"Here we go again. In order. If you want. Depends on the first."
"Is this going to be a habit with us?"
"What, the staying together or the question and answer routine?"
She jabs him in the ribs, tugs his arm, laughs and coos, "Show me the rest, then I'll decide."
"Decide what?" as he leads her out and up to the flying bridge.
"If we are to. . .continue where we left off. I'm well rested and like that five-year widow again."
"Me too. Rested. And like an eighteen year old Marine on his first R&R."
"Stop it, I'm beginning to get wet."
They move on, up the ladder to the flying bridge, Sean following her and admiring the view from below. Great legs . . . and a seventeen year old's butt. Volleyballs.
Up top, she gasps, "My God, this area up here is bigger than any boat I've seen and more plush." What she is aghast over is the wide instrument console, the huge white leather Captain's chair and aft of it, white leather seating areas on both sides. The entire area is covered. From here they drop down into the Master Suite and Salon area of the Boat.
“Wow. Now this is enticing. Sean, my goodness. This is like a three-level flat." Glances around the bedroom. "And who is your decorator, Cheriee?"
"Dunno. Bought it this way." And he shows her the bedroom which has a large king-size bunk encased in a light wood. The ash frame has drawers on both sides. There is a matching dresser on one side and on the other the entry into the master head. The adjoining stateroom is furnished with a large beige leather couch with coffee table, and the starboard side has wrap-around leather lounge seating and a pair of matching chairs. It has TV, HiFi, and the compartment is enclosed with a panoramic window wrapping around to an aft door opening onto a deck with a dining table for two, or four if needed. It is an open deck overlooking the aft end of the boat, and forever.
Rachael is taken aback but manages some sass, "You commented on my bedroom in New York. This only lacks the mirrors but I shan't let it discourage me. Besides I like the feel better than the images . . . but I prefer both."
"Well, what'd ya think? Nice? I mean the whole boat?"
"Yes, but why waste it on fishing?"
"To make money, and I not only take folks fishing, but also cruising around the bays, and as far south as they wish. Atlantic City, further if desired. In good weather it's a nice trip along the coast and the inner bays."
Rachael collapses into a chair at the dining table. She takes in the view, breathing deep, letting the salt air relax her. Sean asks, "Can I get you something? A cold drink or a glass of wine? Anything?"
"A chilled Pinot Grigio would be nice if you have it and a moment or two to relax after the flight and drive."
"Coming up. When you're rested, you can clean up, change if you wish. I'll take her out while you're freshening up, find a nice peaceful spot in the bay to anchor and I'll cook and serve you chow. How's that sound for your first liberty in the Cedars?"
"Well, it's not exactly my first liberty here but it sounds delightful." Then with a sly grin and with a heavy French accent, "Actually, magnificent . . . and after?"
Sean chuckles, "You might get lucky," and departs for the galley before a comment can be hurled his way. When he returns he has the bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio in an ice bucket and a bottle of Chianti Classico under his arm for himself. He sets both down, then the glasses, opens and pours a glass of each for Rachael and himself. He slides into a chair next to her. Lifts his glass in a toast. "May God hold you in the palm of his hand, and angels watch over you."
Rachael tips her glass, grins, "Thanks. Will I need the angels?" Takes a sip.
Sean swallows hurriedly, "Don't know. I'm still learning polite and socially acceptable toasts. Anyway, how was your trip? Did you get your answers?"
"Ahhh, now you're doing it. Well, turnabout is fair play I suppose. In order. Wonderful. Not all."
"I shouldn't ask about the latter."
"Not to worry. I'll tell you more after another sip." She takes that sip, sets the glass down and half turns to face Sean tells him about her trip. The flight over was restful after their energetic last days in the city. She stayed at her flat in Paris and managed to see all her friends, associates and former major customers through personal lunches, arranged luncheons, dinners and late evening parties. Rachael explains that the first two weeks were exhausting, but fun. Further, the weather was gorgeous throughout even with a few light showers that only made the city glisten and smell of spring although it was early summer. When done she leans forward, kisses Sean lightly on the lips, and leans back into her original position. She takes another sip of her wine and noticeably relaxes in the beige leather chair. Takes in a deep breath, lets it out and exclaims. "The bay smells like a memory. One of home, of youth, of good times. Don't you think?"
