“The initials of the name you were born with?”
C.C. shrugged.
“You don’t like your father’s name?”
“It’s fine.”
“You don’t like the name you were given?”
“Nope.” Spoken in imitation of Adair.
Adair raised his eyebrows. “Gonna tell me what it was?”
“Nope.”
“What about your father’s name?”
“Carney.”
“Okay, if you work for me, that’s who you’ll be. Carney. One name. How everybody’s gonna know you.”
C.C. thought about this. Carney was what Bobbie sometimes called him. Sure, why not.
Carney had first learned to enjoy morning sex from Marcie. Evenings and the night, she believed, were meant for talking, drinking, celebrating, hugging, fearing, sleeping. Waking, refreshed and infinitely more sensitive to touch and tone, outside, inside, all around the town, this was when love got made best.
They had met while skiing, Waterville Valley in Vermont, both alone, each escaping the burdens of overwork. It began by chance, early afternoon, sitting beside each other on the chairlift. An accident of fate. She reached him a mitted hand. “Marcie Appleby.”
He took it. “Carney.”
“Carney what?”
“That’s it.”
“Just one name?”
“All I’ve got.”
They talked. They would meet for a drink at the end of the day, below, at the pub.
Her face, the only part of her he could see, had drawn him in: small flow of black hair over her forehead, gray-blue eyes, slender nose, full lips, strong supporting chin. No ears visible, he’d check them out over their drink. They skied their own trails for a couple of hours, arrived at the pub within minutes of each other, found the other immediately, both ordered the same beer, Rolling Rock—“My favorite.” “Mine too.”—both telling the truth. They agreed to have dinner together. Marcie first wanted to change out of her skiwear.
A shot of a thought: if she left she might not come back. Come on, they were getting along perfectly well. He recognized his fear, of course: the possibility of loss. But what did he have here that might disappear? A drink, an ephemeral drink. No, a palpable drink, a corporeal meeting, a lovely woman, a smart quick woman. Lots of lovely smart quick women in the world, Carney. Oh? How come I can’t hold on to one. Yes, from the chairlift ride on he had known Marcie might be special. “I can drive you to wherever you’re staying.”
“Thanks, I have my car here.”
“Okay, I’ll pick you up. Where?”
“The Edelweiss, just down the road.”
The fear of potential loss instantly swooped back to earth and transformed itself into the pleasure of control. “That’s funny. So am I.” Fate, again intervening.
“Well,” she laughed, “that simplifies it. See you in the lobby at”—she checked her watch—“seven. They say the restaurant there’s good. I didn’t try it yesterday. Interested?”
A relief—why?—to be dining at their own restaurant.
Over dinner they talked of themselves. He had been working with the Red Adair Company for just over a year, his own role in three major projects, all oil blowouts, Oklahoma, Nigeria, Saudi Arabia. Three months, two and a half months, seven weeks.
“And you enjoy the work?”
He told her of the pressure, the imagination demanded, the possibility of inventing new processes for defeating this cauldron and that one. He didn’t tell her, it was too early, of giving himself over to details of each venture so purely that they often became a new kind of Moment for him, so at one with the battle he knew he could do no wrong, he knew the fire from its core to its wisps. When within a Moment the fire was his twin brother, it was himself.
After each undertaking, there’d be enforced time away from fire. Wind-out time, a furlough. Just back from Saudi twenty-two days ago. His next? Never can tell what’s going to blow next.
Marcie worked on projects also—much less exhausting or imposing than his but in their own way rewarding. She was a freelance rural health specialist, consulting since her degree five years ago for the budding telehealth industry on the both sides of the US/Canada border, private here, public in Ontario and Quebec. She had reached the point of being able to choose projects that she believed in. Plenty of work, respectable pay, and no one owned her.
“What kinds of projects?” He sipped his wine.
Projects where a community tries to keep sickness from breaking out. She held wellness clinics, she and her physician partner, Lillian, meeting with mothers, teachers, nurses, occasionally with doctors, in the never-ending battle to prevent illness. Much more health-effective. Not to mention, for the community in the long run, way cheaper. “People are, you know, happier when they’re well.”
Which was when he told her about meeting Red Adair, the prevention argument.
“You doing any prevention work now?”
“Sadly, no. Not for the company. But it’s there, back of my mind. I’m learning a lot.”
“Keep it going.” She sipped her wine.
They talked, they laughed, they got serious. He told her about his parents’ death, about being raised by Bobbie. She told him about her mother dying while giving birth to Marcie’s younger sister, about her father the doctor. Twice they discovered they were saying nothing, eyes catching eyes, her drumming heart, his pounding pulse. The evaluations, the questions, the wondering.
“And where are you based?”
Could be anywhere, but right now she favored Montreal when she worked up north, Boston when down here.
Too remarkable. Carney lived in Somerville, just outside Boston. Up on Prospect Hill, near the park. A house built in the 1880s, now in cosmetic decay but with good bones. His self-imposed duty while home was returning it to its late-Victorian elegance.
