* * *
Sean is at Rachael's condo this evening. The weeks have passed all too quickly for him as well. He hasn't seen Rachael in a few days since she went to The Big Apple for whatever. On business was her description of the trip. He thought perhaps otherwise. And when she did return, he had a few later than normal night excursions on his boat that also cut into his time with Rachael. In some respects it was a good break. He needed time to conclude his business with Barto regarding the restaurant and take care of the jillion finishing details before opening. And of course, with Anna, help arrange the wedding and reception. And he wanted some time away from Rachael to grasp where the relationship was heading, or needed to go . . . at least from his viewpoint.
Tonight however, they find time to be together, and he brings some take-out pizza to her condo for the two of them.
After a warm exchange of kisses when he arrives, they pour some wine, and eat pizza. She babbles excitedly of her trip to the city; of her fashion business friends, and the fine French food at the same quaint cafe they had eaten when he was there. She is exhilarated. Excited. He listens intently, and when he can, gives her an update on the restaurant, the wedding, and the reception. She says she has gone by the restaurant and seen the Irish-green neon sign. That she liked it and the idea of having a "Pete's Mooring." The name for the dining room lacked imagination. Sean shrugged at the latter statement.
When the general conversation dwindles to a crawl, he asks, "Did you miss the Cedars?"
She starts to reply immediately, then stops, pauses, then responds, "Yes and no. You, I missed. . . terribly so. Especially late at night, in bed. Not only the love making but the comfort, warmth. . . security of you being next to me."
"Well, that makes me feel good." He leans from his seat on the couch and gives her a kiss, more of a peck. "I was wondering when you paused so long." He smiles. "And what about our hometown?"
"Yes and no. I missed the ocean air. The freshness of it all. The water. And the quiet. On the other hand in New York I enjoyed the personal rush of the fast pace again. The buzz of the city and hearing of the plans for the fall fashions. And the variety of wonderful restaurants. And I took in Martha's show. She and it were absolutely marvelous. I missed the action, I guess. By the way, Martha sends her love and said to give you a hug."
"I need to give her a shout. Say hello, and... well, chat."
"She'll be pleased."
"Yeah, but, back to the point. The Cedars can't compete in your contest the way you describe it, or have it set up. It has its own game, and its different, a slower pace. It's this way intentionally. That's why it's a resort. To live here year round is, well, different strokes for different folks I guess."
"Please, that's trite. The two are different. Vastly different, that's all."
"Are you sure? Just different?"
"No. I guess not, Sean."
He waits for something to be added. It's not. "Well, I missed you for sure. And not just at night, although then enormously, but on the boat, lending a hand and . . . and, well, being here. Of course, I did get some rest, regained a few pounds and some strength."
She smiles. That same coy grin that the cat had when speaking to the mouse. She purrs, "Me too, and I plan on expending a great deal of energy this evening returning you to where I left you . . . worn to a frazzle and hungry for more."
"My taste hasn't changed but I need to get cleaned up . . . am a little grimy. Didn't have a chance to stop at the boat before I got the pizza and came over. Just anxious to see you."
Rachael gets up from the couch, extends her hand to him, "Come, I have some new bath gel, a much larger shower than the boat, and a craving appetite."
He drops his half eaten slice of pizza, takes her hand and follows her while slipping out of his deck shoes on the way.
* * *
When Holli arrives at the dock supposedly to pick up Colt, she has a bold plan in mind. Once there, she can't get out of her car. She sits trembling. Thinking she is having a panic or an anxiety attack. Or just weak in the knees. Faint. Before she can get herself under control, Colt opens the car door, slides in, looks at his mother and says, "Mom, are you okay? You look white as a ghost."
"Yes, I think so. Got a little woozy for some reason. Didn't eat today. Must be hungry, and over-tired. I'm fine now, Colt."
"Okay, you should have eaten something. Breakfast, lunch or something."
“You're right, I should have. But, I thought since the both of us have been working so hard, that I would treat us to a night out. Go to that restaurant in Beach Haven you like so well. How's that?"
