Made in Heaven

by McGoldrick, May

  Damn. He looked down at his hardening manhood and then at the pool of water his dripping frame had made on the floor.

  “Start thinking with your brain, pal,” he muttered to himself. Snatching a towel off the rack, he quickly dried himself.

  He’d come to Newport six months ago with a purpose, and he had a job to do--a book to write. This was the way it had always been with him. He had to immerse himself, body and soul, into the book--into the setting and into the characters. His stories had always “thrummed” with life. At least, that’s what that reviewer from the Publisher's Weekly had said a couple of books ago. But the feel of real life that he’d always tried to imbue his novels with did not come easy. All of it--or most of it, anyway--came from experience. This had been his ticket to success from that first day.

  He smiled, thinking back on that day. He was diving offshore rigs in Louisiana when his first break came. Eighteen years ago. It was like yesterday. He remembered coming off the rusty, old tub of a tender, bone tired after another twenty-eight day stint in the muddy Gulf, with a hurricane blowing up the coast. And there it was, that letter, just waiting for him.

  That letter! Cream-colored stationary. New York postmark. Forwarded from Dundee in Scotland to Morgan City, Louisiana. It was like an answer to a nearly forgotten prayer. After all those year-long contracts, diving everywhere from the Persian Gulf to the North Sea. All that time writing and hoping that--perhaps someday--someone would be interested in hearing the stories that he had to tell. And it was about to happen!

  Henry, his agent, had come into his life right after that--and then a whole slew of books. He couldn’t write them fast enough. There had been no stopping him--until this last year. Somehow, his creative juices seemed to have left him, but he wasn’t giving up. So he’d worked it out with his friend Phil to come to Newport and live undercover. His plan had been to keep his ears open, watch the upper crust at play, and have at least half a book written in a couple of months. But here he was, six months later, still unable to step out of the fog.

  Everyone had a different solution. His friend Phil, a guy he’d known since their days at State College, thought it was the lack of a steady life. What you need, Evan, he’d told him, was a life filled with routines and frequent, comfortable, ‘no strings’ relationships. No ups and downs.

  On the other hand, Henry, his agent, thought Evan’s problems were due to being too involved with everyday life. He accused him of taking in every stray person, animal, and thing, and making their problems his own. As a result, Henry argued Evan hadn’t any time to focus on his writing.

  Solid, practical, old Doug, his accountant, thought he should get professional help for his “Santa Claus complex.” He would be more than happy, Doug had told him, to take care of the bill himself, if Evan’s insurance wouldn’t cover it. His publisher in New York, on the other hand, thought his problems were due to a lack of communication--the absence of bonding that they felt should exist between the writer and the editor.

  That’s just what he needed, Evan had thought. More quality time with a smiley, fifteen-year-old Ivy Leaguer in suspenders and penny loafers. Somehow, he doubted that any of his former editors remembered him as Santa.

  It had even occurred to him, more than once, that maybe he was finished as a writer. Hell, maybe he’d just been too successful. He’d worked hard to avoid the fame part of the business, and he had more money than he could ever spend, in spite of what his accountant said. Maybe he just didn’t have the drive anymore. Maybe he had no more stories in him.

  Evan wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom. Glancing at the laptop on the kitchen table, he turned away and went to open the double French doors leading out onto the balcony.

  The night was clear and warm, and he stepped out onto the smooth wood decking and breathed in the sea air. Tomorrow, he told himself. This was it, he needed to give himself an ultimatum and stick by it. Tomorrow...tomorrow night...he’d start writing again. He leaned against the railing. No homeless winos, no runaway kids, no stray kittens would get in his way.

  But before tomorrow night, he reminded himself, he would need to double-check on the arrangements for Jada and the baby. And couldn’t put off calling Doug about Grady, the old trumpet player who rented the room in the Chittenden House down the street. Medicare wasn’t going to cover all the costs for his upcoming heart surgery, and Doug could cut the check without Grady knowing. And then he had to check...