"Yes, it does. I've become accustomed to it, and to the Cedars. I'm liking it. Maybe my best tour of duty."
"So tell me of you. What you've been up to, besides obtaining this floating boudoir."
"Well, all the things I mentioned in New York." He goes on and recaps all the news of the boat, Pete's forthcoming marriage, and the restaurant. The latter has been coming to life much quicker than anticipated; he explains that he believes they will open before Labor Day, possibly a week or two which would be marvelous and beneficial for next season. When finished, he refills both of their glasses, and after he slowly places his bottle back on a side table, he turns toward Rachael. "And what about the mystery matter you had to resolve?"
Rachael drops her head for a moment, raises it up, and looks Sean in the eyes, holding the gaze for several seconds. "Your eyes are disarming you know."
"Rach, I don't mean to pry."
"Non. Non. Oops, sorry for the French. You're not prying. You have some right to know, I suppose."
"Well, it is prying, but it is about your man in Paris. Isn't it?"
“Oui and non. Yes and no. About him, and is he right for me? Is he what I want? Or is it you? You got to me in New York. Struck a dagger in my heart, and a spike in my plans. Or at least what I thought was my plan. "
"Sounds like some kind of contest to me. A competition of sorts."
"Yes and no. Not a competition per se. A wanting for me to be sure with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. And, Sean, perhaps more important, where."
"Where? Does it matter if the person is right?"
" Yes. And I think it does. And also, do I want to languish in relaxation and luxury or do I want to participate, to work, to partner? All those. And I could not make a decision while in Paris. I needed to come back here. To you. So, I will find out I suppose, or perhaps get no answer and reside in my own purgatory." She smiles and shrugs.
Sean drains his glass. Pours another for himself, checks Rachael's glass. It doesn't need refilling yet. He looks out over the rail and over the other boats and masts, into the bay. Silent. For only several more moments but what seems like a century. Then turns to Rachael. "Sounds fair to me. I guess it's not much different except I know now the Cedars is home and that it took me a long time to get back. And I'm staying and going to work my plan."
She purrs, "Regardless?"
"Rach, I've chosen where I want to be, and what. And have already affected other people in making that choice. If I find a woman . . . to love, to spend the rest of my life with, wonderful. Life may well be fulfilled then. If not, so be it. You know, sometimes in life you have to decide which bridge to cross, and which to burn."
"It is not the other way around for you? The woman, then the where? It's always better to burn the where bridge, and cross the other. You can always find a where, maybe not the woman."
"Interesting, but I've already crossed into where. Can't burn it now. For the reasons I've mentioned. Besides, if a woman loves me, she will also love what I do and where I do it . . . at least I hope."
Rachael stirs in her seat. Not uncomfortable but somewhat quizzical. "Then let's not waste time talking of bridge
s. Let's live. And to start, that dinner you spoke of earlier sounds delightful." Smiles, then coos, "And romantic."
"You're on. No more metaphoric bull. Let's finish our wine. You get yourself settled and freshened up, and I'll take her out."
"Good, however, your comment reminds me you haven't answered my question about why a her? Or a she?"
"Well, in fact, it's always been customary to personify certain inanimate objects and attribute to them characteristics peculiar to living things. Often spoken of as having a sex. Some masculine. Like the sun, winter and death as masculine. Others are regarded as feminine, especially those dear to us. Like earth, as Mother Earth. In languages that use gender for common nouns, boats, ships, and so forth, use a feminine form. Early seafarers spoke of their ships in the feminine gender for the close dependence they had on their ships for life and sustenance. Hence, she, her. In this case, she is named, Wanderer."
"That was wonderful. Sounded knowledgeable."