"Boy, that's great, Mom. Can I have that monster steak? I haven't eaten all day. Was busy on the boat. More fish caught and more tangled lines than I've ever seen."
As she starts out of the lot, she says, "Son, you surely can and anything else you want."
"A huge bowl of ice cream . . . maybe a sundae or something."
"Me too, doggonit all. I'm famished."
She drives south on the boulevard, half listening to Colt prattle on about the day's fishing while half the time talking to herself. I've got to get myself under control. I was going to go confront Sean tonight. I want . . . She interrupts her thoughts to say, "Yes, Colt. Uh-huh, uh-huh," to his question she half heard. It must have been an adequate response because he was off chattering again. She returns to her mode. I want to. He and I need to do this and see what the next step is, if any. He might not want to do anything. He just may not care. He's got Rachael, or she's got him. Not sure which. He might not want anything to do with Colt. May not want children. Rachael certainly isn't the type. He seems happy with her. Perhaps I shouldn't. No, I must . . .
"Mom, you passed it. Didn't you see it on the right?"
"Yes. Yes. Wasn't paying attention. I'll, what is it you say, cop a U-turn?"
"That's it, Mom. Like now would be good."
She does, goes back the half-block, turns left, then down a few hundred feet to the steak house.
The evening is good. Colt does devour the monster steak, something in excess of sixteen ounces. And corn on the cob, mashed potatoes with gravy, two glasses of iced tea, one glass of ice water, and a triple scoop sundae with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and a cherry. Holli commented when he finished, "I'm going to need a trailer to haul you back home."
"Naaa, not yet. Maybe next time."
The trip home speeds by, like the last few weeks. A wink and it was gone. Safely home, no more missed turns, both head for showers and bed.
When Holli finishes showering, Colt is already in bed and asleep, exhausted and content. Holli, stands in front of the full length closet mirror, nude, staring at herself. Head tilting to one side, then the other. Touching, looking for flab, half-turns to each side, then turning completely around, and straining to see over her shoulder. Then back again. Smiles, mutters, "You still look good, you ol' broad. The days on the walker, the Ab-crunchers, and the bar bells have done the job."
She slides into her nightgown, looks at it, murmurs, "And you're goin' to have to go. Something more attractive. Sexy." And slips under the sheet, fluffs up the pillow, and turns out the bedside lamp. Closes her eyes and nestles under the sheet.
I'm going to do it. Tomorrow morning.
Then, in her best Irish accent, purrs, "Look out laddie, Grace O'Riley is comin' to yee."
CHAPTER 28
Holli awakens early, but well rested and exuberant. She scampers into the bathroom, turns the shower on and slips out of her nightgown. Looks into the bathroom mirror over the double sink. She smiles, mutters in her practiced Irish accent, "Lookin' good lassie, and about to get better as the morn goes on." She tests the water, adjusts it so it's coolish and steps in with a bath cap over her hair. Lathers herself with her recently purchased lavender scented gel. Then turns the handle slowly allowing the stream of cool water to turn to stinging cold like a winter mountain waterfall. Rinses quickly under the icy spray, turns it off and steps out. While reaching for her
towel, she glances in the mirror. No steam this morning, only her image. She inaudibly chuckles as she sees her breasts, and with a bit more of the accent, murmurs, "Wonder 'tis it the water or himself."
She takes extra care with her make up this morning. The manicure and pedicure yesterday afternoon with its fresh pink polish adds to the look. Robed and patted dry, make-up on, she steps into her sheer panties, slips on her bra, and for the time being smothers all with her every day ratty house coat. Saunters to Colt's room and knocks on the door.
Holding her ear to the door, half shouts, "Rise and shine, Seaman Colton. I'm about to start breakfast." She hears a muffled response and a shuffling of feet. Satisfied he's up and about, she goes downstairs to the kitchen.
* * *
As Colt enters the kitchen, he knows what's for breakfast before he sees it. The aroma of seasoned sausage fills the room. Holli places the steaming baked dish of sausage and scrambled egg casserole on the table. "Help yourself, kiddo. Juice is on the table, your toast is coming. That's mine on the table. Eat hearty, Laddie."