“I’d love to see it.”
“You will.” They ordered coffee.
He watched as she went to the washroom. A petite woman, short black no-nonsense hair, slim in a creamy silk blouse and long black skirt. Where was this going? She returned, her lips repainted a soft red gloss. Her ears turned finely down to tiny lobes, the red stones in her earrings glimmering, sharing color with her mouth. The coffee came, they sipped, they finished their meal. “A cognac?” Why not.
So it was after ten when they walked to her door. They stood facing each other, she making no move to enter. He took her hand. They again saw only each other. She brought her face to his, her mouth to his, and their lips touched. He touched her cheek. All quietly, neither rushing. She pulled back. “Tomorrow,” she said.
“Tomorrow will be good. Shall we ski together?”
“I’d like that.”
“And a drink after?”
“And dinner after that.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
She’d be leaving in a couple of days, but not till the afternoon. Carney had booked for another four days. In the morning they had breakfast together, skied all day. She invited him to her room for the drink before dinner.
He arrived. She poured Glenmorangie. They drank to each other. She wore a tight red jersey and tight black slacks, high-heeled sandals, he a blue dress shirt open at the neck, blue blazer, gray slacks, loafers. She said, “I enjoy being with you, Carney of the single name.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been able to say the same to a woman, a long while.” Since Thea, in fact. “But I am enjoying being with you a great deal.”
“I would kiss you. Except then I’d have to redo my lipstick before we went for dinner.”
“I can think of two responses to that.”
“The first?”
“Do you have more lipstick?”
“Yes. The second?”
“We don’t have to go out for dinner.”
She beamed at him. “Except I’m hungry.” She stepped close to him, brought her drinkless hand around to the back of his head, and drew his mouth to hers. Her ki
ss too told him she was hungry. She drew back, set her glass down. He, with exaggerated mimicry, set his down as well. They stepped into each other, kissed and held each other, held the other for the pleasure of embracing a person suddenly significant, suddenly inflaming, suddenly unique to the other. They pulled their faces back. “Well,” she said.
“Very well.” He drew away from her and picked up his glass. “Very well indeed.” He sipped.
She raised her glass, held it over her head, other hand on hip, her eyes on his, slowly turned half circle, swung her head around so her eyes instantly caught his again, finished the circle, lowered her glass, and sipped.
He laughed. “Yes?”
“I like to see a situation from all sides.”
“Ah.” He finished his Scotch and set down his glass. “We could eat here again. Then we wouldn’t need coats”—he glanced at her sandals—“or winter boots.” If she wanted to eat, then eat they would. Sooner being better.
“Good. The food was lovely.”
Carney honestly couldn’t remember.
“Since we aren’t going far, we’re not in a rush.”
“That’s true.”
“I have to fix my lipstick. But there’s no rush.”
He glanced at her lips. Virtually no smear. “No, no rush.”
“Two for the price of one.”
He laughed. “Or three. Four, six.”
“An even dozen.” Their mouths met again, again, their lips admitting to appetite growing from what they fed upon.
After a time that seemed no time at all, Carney said, “I think we better go to eat. Or forget that idea altogether.”
She smiled, mock-demure, dropped her eyes, and said, “I’ll be a very few minutes. Take yourself another drink.” Again he watched her walk away. A lusty woman. He felt his own thick lust rising yet higher. He took another small Scotch. He needed it.
At their table, glancing at the menu, they discovered a loss of appetite. Bowl of soup, fruit and cheese, done. She said, “Will you sleep with me tonight?”
“If you will sleep with me.”
“All this can be arranged.”
He grinned. “Or we can ride the chairlift again …”
Under the table the front of the sole of her sandal caught him deftly on the right shin. “Listen to me. I want to tell you something I believe in.” It was then she told him her theory of sex in the morning, the best kind of sex, when the whole of the body was refreshed. “So tonight we should just sleep together.”
“Oh dear. I don’t know if I can do that.”
“Shall we try?”
“Right now?”
“In a few minutes, dummy.”
“It may prove impossible.”
Carney paid for the meal. Marcie bought a bottle of St. Auguste-Dauphin. They walked to the elevator hand in hand. He had to hold her hand, he was again afraid of losing her, he had gone beyond lust. His head was so very clear.
In the room, double bed, dresser with mirror, two stuffed chairs, Marcie turned on a radio, soft music, excused herself, the bathroom again. Carney dropped his blazer onto a chair, turned off all but one light. Marcie reappeared, glowing in the dim light. He poured, handed her a glass, and they sipped, a lavish liquid. They kissed, lightly. He came back, she brought both hands around to the back of his head, brought his face to hers with soft finger pressure, held him to her as he brought his arms around her waist. Their bodies held together tight as skin. They swayed together slowly, to the music.
For ten minutes, fifteen. He said, “I find this very—hard.”
She whispered in his ear, “I know.” And then, “Shall we go to bed now?”
