Home is a Long Time Ago

by William F Lee

  He nods, smiles, and she leaves but not before brushing his lips with hers, and his forehead, and leaves trailing her hand lightly over his chest and shoulder.

  Sean sits, relaxed, tantalized by her touch and warm inside after her nuzzle. He looks toward the Cedars shoreline seeing nothing but wishful wisps of images of Rachael flicking across his mental screen.

  More than several minutes pass, seeming like hours when Sean senses her presence seconds before her fragrance envelopes him. He feels her breath on his neck, her arms around his shoulder from behind him, and the nibbling on his ear. He starts to turn only to be held in place by her hand as she comes from behind him and is standing before him in the dim lights of the salon deck. She is in a sheer, short nightie. Her lanky and athletic hard body trying to hide beneath without much success. Her breasts, surely abundant, nipples punishing the sheerness of the gown. Her blond hair picking up the hint of the bay breeze and the sheerness of the gown verifying Sean's appreciation of her cuffs and collar. His feelings of warmth intensify. She fluffs up the back of her nightie, and slides onto his lap wrapping her arms around his neck. She wiggles seductively, and brushes her lips across his cheeks, then his lips, and says, "I don't know if it can get any better, but I'm going to try to make it so."

  Sean returns her kiss. A long, slow deep kiss. Both searching with their tongues. Bodies straining in the leather deck chair. He lifts her in his arms, and carries her into the master suite. Sees that the bed is already turned down. Before he can speak, she says, "I did it. On the way out."

  He sets her down. She reaches up and slips the straps of her nightie from her shoulders. It drops to the carpet at the foot of the bed. She whispers, her tone a husky, contralto. "I've been thinking of this moment for weeks." She unbuttons his shirt twirling his chest hair with her nails at the same time. He wrestles with his blue denim shorts, pushing them down and off, dropping on her nightie. They fold onto the bed, a tangle of arms, legs and raging emotions.

  * * *

  At one in the morning, Sean and Rachael stand nude on the salon deck allowing the warm summer breeze to sooth freshness and energy back to their exhausted souls. She stands close, in his arms, nestling to his chest. She whispers, "In Paris I could only dream. This is better. More than I wished for."

  Sean pulls her closer. Nuzzles his mouth in her hair, kisses her. Whispers, "You sure feel right to me. I got lost without you. What took us so long?"

  "You should have taken me to the prom."

  "I told you, I didn't go."

  "Nor did I. We wasted that night. But not this."

  "We wouldn't have done anything."

  "I don't know. I truly had an eye for you." She pauses. "Can anyone see us out here like this?"

  "Probably, if they're looking. Possibly exceedingly well if they have binoculars."

  "Who would do that?"

  "High school boys, like I was."

  "Did you ever do that?"

  "Yeah, once. My dad whacked me on the back of the head, snatched the binoculars and shoved me into the house. Then I think he took a look.

  "He did not."

  "Naw, you're right, he wouldn't. Want to take a dip?"

  "Let's."

  * * *

  Holli stands outside of her condo on the decking near the slip where their Sneak Box sailboat sleeps. She can hear the ripples quietly lapping against its hull, rocking it gently. It's late, or rather, early in the morning. She couldn't sleep, got up and put on a housecoat and came downstairs and out here. It's quiet. A warm breeze is coming from the bay. As she lifts her nose to take in the scent of the bay she notices the yacht anchored off shore. It looks familiar. Sees what appear to be two people splashing in the bay off the aft end. She watches, curious. Holli can hear the faint yells of fun-filled voices. Her mind wanders; heart dreams. A woman's high pitched voice. Laughing. Minutes pass, then she sees them pull themselves out and onto the deck. The man darts inside, the blond woman remaining outside on the upper aft deck, stretching for all the world to see. Then the man, Sean Gallagher, is out again, and also nude. They towel off but remain on deck, leaning over the boat's railing, facing the shore. She puts her hand to her mouth to stifle an internal sound and is startled by a voice.

  "Mom, what the devil are you doing out here? It's after one in the morning."

  "Oh my God, Colton. You scared the daylights out of me. Was just getting some air. Couldn't sleep. I think I'll go inside."