  Evan stopped thinking.

  Her middle window was open, and he could see her walking back and forth from the suitcase lying across her bed to the open drawers of the dresser across the room. He let his eyes take in all of her--from the loose towel wrapped like a turban around her head, to the oversized tee-shirt that ended just above her knees.

  Nice legs, he thought, focusing on what he could see.

  A moment later she tucked her empty carrying bag neatly beneath the bed. Placing her glasses on the bedside table, she reached up, took the towel off her head, and shook her hair loose. He could tell that she was a creature of habit, as she ran the comb through her hair. Everything tidy and neat.

  He didn’t think to step back into the shadow when she walked toward the window and raised the sash of the two outer windows, as well. He was enjoying watching her and was planning to wave when she looked up. But to his great disappointment, she never did. Instead, she moved back to her bed and moved a stack of papers from her pillow to the side table, beneath her glasses.

  “Work?” he asked aloud. “I sure can think of much better uses for that bed than...”

  He swallowed hard. With her back to him, she pulled the tee-shirt over her head with one swift motion.

  “Damn,” he whispered, admiring her naked back, buttocks, and slender legs. But then, when she reached for the light, he came to his senses and angrily cursed himself. “So that’s it. You’re a pervert, now!”

  Turning and storming back into his room, he continued to mutter to himself. Of everyone, he thought, maybe Doug’s solution made the most sense.

  He needed professional help, all right, but not the type his accountant had in mind.

  CHAPTER 7

  The sun was warm on her shoulders as Meg stepped off the porch and turned to look at the half dozen gulls diving into the shimmering water of the harbor. Peeling off her windbreaker, she watched as the alabaster white birds hovered and dove. Over and over again, they skimmed across a patch of water that appeared to be teeming with activity. She could see little fish leaping into the air, and into the waiting beaks of the gulls.

  Bluefish. Meg remembered the time she and Robert had watched the fishermen hauling in the dark, meaty creatures. Some were as long as a fisherman’s arm. They had been told that in the fall the blues came into the bay, driving the schools of little fish to the surface in a feeding frenzy.

  Meg squinted at a lobster boat that was just rounding the point of Goat Island, and wondered for a moment if Jada’s father, Ted, could have been one of those men hauling in the bluefish.

  When she had awakened this morning, she had not even put her feet on the floor before being struck with the idea of buying some kind of a gift for Jada and the baby. But now, as she turned her steps down Washington Street, she realized that it was probably too early for any of the stores to be open.

  Well, she thought, maybe a walk down to that little waterfront park by the causeway would be nice--before she headed downtown.

  By reflex, Meg tried to push up the glasses that usually sat on the bridge of her nose, but they weren’t there. It was definitely going to take some time to get used to her new contact lenses. Well, it’d taken her six months, three visits, and four calls to the optometrist before she’d dared to pop the darn things into her eyes by herself. This morning, though, they went right in and--God willing--she’d be able to take them out just as smoothly. Heck, it had taken only forty five minutes and half a box of tissue. Not too bad!

  Moving briskly down the tree
lined street, she reached into her tote bag, pulling out the pair of sunglasses she’d bought in Boston last week. Grudgingly, she had to admit that Rebekah had been right in talking her into switching to contacts. She felt light, happy--in a way, sophisticated. But most important, she could see. Thirty years behind the times, but what the heck!

  Meg looked up at the plaque on the Hunter House, thinking how easy it was to read the information about the colonial “mansion” when the jogger coming out of the little park barreled into her.

  As he tried to avoid her, he tripped and lost his balance. Jarred by the collision, she staggered as well, dropping her tote bag.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Meg saw the jogger go down heavily, cushioned from the brick walk only by the nine dollar and ninety nine cent sunglasses which Meg heard crunch threateningly beneath his butt. She cringed.

  “I am so sorry,” she said, quickly crouching down on her hands and knees, scooping her scattered things into her bag. “I was looking at the...well, I wasn’t watching.”

