Home is a Long Time Ago

by William F Lee

  "Nice kid. Well mannered." Sean says, then takes a slug of his beer.

  Rachael smiles, "Yes, he is. And his mother is incredibly attractive. I'm surprised she never remarried. Must have a lot of suitors, perhaps too many."

  "What's that mean?"

  "Doesn't mean anything. Just an observation. As if it should matter, you've never met her. Right?"

  "Yeah, that's right. What would you like to do this afternoon?"

  "I'd like to go sailing. Can that be arranged?"

  "Sailing. Well, I'll be danged. Sure, I'll rent a Sneak Box from the marina. I bet you've handled one before, haven't you?"

  "Sure have, and the likes of you as well."

  "Got me again. Want to change your sandals?"

  "Yep. Let's go."

  When we've been here ten thousand years

  bright shining as the sun.

  John Newton

  CHAPTER 26

  The Sunday afternoon sail fest in the bay goes well. A lot of boats were out early in the afternoon, with weekend warriors putting in earlier than the others so they could leave for their city homes in New York, Pennsylvania and mainland Jersey. Holli and Colt stay in the upper bay, while Sean and Rachael remain south of the marina. The sailing locales are by fortune and not by design. This is good since no battles of sailing vessels have been recorded in the bay's history, and there will be none today. Not even a ramming. Both ladies display their sailing skills, resulting in limited time at the tiller for Sean and Colt. When early evening arrives, the gals turn it over to their sailing partners to bring the Sneak Boxes into their respective docks. If Pete had been around for the sailing festivities, he would have urged the Lord to arrange a mid-bay meeting, perhaps initiating God's plan by Pete's timetable and without a slingshot in sight.

  However, Pete is present in the bay keeping his fishing date with Anna but not aware that Rachael and Holli are out sailing. Pete and Anna are fishing off the rocks near the lighthouse in the upper bay. They do see a fleet of sailboats darting among an armada of power boats; however their gazes are simply taking in the joys of sea air and the view of the inlet. Their fishing is more sitting on the rocks, enjoying the day and nibbling on goodies that Anna prepared and packed. They do cast every now and then and wait patiently for the tugging at the lines from a hungry flounder. Much to Pete's surprise, and equally damaging to his ego, Anna hooks the two choice flounders. One will be dinner tonight; the other will also be filleted, then frozen for perhaps some "soleful" night in the coming weeks.

  * * *

  After the long afternoon of sailing, Sean and Rachael dine out. They drive over the bridge to a popular steak house on the mainland. A massive Caesar Salad starts the meal, and nearly finishes it. However, they each manage a moderate size rib eye steak, accompanied with more than a few refills of iced tea to quench their thirst derived from the roasting they got from the hot sun mixed with salt water spray. The ride back to the boat in Sean's pick-up is comfortable with the windows down allowing the salt-air ladened breeze to fill the cab. The conversation is insubstantial, more often than not light-hearted bragging by Rachael over her sailing expertise quickly recalled as if it were merely yesterday that she had been out on the bay;

  Once back at the Wanderer, Sean says "You go on up. I have a few calls to make. Arrange the crews for tomorrow and a hiring interview for this coming week. The restaurant is close to being ready and I've been dragging my feet on my end of the hiring. Okay?"

  "Not to worry. I need to clean up, then pack. Oui?"

  'Oh, yeah, Oui. You're moving to your new pad tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want to wait a day? I've got an all-day trip tomorrow. Can't help with the move."

  "Non, go ahead. I have only my bags. I can handle it just fine." She squeezes his hand, brushes her lips on his, releases his hand and goes aboard disappearing inside.

  Sean first calls the food and beverage gent he had spoken to twice before, and arranges a personal interview this week. Again they spend time on the phone discussing the man's background, his reasons for leaving the city and a large restaurant for the smaller, seasonally-controlled environment of the Cedars. And also, more of Sean's and Pete's plans for the restaurant. To the man's questions regarding the name, Sean replies, "We've not come up with one. Got to get busy on that issue. Real quick." To Sean’s question as to why here, the man responds, "Retiring, but not in retirement. Sea air in lieu of carbon particles. Space instead of crowds. A car as a replacement for a subway. It all sounds too good."