  "Hey look, Mom. That's Mister Gallagher's boat out there. And that's--"

  "Never mind. Let's--"

  "Holy Smokes, Mom. That's Sean and that blond woman who came in today to see him. Oh, man oh man, is she ever stacked."

  "Colt. Enough. You don't need to see any of this. Nor do I for that matter. Inside, young man. Now."

  "Wow. Boy, I bet the guys in town wish they were here."

  "Inside, right now," and Holli grabs Colt by the arm and drags him into the condo and slams the door. "We're going to bed, now," and leads him up the stairs. At the top, she nudges him toward his room, says, "And I better not catch you looking out the window, young man."

  "Okay, Mom. Maybe you should though."

  "Colt." She stares at him angrily. "Bed. Now."

  "Yes, ma'am." And he does just that. As does Holli. Only when she drops her robe and slips into bed, her heart is pounding and droplets of perspiration have formed on her forehead, just above her brows.

  My Lord, what is wrong with me? No, what is wrong with that man doing that right out in plain sight. I'll . . . I'll . . . Oh, Lord, what is he doing to me?

  * * *

  Pete stands at the dune line outside Anna's cottage. He's slipped on a pair of trousers and barefooted his way out of the house, not disturbing Anna. After the pasta dinner, they had one of their most active and energized evenings together.

  That woman's goin' to kill me one of these nights. I need to get in better shape or my heart valves will blow up. But, not a better way to go. Maybe the only way.

  He takes a few steps. Snaps off the top of a blade of dune grass and slides it into his mouth. It tastes of the ocean. The once hot summer sand, now cooled, sifts around his feet. He clutches his toes back and forth, gripping the sand as if trying to hold on to the spinning world. The surf is echoing its nightly concerto. The slow, low swooshing noise of the water receding is followed by a piercing moment of silence, and then the booming crash of the wave on the shore. The rhythm constant and the echoes the same for each wave until the one large breaker in each set finishes that particular symphony with a much louder crash, like kettle drums of an ending overture. Then another set starts again. Pete is lost in his thoughts and doesn't sense Anna's presence until he feels her breath in his ear and her arm slip inside of his. "What are you doing out here, Peter?"

  "Listening to the sounds of the ocean. Thinking of Sean. And that woman. He is probably out on the bay with her this evening. Doing . . . God knows what."

  "While we were inside doing I know what. And it was wonderful. You were wonderful, Ponzio. Like we were young again, on a blanket on the beach, not caring about anything but the moment."

  "Ahhh, yes. You are beautiful. Lovely." He pauses, then, "But, now my mind is on Sean. Grace. The boy. What should be."

  "Peter, if it should be, it will be. If it will make you happy, I will pray for it as well. But, have faith. God will ensure all is right."

  "I hope so, Anna. I hope so. Isn't the sound of the ocean peaceful?"

  "It is, because it is, darling. It is letting us know it's here, reminding us to look for it in the morning and see its beauty and power. Now let's go inside and enjoy its serenade and indulge ourselves. Once more,"

  "Oh, Lord."

  "Good, Peter. He will help you tonight. Sean later. C'mon."

  CHAPTER 21

  Pete stands on the bridge of his boat, staring up-bay. He watches the Wanderer straying homeward in the already blistering July sun, and he spies Satan's handiwork standing next to Sean on the flying
bridge. She's at the helm of the boat in a bikini top, the rest hidden by the console. Worse, in Pete's mind, Sean has his arm around Rachael's shoulders, and both seem to be laughing as the woman turns the boat to port heading into the dock area. He sees Sean take the helm to bring her in. Pete mumbles, "Thank the Lord. She'd probably put the bow into the dock."

  He looks down to the stern and sees the two boys gawking at Sean's boat or to be more precise, the woman. He snaps at Colt and Roberto, "Look lively you two. We have a full load of half-dayers, and I want this boat ship-shape for a change." His voice and remark cut into the hide and soul of the two since they've cleaned her good early this morning and are about ready with the tackle. Robert says, "What's with the old man this morning?"

  Colt shrugs, and says in a hushed tone, "I think he's upset about Mister Gallagher being gone."

  "So what? He's coming in now." Pauses, looks up to see if the ol' man is watching, then adds. "How about that honey on the bridge? We could use something like that on this boat."