"Mom, you're acting kinda freaky this morning. What's up?" He sits down.
Holli puts her hand to her mouth and clears her throat. "Nothing," as she puts his toast on the table. Then gets her coffee and joins him at the table.
He loads casserole on his plate, and begins shoveling it into his mouth. Heaping forkfuls on its way to his unquenchable furnace. Shovels in another and another, and with the third mouthful he says, "It sure looks like something big is happenin', Mom."
She clears her throat again. "Don't talk with your mouth full, Colt."
He nods while swallowing like a pelican gulping down a fish. Half choking he says, "Yes, ma'am, but you're clearing your throat again. That always means something is up."
She continues, "It's nothing more than I have a frog in my throat and I feel particularly good this morning. Guess what? I'm going to take you to work today. Drop you off."
"I knew it. Mom, I knew it. I'd sooner take my bike."
"Not this morning, Colt. I'm taking you. Give the bike riding a break. Besides, I want to. We're not getting enough time together lately." She eats the last of her toast and sips her coffee.
The boy reaches for another helping of the casserole. He piles two spoonfuls on his plate. Shovels another few loads of fuel in his mouth, headed for the furnace below. He hurries to chew and swallow, then says, "Mom, we just spent the whole night together. Ate out. Riding around."
"Yes, and wasn't it a blast? Good Lord, Colt, where do you put it all?"
"I'm hungry."
"Yes, I can see that. And I'm glad for it. However, darling, at least slow down."
"Okay, Mom."
They continue to eat, however in silence after the last exchange, except for Holli's humming. She takes her last sip of coffee, puts the cup down, stands and says, "I'm going up to finish dressing. Do me a favor, will you? Clean up the kitchen. Then we'll leave." She gets up, pauses at the table, "You have an all-dayer today, right?"
"Yep."
The persistent habitual frog is cleared again. "And Robert is on the other boat today? Isn't he?"
"No, he's with Pete and me. Mister Gallagher's not going out today. I told you that last night. Something about the restaurant."
"Oh, well, what do I know? So be it. I'll be down in a minute. Don't forget the dishes." She darts out of the kitchen and upstairs. Colt watches her leave, shakes his head, and shovels in another load of coal for the furnace. He's about stoked for the day.
When Holli comes downstairs, briefcase in hand, Colt is waiting. He whoops, "Go, Mom. Wow! You must have a guy client with big bucks this morning?"
"Something like that. Honestly, do I look okay, Colt?" She's wearing an emerald green skirt, a white off-the-shoulder short sleeved blouse, matching green heels, no hose. The lip stick is a match with her nails. Her auburn hair is already glistening, and she's not yet in the sunlight where it takes on a special hue of its own.
"Dyno-mite, Mom. You should wear something like this around Mister Gallagher."
While turning for the door leading to the garage, Holli hears the remark, stubs her toe and stumbles. Rights herself quickly, says, "C'mon, Colt. Let's go. Mister Vaccaro is probably pacing the foredeck or forecastle or . . . something."
"Stick to real estate, Mom." Colt whistles, then excitedly proclaims, "Man oh man, I wish the guys at the Forge could see you now."
She turns a bright red. Slides into the car after tossing her briefcase in the backseat. They leave for the docks.
* * *
At the dock parking lot, she stops and Colt leaps out before she can put the car in the parking gear. She watches him jog toward the old man's slip. He looks back over his shoulder, stumbles slightly. Gets his balance and continues on, picking up speed as he becomes aware the Belle Maria II is ready to leave. Waiting only for him.
Holli turns and pulls out of the lot and onto the boulevard. She heads north, toward town.
Colt leaps on board. The boat is already loaded. Customers ready. Roberto's looking frantic. Pete shouts from the bridge, "Good of you to join us this morning, Mister Callahan. C'mon you two, cast off. Hustle now. The blues are running right at us this morning."