  Sean counters, "It is too good. And don't forget the fishing."

  "Now you're making me drool. Look forward to meeting you in person, and by the way, you're fantastically high on Martha's list. Oh, and I have a fine, fine chef friend of mine that is wanting much the same environment as I. I'll bring him along if you'd like."

  Sean agrees to the latter, and they say their goodbyes and hang up.

  Sean dials Anna's number next. When Pete answers, they exchange comments about the day each has had. Then Sean tells him of the planned interviews and that Pete and Anna need to be present. It'll be in the evening, after the day's fishing. And he tells Pete that the three of them need to decide on a name, and quick. They hang up.

  Sean dials Colton's number.

  * * *

  Holli and Colt have finished their day of sailing. Holli is energized from an afternoon of fresh, stiff breezes and salt spray in her face. The labor of tacking and mock racing with other boats has her hands fatigued and sore from the handling of the tiller and boom line. The soreness is not confined to her hands, but also her butt from bouncing from port to starboard and back while tacking. The hard, wooden Sneak Box hull is much different than her office chair and car seat. And last, the sun has taken its toll on her fair skin regardless of the lotion. She had enough of the lotion smeared on her back, arms and legs to slide down the carpeted steps in her condo and across the living room with getting a rug burn. Still, she's a tad pink and the freckles are emerging. Nonetheless the day has been fun, and Colt is babbling on about her handling of the boat in the stiff breeze and choppy bay waters. He did give her a break late in the day, and brought in their boat, tacking against the wind all the way to their slip.

  Holli fixes leftovers for the two of them. Neither mind, especially since it's Anna's lasagna again. Colt attacks it vigorously as always. When dinner is over, dishes cleared and in the washer, both go upstairs to shower, change and settle for the evening. Colt finishes first, comes downstairs in khaki shorts and tee shirt, gets himself a large bowl of ice cream. Neapolitan. His favorite. He sprawls on the couch and turns on the TV. Finds the rerun movie he's seeking, Cool Hand Luke, with Paul Newman and George Kennedy.

  Holli is settled several minutes after in a robe, sees the size of the helping of ice cream he's working on and the movie he's watching. "Colt, for Pete's sake, where do you put it all?"

  "Salt air, Mom. Salt air. Does it every time."

  "Right. Every day. Every meal. You're going to gain twenty pounds before the summer is over."

  "I hope so, make me a little harder to bring down this fall when football starts."

  "And that movie. My Lord, you've seen it dozens of time. Doesn't it get old?"

  "Nope. It's cool."

  "Cool? Oh, a pun, how clever . . . on second thought, it probably wasn't intended as such." She leaves him to his ice cream and Luke. She goes to her chair, settles in and arranges her robe for decency's sake, switches on the lamp and picks up her book. The phone rings, startling her for an instant. On the second ring she picks it up, "Good evening, Callahan residence."

  There's a slight pause, then she hears Sean's voice. "Mrs. Callahan, I presume." No comment. He continues, "Hello." Nothing but the sound of breathing. "Hello. Is Colton home?"

  Holli sits frozen in the chair. Her heart skips a beat. She feels warm and knows it not from the heat, the AC is working fine. She signals to her son it's for him. He gets up, comes to the phone, standing next to his Mom's chair,
asks, "Who is it, Mom?"

  She whispers, "It's him."

  "Him?"

  She waves her hand in tiny circular patterns, trying to hurry Colt in taking the phone. Whispers still lower, "Him. Your boss."

  The boy takes the phone looking at his mother with a quizzical frown. "Hello. Mister Gallagher?"

  Holli listens. Colt listens for a moment then says, "Yes, sir. It was her." A pause then, "No, sir. She's fine." Then Colt listens and is not saying much except okay, several times. Ends with, "I'll be there." Hangs up. He stands motionless with a bewildered look on his face.

  "What's wrong, honey?"

  "He says I'm working Mister Pete's boat tomorrow, and the rest of the week. He's going to use Robert on the Wanderer. Wonder if I did or said something wrong? Or something to do with Miss Waters." He pauses, thinking. "I've been polite. I think she likes me."