  Colt turns to take another look. Blatantly puts his hand over his eyes shielding them from the glare of the late morning sun bouncing off the bay, says, "Oh man, what I wouldn't give to have something like that hanging on me."

  Pete shouts from the bridge, "You two stop gawking and get to work. This isn't a damn pleasure boat."

  The two boys look up and stare at the old man, then get back to readying the tackle for the days fishing. Checking each of the dozens of reels to ensure they're in proper working order and no apparent tangles. Pete comes down from the bridge, leaps to the dock, and pretends to be making a call from his dock phone.

  Sean backs the Wanderer into her slip. Rachael is on the aft deck in her denim shorts and bikini top waiting to jump ashore and tie-off the boat. When Sean cuts the engines, she leaps onto the dock and starts securing the lines. To the apparent surprise of all, she knows what she's doing. The fact that she's from this area and may have done this before doesn't register with Pete. He only sees a devil conceived Jezebel tempting his Sean and from the expressions on the boys' faces, them as well.

  Sean shuts down the engines and hurries down from the bridge to help Rachael. She playfully pushes him away, "I can handle this. I know what I'm doing."

  He steps back, places his hands on his hips and says, "Looks as if you do. So finish up, we'll go into town and do some grocery shopping." Then he turns, looks around the dock area to see Pete glaring at him and the two boys staring at Rachael. He smiles, waves to Pete and starts toward him. The boys remain ogling the lanky and well-built blond bending over the last line she's tying off. They are mesmerized by her shapely butt until Pete's scolding shout, "Back to work you two." A rust color creeps over the boys' tanned faces and they go back to tending the reels. Still, the heads turn, glancing at the woman every few seconds. There is nothing like a long-legged, well tanned, abundantly blessed woman, coming slightly out of her apparel to tease the cravings of teenage boys. They will be of little value to Pete until they get out to sea, and then they will be talking of her between themselves for most of the day.

  As Sean approaches him, Pete says, "Where the devil have you been? The contractor is looking for you."

  "A little edgy this morning, are we? If it's so important, why didn't you take care of it? You know what we're doing."

  "He wants to talk to you. Only you. As always."

  "Okay. Take it easy. I'll go see him on my way to the store." As he finishes, Rachael comes along side him and slips her arm under his. Sean smiles at her, then says, "Pete, this is Rachael. The gal I told you that I met in New York. She's a home-towner. Grew up here in the Cedars. We went to school together. And she's a good deck hand."

  Before Pete can reply, Rachael juts out her hand and says, "Hi, Mister Ponzio Vaccaro . . . Mister Pete. I'm Rachael Waters. I remember you from way back."

  Pete wipes his hand on his trouser leg, reluctantly reaches for hers and mutters, "Hello, Miss Waters. I don't remember you." Then turns his head and says to Sean, "I've got a big half-day job today. Got work to do. Don't forget to see the contractor," and walks away toward his boat.

  Rachael says, "I don't think he approves of me."

  "It doesn't appear that way. I don't know why, you're kinda cute, and from the boy's ogling I'd say they agree."

  "Well, it seems that he's got a reason. Per chance I soaped his car windows or wrapped his house in toilet paper on Mischief Night years ago."

  "Did you?"

  "Of course not. I didn't go out on mischief nights. Only guys. Perhaps he doesn't like me around you. And if that's the case, why?"

  "Could be, but again, I don't know why. You're the best looking gal that's been on this dock. Like I said, only have to watch the boys over there to know that," as he nods to Colton and his crewmate who are ogling Rachael again.

  Rachael looks and waves at the boys. They both drop the poles they have in their hands, and stand like statues, gaping at her. She waves again, and finally gets an excited teenage wave back. Sean laughs, "Made their day, but not Pete's. They won't be worth a damn all day and that started when you were bending over the lines on the dock." He laughs at his own humor. She punches him on the arm. Mocking injury, he says, "Ohhh, oooww! C'mon, I'll show you the chow hall. Then we'll go get some groceries and go out again. We're goin' to Atlantic City this afternoon and tonight." The two of them walk, hand in hand, toward the restaurant.

  As they stroll she responds, "Wonderful, but I need to get something out of my car before we go. Okay?"

  "Yep."

  She looks up at Sean, coyly smiles. "Are we going to anchor out again tonight, someplace romantic like last evening?"

  "That's the plan.”