Holli drives slowly along, speeds up with the flow of morning traffic, her pulse pounding. Easy girl. Calm down. She checks the side view mirror and pulls over to the curb. Sits. Peers at her image in the rear view mirror, murmuring words of encouragement to herself. She turns, peers back over her left shoulder and sees that the old man's boat is out of the slip and churning towards the channel. She sits gripping the top of the steering wheel with both hands. Her knuckles white. Get a grip girl. This is the day. Now is the time. Don't let it happen again. She takes a deep breath, then another. Takes the car out of the parking gear, jams it into drive, checks traffic, pulls off a tire squealing U-turn that Colt would have applauded.
She hurries back to the dock area before her faltering courage grips her heart. She darts across a lane and re-enters the lot. Parks. Turns the ignition off. Nervously checks herself in the rearview mirror again. Takes in a deep breath, mutters, "Here we go, Grace." As she steps from the car, she is unconsciously humming a tune from church.
I once was lost but now am found,
Was blind, but now, I see
Grace strides across the lot to the docks and Sean's slip, looking in all directions. Every all-day fishing boat is out or making their way to the channel. She sees that no one is at the restaurant yet. Nor is anyone near the Wanderer or on its deck. Jagged nerves make her lean over and check the name, though she's seen the boat often enough. She stands trembling at the stern. She turns away to leave, then makes a definitive stop, turns back. Places both her hands to her forehead, fingers pressing on her temples. Takes in a deep breath, and quietly steps down onto the aft deck. Reaches for the railing as the boat rocks somewhat with the wake ripples of the departing boats. Shouldn't have worn heels. Regains her balance, looks around and gets her bearings. Knows from watching Colt on other days that the way inside is through the hatch in front of her. Takes another breath, steps in the hatch.
Grace pads along on her soles to keep balance, but more so not to announce her arrival. Surprise is likely to be her only safety net. It will give her some valuable moments to recover and reclaim any measure of calmness the Lord may grant her. She passes the lower berthing spaces, enters the galley, stands in the door to the dining area.
Sean is sitting at the table, in the booth. Facing her, but head down with his right hand resting on his forehead as if shielding his eyes from the light. He's immersed in reading the paper. It's spread off to the side of his cereal bowl and mug of coffee. Spoon in his left hand, hanging over the bowl, munching on what looks to be corn flakes.
Sean's senses go on alert with the floral scent of Grace's presence; he begins to react, raising his head.
"Good morning, Sean."
CHAPTER 29
Grace stands motionless in the f
rame of the hatch. She looks down into Sean's eyes. Tries to grin or look somewhat relaxed but doesn't accomplish the look she desires, nor can she muster a confident smile. But, it's effective.
Sean is stunned. As his head snaps up, his lower jaw drops. Mouth hangs open. The spoon clatters into the bowl. Eyes wide as silver dollars that flash blue in the galley lights. His hand instinctively grabs at the dropping spoon but it's nothing but a reflex. His eyes remain on Grace as he fumbles with the spoon in the bowl. Milk and soggy corn flakes splatter onto the tabletop as a result of his momentary clumsiness. He shakes his hand sending more droplets of milk to the table along with a last few mushy flakes. He reaches for a napkin; there is none. Seeming like minutes, perhaps hours, he continues to stare. Thunderstruck. Saying nothing. Can't. Grasping for instant recall but only finding flashing images, he takes a handkerchief from his rear pocket and wipes his fingers. Unconscientiously stalling. The delay aids the clouds of recollection to form like billowing thunderheads on a late summer afternoon. Split seconds pass with only the sound of breathing coming like gusts of wind. Then the rain showers of recollection form and sprinkle down through his mind. Color and reason begin to return to his face as the first rain drops strike his forehead.
Before he can speak or stand, Grace murmurs, "I take it you're surprised?" Her voice breaks, however she realizes he's put one together but hasn't added one and one equaling two, let alone equaling three. She feels a slight tremble in her body, like the last after-shock from a deserting quake. Her grey eyes focus on Sean, not revealing her mixture of nervousness, anxiety, fear and the intense pounding of her heart.
Sean rises bit by bit, struggling to get out of the booth. Still not talking. Jaw back in place, mouth not gaping any longer, but still ajar. Eyes growing warmer but sill glazed with surprise, or shock. He slides away from the table but not closing the distance between the two.
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 20