  “No, I came around the corner too f...”

  They both looked up sharply, and Meg’s heart leaped in her chest. The sweating wall of muscle that she’d just bulldozed to the ground was her cab driver and new--albeit temporary--neighbor Evan Knight.

  “Hey, you...you look different!”

  Ignoring his comment, Meg tore her gaze away from piercing hazel eyes and glanced down to check the damage. Instantly, she wished she hadn’t, since the sight of tan, muscular thighs beneath a pair of dark running shorts was clearly too much for her weak heart. She flushed and stared into her tote bag.

  “Are these yours?” he asked casually, leaning to one side and retrieving a flattened pair of sunglasses...minus the lenses.

  “They were!” She nodded, taking the mangled wire from his hand.

  “Expensive?”

  “Priceless. A family heirloom, in fact. The women of my family have been wearing this particular pair of sunglasses for generations.”

  “Oh, good.”

  Meg looked up into his face.

  “Then I can’t possibly replace them.” He took the broken frames out of her hands and made a hook shot at a nearby garbage can.

  Gathering her tote bag hurriedly, Meg scurried to her feet and looked down at him. He was still sitting on his butt with his legs out in front of him. His thick brown hair fell in waves across his forehead. He looked younger than she remembered from the day before, but not that young. As Rebekah would put it, this was a man who oozed raw masculinity.

  “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “I won’t be able to tell until I stand up.”

  He stretched up one strong hand in her direction. She took it, and he sprang nimbly to his feet. He took a long moment before letting go.

  “A couple of broken bones, a twisted ankle, and a severely lacerated behind. I’m okay.”

  Meg tried to think of something smart and witty, but nothing was coming to mind as she was uncomfortably too aware of him. She hadn’t noticed yesterday how tall he was, or how broad his shoulders were?

  “Well, I’d better get going,” she said hurriedly.

  “You know, you do look different,” he said casually, stopping Meg in her tracks. “Cut your hair this morning?”

  “No!”

  “Wearing make up!”

  “No.” She shook her head and flushed crimson under his close scrutiny.

  “It must be the braces. You had a mouth full of them, yesterday, right?”

  “No!” she smiled. “You must be thinking of someone else. I’ve really got to get...”

  “Hmm! Wait a minute. I’ll get it.”

  He had to be one of the biggest flirts she’d met in her entire life. Not that she was used to hanging around that type. She looked up into eyes sparkling with amusement.

  “It’s the glasses. I’m not wearing my glasses.”

  “Tsk! And to think I crushed them.” He looked down at the shards of colored lenses on the paving. Leaning down, he picked them up and studied the dark plastic for a moment before throwing them in the trash can, as well. “Well, now that you can’t see, how about letting me take you where you have to go today?”

  “No! But thanks anyway,” she said quickly, holding tighter to the handle of her tote bag on her shoulder. She just felt too flustered around him. “You’ve already lost one day of fares, by not charging me. I can’t let you lose another day.”

  “Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

  She shook her head. “All the same...thanks, but no thanks!”

  Meg turned politely and took a step down the walkway before turning and facing him again. “Oh, have you heard anything from Jada this morning?”

  “Yeah, I called her first thing. She and the baby both seem to be doing fine.”

  There was a hint of coldness in his voice that made Meg look up. “Well, if you could tell her I said hi the next time you talk to her...” Giving him a small smile, she turned again and started briskly down the sidewalk. As she turned the corner into the park, she threw a quick glance over her shoulder. The moment she did, Meg felt quite foolish, for she realized that she was hoping he’d still be there, looking at her. But that indeed was an absurd thought. Evan Knight was nowhere in sight.

  Swallowing her disappointment, Meg walked to the waterfront pier. The sun was bright on the harbor water, and she reached without thinking into her bag for sunglasses. Remembering that they were no longer there, she jammed the bag onto her shoulder and plunked herself down on one of the stone benches.