"I read it after I got her. Didn't know the reason myself. When I asked Pete and other boatmen all I got was 'it's always been that way' or similar answers."
"Well, I'm still jealous, but perhaps we can change that. I'm headed, how do you say it? Going down."
"No, no, no. Going below."
"Oh, it's not the same?"
"Nope. Two different meanings. Let me take you below. If you're going to shower I better show you how it works. Same with the toilet."
"You're always trying to get me into a bathroom. Is it some kind of fetish with you?"
"Could be. C'mon." At Sean's insistence they leave the glasses and head below to berthing suite number one. When there, Sean explains the use of the shower and toilet, checks to ensure the towels and such are clean and fresh, then turns to leave. She tugs at his arm, turns him toward her, and envelopes him in her arms. They kiss warmly, long and let it first intensify, then wane before releasing one another.
Rachael whispers, "I like going below or down or whatever."
Sean shakes his head once, exclaims, "Whoa. I better get moving or we'll never get out of here."
"As the melody says, 'ain't' that a shame.'"
He smiles at her comment and her inviting, coy grin, but still manages to leave and go topside. He goes on the dock and casts off. Then scrambles up to the bridge, starts the engines, and takes the lady out into the bay. Anchors up off shore of the town, and starts preparing the evening meal as the sun begins to resist its existence to this day, settling behind the Jersey mainland.
Same banister, another slide for life.
Helleva woman.
* * *
When Pete arrives at Anna's, he is frustrated and visibly shaken. His face is flushed, mouth dry from his constant muttering to himself in the truck on the way there. He's worked himself into a state. Anna sees it instantly. "What's wrong, my dear, Peter?"
He enters, and immediately goes to the kitchen table and sits without speaking. After a second, leaps to his feet, goes to the fridge and helps himself to a Bud. Returns to the table. Still not a word. Not any muttering. Uncaps the bottle, takes a long slug, and rattles the bottle back on the table. Anna sits. Stares at him. Says, "Well?"
"God's plan is not working. Satan's Jezebel is here. She is going to steal Sean from me, and from Grace. "
"What? What are you talking about?"
"She's here. On board his boat. With her bags. They are going to be promiscumis. She's going to do terrible things to him."
"You mean promiscuous?"
"Yes, that's what I said."
"And that's bad?"
"Yes. God doesn't permit that. Doesn't like that."
"So, we are living in sin then? We are promiscuous at the least."
"That's different."
"Why?"
"God wants us to be."
"And you know what God wants? You know His plan? You know how He works each day? You know what He wants for Sean? Or for this woman?"
"Well, I know--"
"You know what you want. If you care that mucha, you should ask Sean what he wants. Otherwise, keepa your Italian nose out of Sean's pasta. And possibly sniff around here and you'll find I have some wonderful shrimp pasta cooking. Maybe you should take a shower and get the fish smell off yourself. Come eata my pasta, and then perhaps tend to your own business with me. Maybe I makea you forget Sean and whatever her name is."
"It's Rachael Jezebel something or other, and woman, I know what I want."
"You know what you want. If you believe in God, let Him be. His will be done. You will only mess it up. Go get cleaned up . . . and give me a kiss hello and sample what comes after the pasta. Or are you too old?"
"Ohhhh. Too old!" He hooks his thumbs in his waistline. "You will beg me to stop."
"No, I'm beggin' you to start. Now go." Motioning to the bathroom with her head.
Pete gets up from the table, kisses Anna long and meaningfully and strolls toward the bedroom and bath, thumbs now hooked in his suspenders. He mutters, "We will see, woman."
He enters the bedroom, stops. Stands motionless.
God, don't let that woman take my Sean from Grace. And his son.
