearby Marina. Trim leaves and Sean says to Barto, "Can't wait to take her out today for a trial run in the bay and out at sea."
Barto replies, "Well, she's a beauty, and plush. Had a look at her this morning when he tied up. You're going to be living in luxury. Some of the single ladies in town will be lookin' for an evening cruise . . . and perchance more."
"Well, I hope they don't hold their breath. This isn't Guam."
"Guam?"
"Yeah, I'm joking. Supposedly in Guam there are men whose full-time jobs are to travel the countryside and deflower young virgins who pay them for the privilege of having sex for the first time. Under Guam law, supposedly, it is expressly forbidden for virgins to marry. If it's true, it is a helleva job, and I guess somebody's got to do it."
"Never heard of it. Wouldn't be the case for the ladies I was talking about. I'm sure they've been de-something or other by now. However, you're right. It would be a helleva job." He pauses for a moment, smiles, then says, "Maybe as Mayor I should try to enact an ordinance like that . . . here."
"Well, I was kidding about the ladies from around here, and I for damn sure wouldn't try doing that in this town. Or any town in this country. Gloria Steinem would have you nailed to a cross in no time. Anyway, I have no interest in the ladies hereabouts, at least for now. I'm merely the skipper of the Wanderer and with anticipation in a few minutes or more, an owner of a restaurant as well. Are we ready?"
"Yep, let me get him, the owner, and my Notary to come in here. We've got an ocean of paperwork to wade through."
After nearly an hour of explanations and signing a stack of papers longer than an orangutan's arm that seems to be
a breach of American tradition brought upon us by lawyers, Sean is the owner of a restaurant. Well, not exactly. He and Barto's Mortgage Company. These purchases have put a serious dent in Sean's bank account. However, without the IBM stock he still has a decent investment portfolio, some cash, his retirement income, the cottage and two other pieces of property on the ocean. He may sell one, and possibly at some time in the future build on the other. After the handshakes again, all except he and Chuck Barto leave the room. Sean asks, "Chuck, I will need to visit with a realtor one day soon. Any suggestions?"
This is too easy for Barto. "You bet. The best in town. Holli Callahan. Want me to introduce you to her? She's officed across the street," pointing in the general direction. "In fact, you ought to consider taking her for a ride on your . . . your . . . I hesitate calling it a boat. Inside it's more like a floating bordello."
"Not interested right now, and that wasn't nice. It's without a doubt plush. I'll keep her name in mind for a real estate deal however."
"Well, you should get to meet her at the least. On top of being influential in town, her son, Colton, works for Pete. And you now, I guess."
"Really? Well, then I guess she'll have the inside tract when the time comes. I might be interested in selling one of the pieces of property I still own. Goin' to wait a bit until I'm sure. Seems as if things are going to blow apart around here pretty soon."
"They are. We're going to grow. It's going to be unbelievable, however the property values will certainly keep climbing. Might be more beneficial to wait. Except to build of course."
"Well, okay. I'll be thinkin' on it. We done?"
"Yep. Still ought to check out the Callahan woman. She's a looker, and single, or more accurately a widow."
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 10