  "I know, plan your work and work the--"

  "Something like that, but this isn't work. It's play. And fun. And . . . here we are. Let's go in. Be careful where you step. Look around while I track down my contractor." Rachael wanders, Sean strides toward the far corner where he has spied the contractor talking to a crew of workers.

  * * *

  By the time Sean and Rachael return to the boat after a tour of the restaurant, a brief tour of where her home used to be prior to the storm in '62, a riding tour of the town, and the grocery shopping, Pete is long gone. Sean remarks, "The ol' man is probably up bay fishing for flounder. We'll pass him on the way out. What say we cruise to Atlantic City, get cleaned up, eat ashore and do the town?"

  "Sounds like fun. Where will we stay tonight?"

  "On board, in Atlantic City. Then we'll go a little further down the coast tomorrow, then turnabout and head home. We'll anchor up outside of town again. Eat, relax, swim and--"

  "Play."

  "That's the plan."

  "And in Atlantic City?"

  "Play."

  Rachael grins, "I love your plans, but I love your working the plan much better. However, you're goin' to be one tired ol' Marine by the time we get back, luv bug."

  "And you aren't?"

  "We'll see. You quit first last night."

  "Well, that sounds like a challenge. But, if you're right, it'll be a good tired." Both laugh as Sean pulls into the parking lot at the marina where he and Pete dock. She goes to her Beamer to fetch an outfit. Sean begins unloading the groceries. After his first trip, she returns and helps with the remainder of the goods. They stow everything. Then cast off, and head out into the channel and up bay.

  Near Barnegat Light they see Pete's boat. Sean gives the horn a blast and both wave. Pete stares, mute. The boys wave back. The lines of fisherman along both rails glance their way and then quickly go back to the business at hand which is customarily fishing mixed with untangling lines. Always a problem on a crowded boat. Sean turns into the inlet, heads to the ocean, and then southward to Atlantic City.

  * * *

  Returning from Atlantic City late Sunday afternoon, Sean, with Rachael at his side, guides the Wanderer through the sometimes treacherous waters of the inlet, past the lighthouse and into the bay. Onc
e directly opposite the town he brings her to port, and compensating for the tide to a spot a little shy of the one a few evenings ago. He drops anchor, sets it, and shuts down the engines. He says, "Let's take a dip before dinner. Okay?"

  "Ahhh, luv bug, it is a good plan, oui? You are magnificent." The French accent clinging to every word.

  "Go raimh maith agat."

  "What in the world was that? It certainly didn't sound romantic. I was expecting you to melt where you stand with my coy smile and accent."

  "I did melt but conceivably my Gaelic, or as the Irish say, 'in the Irish', ruptured the moment. I don't believe it's a romance language. Anyway, it means thank you. That in response to your compliments that sounded so seductive I might not make it to the swim date."

  "You know that's a better plan. Let's do it and forget the Gaelic. It's a downer."

  "Not fair. It's the only foreign language." He pauses, tilts his head and asks, "Do what?"

  "Get a short-timer, then swim, then dinner . . . in the nude. What say ye?"

  "I say Aye. Sounds like a much better plan." And they scramble down from the bridge, racing to the master suite while ripping off their clothes.

  * * *

  The plan works well, better than well. They add another short-timer after swimming and again, although more frantic than leisurely, in the shower. The latter was a gymnastic masterpiece in a shipboard shower unit, however, more pleasurable than on gym mats. Discretion guiding them, they dress for dinner. It is shorts and halter, bare feet for Rachael. Shorts and his ratty USMC faded red tee shirt for Sean. Evening has brought on the sailor's delight. A fiery red ball perching on the Jersey mainland, with its brilliant rust color tracing stretching across the bay and onto the Wanderer.

  The dinner is simple. Rachael fixes a salad of fresh spinach leaves, a smattering of sliced nuts and red onions, and slices of fresh mandarin oranges, topped with strawberry vinaigrette. Sean grills two smallish steaks on the small grill clamped to the railing of the salon deck. He opens a bottle of Classico Chianti. Eating at the table on the open deck, they chat about the day yesterday at sea, Atlantic City last evening and of the immediate future. Out of context and with a sly grin, Sean says, "I've been thinking of replacing this table with one like you had in your kitchen in New York."