  "Oh, I don't think it has anything to do with that woman, sweetheart. Or anything you have or haven't done. Just giving Robert some experience on his boat for when you go off to school."

  "Yeah, that's probably it. Maybe so, but his voice sounded strange. Like he was thinking about something else. Oh well, Mister Pete's got more people, and that typically means more in tips," as he mopes back to the couch, his teenage mind dismissing all concerns. He quickly reengages with Paul Newman, or his character . . . and the remaining mound of his rapidly melting Neapolitan ice cream which makes for easier eating and better slurping.

  Holli eases back in her chair, shifts a bit to get more comfortable. Holds the book, Love Story, in her hand. Opens it at the bookmarker and holds the book with her hand, open on her lap. Tilts her head, resting it on the chair back, and stares at the ceiling.

  That's twice. He's bound to have recognized my voice. Perhaps not. But I wonder what Colt's comment meant . . . if anything. I'm going to stop this foolishness. Hiding like a thief . . . one of these days, I'm . . .

  She returns to the book, finds her spot, reads, then stares blankly at the line.

  Love means never having to say you're sorry.

  Holli sits quietly. Mind wandering to the past. Tears well up in her eyes.

  I haven't . . . and am not.

  * * *

  Sean hangs up. Stands bewildered for a moment, looking out over the masts, to the bay. Mutters, "Heard that voice some place before. Hmmm?" Not exactly. Somehow different. Then says, louder than a mutter, "Naw, it's that woman. She's got me freaked. Won't speak to me. Could have said, wait a minute, or just one moment, I'll get him, or . . . or, kiss my ass. Anything. I'm going to give her a chunk of my mind one of these days." That voice . . .

  He steps aboard his boat, heads up to the master suite. He breezes in, finds Rachael packing, clad in a white thong and his faded red USMC tee shirt, braless, bare feet. She says, "Hi, about done. Need anything?"

  "Naaa, goin' to take a quick shower." Looks again, takes in a deep breath and releases while saying, "Maybe a cold one."

  "I already have. I felt I was caked with salt, and I know I got some wind burn, and a blister on my left hand."

  "Well, we were out a long while, and you worked hard out there. I just got to sit around and watch an ol' hand at work. Be back in a minute."

  Rachael whimpers, "The blister hurts." The words run out of space, fall and die on the carpet where he was standing. He's gone.

  When Sean returns, Rachael is sitting cross-legged on the huge, soft leather couch with a brandy in her hand. And one for him on the coffee table.

  He sits on the couch, takes a sip and half turns toward Rachael. She's jiggling about, trying to shift her position to face him. The image of her squirming, braless, in his worn tee shirt and a thong is distracting to say the least, and much too provocative.

  She says, "You're starting to perspire. Is it from just stepping out of the shower in that terry cloth robe you stole from the Waldorf or is it something else?"

  "I didn't steal it. They expect it, and in fact encourage it with it being laid out at every opportunity, and the room prices . . . and it's something else."

  "What? Something I did?"

  "Yes. You, the tee shirt, and the white thong that accentuates the . . . and your squirming around."

  Rachael drops her head ever so slightly, eyes at the top of her sockets, and a seductive grin on her face, purrs, "We'll finish our drinks, then you can have your shirt back . . . the thong I'll keep unless you want it as a souvenir."

  "You're killin' me, darlin', you know that. I must have lost ten or fifteen pounds since you arrived."

  "Is that all? But then I wasn't counting chromosomes and thingys." She puts her snifter of apricot brandy on the coffee table, and sidles over, virtually on top of him, puts her arms around his neck, whispers, "Here, the coffee table or the carpet. Pick your spot."

  The couch loses, the coffee table has the snifters on it, so the carpet wins, mixed with a tee shirt, thong and a monogrammed terry cloth robe.