  “Robert, where are you?” she whispered, gazing out along the causeway to Goat Island and the big hotel directly across the water from her. Year after year she and her husband would come here for Sunday brunches. Afterward, they would catch the boat for the harbor tour and spend the next couple of hours cuddled next to each other on the top deck, peering at the mansions of the rich and famous from the bay side. A couple of times they had gotten off with the crowd and walked through Hammersmith Farm, where Jackie Kennedy Onassis had grown up. But more often, the two of them had just sat and talked, enjoying the sun and the sea air.

  In all that time, Meg thought, looking across the water at a huge yacht anchored in the harbor, they’d never dreamed of ever living in a mansion like those in Newport. They’d never spoken in terms like ‘what if’ and ‘how about’. They were the observers of life, Robert used to say. The kind that could have fun just being bystanders, rather than participants.

  Meg stood up and made her way onto the causeway and across the bridge toward the modern looking hotel. There had always been a real comfort and security in what the two of them had shared. They had so much in common. The same beliefs, the same interests. And between the two of them, they were able to draw a wall around that kept them safe. It was the same wall that, even five years after his death, Meg was fighting to keep from crumbling around her.

  She didn’t need Evan Knight, Meg reminded herself. Getting involved with a man like him would mean the destruction of the life that she and Robert had built. He was too alive, and she was happy with what she had. Meg reached the end of the bridge and looked about her, uncertain what direction she wanted to walk next. She was done grieving over Robert’s death, and she was resigned to the little time they could share during this one week of the year. So what was wrong with that?

  She turned and headed back across the bridge. As she went back, she was surprised to see a dozen people fishing over the railing of the bridge. They must have been there a moment ago, but she had walked by them without even noticing. Looking down into a white bucket, she saw it was half filled with flat white and gray fish.

  “Wana buy some flounder?” a little boy asked, turning from the railing where he stood, pole in hand, with his family. They turned and smiled.

  “No. No thanks.” Meg continued on, stepping around more white buckets.

  As she reached the end of the bridge, she stopped and gazed at the park by the water. She looked
at the Hunter House, and the sidewalk where she and Evan had collided.

  “Robert!” she called out aloud, suddenly frustrated. “Robert! Help me!”

  But there was no answer. No familiar, teasing, loving voice. Only the sounds of the gulls on the water. Only the far-off voices of the people fishing on the bridge.

  Only the whispers of the gentle sea breeze, conveying the hint of a changing season.

  *****

  There was nothing like blatant rejection to clear his mind.

  Shoving the phone away from him on the table, Evan turned on the laptop, sitting rigidly as the flashing screens came one by one to life.

  Damn his new editor! Damn the deadlines! Damn Henry and his four hours a day sitting in front of this machine.

  And damn Meg Murphy!

  Clicking open the file, Evan brought up the rough outline of his story on the screen. Glittery lifestyles--extravagant parties--a rich wife--an unfaithful husband--murder--who done it. A reader would have to be stupid not to be able to figure it out after the first chapter!

  And how the hell was he going to write this story, anyway? Between giving rides to drunken sailors, pregnant teenagers, and snotty, married women on week-long screwing excursions, he couldn’t be expected to produce anything readable...never mind marketable!

  Sure, he’d decided to take on this guise of a taxi-cab driver. Everybody knew, after the bartenders and priests, they were the best source of dirt and gossip! Evan rubbed his chin. It sure seemed logical. He was sick of bars, and--God knows --he’d never make it impersonating a priest. But, hell, he’d written so little in the past few months. Obviously he was hanging around the wrong crowd. Maybe it was time to shift gears a little.

  Evan reached for the phone and dialed Phil’s secretary downtown. Trying to limit the day to day hassles of his career, Evan had accepted his friend’s offer of using Sarah for taking care of his correspondence while in Newport.

  “And how is my gorgeous, red-headed sweetheart these days?”