CHAPTER 20
Rachael comes bouncing topside for dinner wearing white shorts that accentuate her well-tanned athletic legs. She's wearing a Jez's T-shirt, this time in red with white stitched lettering, and white sandals on her feet. Sean is leaning over the table on the salon deck, lighting the lanterned candles. He stands, hands on hips, inspecting the table to ensure all is suitable. Rachael slides up unheard behind him, wraps her arms around his waist and nibbles his right ear to announce her presence. He takes in a deep breath siphoning her aphrodisiacal scent through his nostrils, turns within her arms and brushes her lips. He whispers, "Perfect timing. Dinner is ready." Nips her ear in return and pulls out a chair. Seats her, to include whisking the napkin from the table and placing it in her lap.
She purrs, "Ahh, Sean my love, you've been to France." Her French accent without a trace of New Yawk hangs from every word.
"Naw. Just the movies." He turns and steps toward the galley.
She asks, "Can I help?"
He stops, turns back, "Not tonight, at least not now. Just enjoy." Darkness has completed its descent, the boat lights are seductively dim yet they reflect off the bay as they lazily float on the calm bay. The lights on the far shore of the mainland seemingly blink and wink as if an astounded yet knowing face of a jester. Harvey Cedar being closer, its lights are more intense and accompanied by sounds of the town's night life wandering out to the boat.
She sighs, "It's beautiful tonight. I'd forgotten how the Cedars can be so engaging on a summer's night."
"Yep, it is," and he leaves to bring the dinner to the table. He serves Rachael her flounder which he baked in a bock beer, with brown sugar packed on top along with sliced onions and pads of butter. He serves it on a bed of Asian brown rice along with sautéed fresh asparagus. When he serves himself and is seated he opens a chilled bottle of Chablis and pours two glasses. He says, "Welcome to Harvey Cedars and the Wanderer."
"Thank you. Both of your mistresses, the boat and the bay, are beautiful this evening."
"Nothing compared to you, Rach," and before this continues into something wild and erotic, he explains how he has prepared the flounder. Not a recipe from the chow halls, but one he and the others are planning for the restaurant.
They eat, chat. He, typically of the plans for the restaurant. She, of the Paris trip and innuendoes born of their time together in New York. Both subjects driven by motivation. Rachael sips her wine, sighs and says, "I guess I need to contact a real estate agent. Probably lease something for a short spell while I look around."
"You can stay on board if you like. You would have to move up here however since my customers use the two spaces below. At least some of the time."
"It's tempting, but I need something ashore so I can look around at places and spread out some. I have a Beamer full of luggage."
&n
bsp; "Whatever you wish."
"Know of an agent I can call?"
"You bet. The largest and most successful in town I'm told. Her name is Holli Callahan. Her son works for me. I haven't met her but my banker friend says she's the best, and my friend and partner Pete swears by her."
"Could you call her in the morning and introduce me?"
"Yeah, I could but the woman despises me for some reason. Best you call her yourself or drop in without mentioning my name. I don't know, she might slug you if she thinks you know me."
"How could someone not like you? You're such a charmer."
"Yeah, that's what I think, but . . . finished? She nods. He says, "Let me pick up these dishes. Would you like an after dinner liqueur? I have--"
"I would. Do you have some Crème de Menthe? Green? On ice ?"
"Green. Yes," and he mocks a sneer by curling his upper lip and scrunching up his nose. Adds, "Yuk. Candy. And a green tongue all night and perhaps all day tomorrow."
She laughs. "I know, but the taste of my green tongue will be a treat later." Rachael starts to get up and help clear the table.
He says, "No, sit. Relax. I'll pick up. Not a problem. Really." When finished he brings Rachael her choice and himself an Apricot Brandy.
Rachael points to her brandy snifter. "You have your nerve talking about my Crème de Menthe. This is like pancake syrup with a kick."
"You're right. We're even."
"Not quite. My tongue will taste better."
They continue to sit and talk. These moments are filled with talk of times past. Their youth and long forgotten classmates. The time melts away with conversation and another brandy. Rachael finally stirs, says, "I need to go below."
"You got it right this time." He chuckles at his pun. "Anything wrong, Rach?"
"Not a thing. Far from it. Be back in a jiffy." As she gets up and takes the first step she stops, leans over and nips him on the ear, whispers, "I got that."
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 14