  CHAPTER 27

  Pete sits on the bridge of his Belle Maria II thinking about the hectic pace of the last few weeks. August is more than half over. He's aware of the cliché about time flying, however this has been more like a futuristic time warp. The month also soars past when working hard, but his worrying about Grace acts like a dragging anchor. Lately he's often allowed his mind to wander. Not day dreaming, rather thinking and perhaps scheming. Sometimes out loud to Anna. But habitually to himself in the late afternoons and evenings when bringing his boat in from the all-day fishing trips. Somewhat less at night when he and Anna sit around their own beach camp fire. They've become camp fire beach rats after spending a few evenings with other groups around their fires. They found it fun and restful, hence began one of their own. Now, on occasion, strollers on the beach stop by, rest, chat, have a cold drink, or if late a hot cocoa or cup of coffee.

  Now, day done, alone on the bridge, his thoughts go to Grace. Wondering how long she is going to stay hidden. You can't hide much longer. The wedding is coming and you are Anna's maid of honor. And, Sean is my best man. The time train is short and is roaring down the rails like a runaway. He mutters aloud, "Lord, whatever your plan, please make it happen before they run out of track. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, but a collision is coming."

  He sits up straighter. Takes a sip of his coffee. Smiles. Yes, that's his plan. The wedding. No, it must be the rehearsal.

  Still smiling, he takes a large gulp of his coffee. Shudders, shakes his head. "Whoa. Strong as an ox and thick as a brick." Puts the mug down on the console, spins in his chair, and looks out over the other boats, in the end his eyes settling on the Wanderer. His mind drifts. His Italian ancestry has his hands moving, motioning, as if he is speaking aloud. Sean, surely you must see yourself in the boy. My God. Then he spins around in his Captain's chair, facing the dock and takes in the restaurant. The sign is up. He smiles. Nothing clever. Nothing catchy. It is as it should be, simple. "Gallagher's". For all to see, bright green neon lights for the evening. The bar has a smaller sign over its separate door, "Pete's Mooring", and to the dining room, simply, "Dining Deck." He thinks back about the evening that he, Anna and Sean spent around the beach campfire playing the name game. Too many beers and glasses of wine later, it was all they could do to come up with this. In the end, they were pleased. He grins as he watches the work still going on inside. Last minute preparations, to include training the staff.

  Two other matters are rattling around in his mind. He has decided to rename his boat. No disrespect to Maria, but Anna is his woman now, and will be 'til he passes. He'll have it done this week, and show Anna on the weekend. The paper work will take several days, but he will have it painted on tomorrow. It'll be "Fox Sea Lady." He takes another sip of coffee, makes a face, gets up and tosses it over the side. Returns to his seat, sets the empty mug down, leans back and stretches. He stays in that position, legs sprawled out in front of him.

  The last matter, the wedding. It'll be small and quick. Only can have so many on the aft de
ck of the Wanderer. The reception is another matter. It will be in the restaurant on the unofficial opening day, Friday, the twentieth. Grace and Sean. Colt and the padre from the wedding. Others invited to the reception only will include Chuck Barto and whoever he brings, probably Ellie. Robert, the other hand, and his folks. And Rachael since Anna says it is a must because she is Sean's woman. He grumbled when he heard it the first time and grumbles when he thinks of it now. More, like the Food and Beverage Manager, the Chef, and the Chief Bartender . . . all of whom have become good friends of Pete. Pete enjoys wandering in and passing the time with them. No matter, he thinks, the ceremony and reception will be small. There'll be others that Sean has mentioned, like the Harbor Master, other fishing boat owners and wives. It will be a good time with a band, the dancing, the toasts and all in our new restaurant. A good way to start a marriage . . . and an eatery.

  Pete gets up, returns his coffee mug to the galley, and ambles ashore. He goes by the restaurant to gather Anna and the two of them head home. Both tired from long days. He on the bay, she at the restaurant. In the pick-up she says, "No beach fire tonight. Just some food, rest, and sleep."

  "Absolutely. Sounds good. The wedding is set for Friday night, the 20th, right? We'll be ready, right?"

  "I've been ready for a long time, my love, but, yes, everything is or will be ready."

  "Ah, good, Anna. You are much too good for me, but I will try hard to please you."

  "You already have, Peter. You already have. Ah, here we are. Home. And a nice, quiet meal."

  "Yes."

  And later, a prayer for Grace . . . and another nudge for God to get moving. It would be better if it didn't happen at the wedding. Or the rehearsal.