“And leave all this good wine undrunk?”
“You want more wine?”
“It may be the only thing that can help me.”
“Help you?”
“Live by your theory.” He could. He would. Until he knew she’d be part of his life long enough to find out if they wanted to be part of each other’s lives.
She put a finger to his lips. “Theories grow from practice. You know that. Your friend Adair tells you the same thing. How much practice have we had?”
He laughed. He picked her up, kissed her. Lay her on the bed, leaned over, kissed her again. They undressed each other, discovered more of each other. And yet more.
Afterward they drank a little wine. And made further discoveries. Slept, woke early, continued their expedition. In the afternoon they skied for an hour. Back to her room. The night was theirs, and tomorrow till noon. Carney canceled the last two days of his booking, pointless staying in Waterville Valley without Marcie. She would be returning to her Boston apartment this time. They drove south in tandem. They’d stop at his home in Somerville, he’d pick up a few items, stay a few days at her place, all non-working time given over to sharing.
Except at the Somerville house—he’d show her around the next time, place was a mess—a phone message from the Red Adair Company: report immediately at Laguna Mecoacan in the state of Tabasco, the huge IXTOC #1 well was spewing way out beyond the lagoon into the Bay of Campeche. An offshore drilling rig had been demolished by the blast of an oil eruption, thousands of tons already, every available man and woman desperately needed.
He’d be back soon, Carney promised. She’d be here when he returned, she promised. The IXTOC #1 fire held nearly all his attention eighteen hours a day, exhausting but heady work, little time for sleep. Marcie stayed at the back of his mind mostly, sometimes she came to the fore. Once as she was whispering to him Julie appeared, saying nothing, watching only. Carney squeezed his eyes tight to make Julie go away.
He returned to Boston three months later, max time for any project, worn and weary but unharmed. Adair claimed he’d never lost a fire-fighter on the job. Carney had three weeks, they needed him back at the well, still bleeding oil. Marcie and Carney spent many of their days together and all their nights, six of them in Montreal. He introduced her to Bobbie. The two women got along well. Three days before he left, Marcie asked him to marry her. The proposal took him by surprise, he admitted it. He’d never really thought about being married, his work with Adair didn’t exactly leave much organized time for domestic life. Neither did her work, she noted; they were two of a kind. Okay, they’d talk about marriage when he got back.
IXTOC #1 kept him in the Bay of Campeche for an additional seventy-three days. They spoke when they could, too rarely, on the phone. For the first nine weeks they didn’t discuss getting married.
Marriage? What would that mean? First, that he and Marcie would be joined together, he’d never lose her. Well, way less chance. Wasn’t losing her what he feared? How would she deal with him off fighting oil fires around the world for two-thirds of the year? Still, once he’d been given the date of his next furlough, he began speaking of marriage on the phone. They both found those conversations too brief, the discussions too complicated, best to wait till they were together. On the plane home instead of watching the movie Carney closed his eyes and found, waiting for him on the screen at the back of his eyelids, Julie. Julie said, quite simply, If Marcie can handle his being away, then no problem, right? Because, basically, he loved Marcie. Right?
Which, not mentioning Julie, is what he said to Marcie as they sat facing each other at dinner his first evening back. They filed for a marriage license but held off the wedding until Carney’s next return because Marcie wanted her sister and father present. Fine by Carney because it looked like they were finally closing the fire down and he could invite Red and a few of his firefighting comrades.
Carney left, Carney returned. Carney and Marcie were wed. Marcie’s father the doctor gave her to Carney, Bobbie gave Carney to Marcie and wrote an occasional poem, filled with wit and tease. Ricardo glowed when he danced with Bobbie, and Carney wondered if they too might one day marry. Actually, from what Carney could see, Bobbie and Ricardo were as close as married now.
The next three years were, as predicted, difficult departures and joy
ous re-meetings. Carney loved her mightily, her mind and her body twin homes for her quirkiness. He felt blessed with his double life, at home with this exceptional woman, at work with singular colleagues. He experimented with new methods for confronting fire, he invented new substances for damping fire. Along the way he kept notes on where and how prevention had failed. Back home he experimented, too, and so did Marcie. He even made time for his cello.
He enjoyed the balance. She increasingly did not. Their work agreement, once a high-level compromise, became more and more of a burden for her. She’d quit her work in Quebec and Ontario, decided two consultancies in two countries were one too many if she ever wanted intense time with her husband when he came home. But she discovered she also wanted, even needed, continuity. Very hard to create with Carney away more than half her life. They’d spoken of this a couple of times before he’d last left. Those conversations, unended, left the situation unresolved.
Carney returned from five weeks battling a small but vexing fire in Kuwait. She picked him up at the airport. The first few days were as ever, relating the incidents of their lives while apart, those not talked about on the phone or talked of then but elaborated on now. And their sexual rediscoveries. The third evening, dinner at a little Sumatran restaurant Marcie had discovered, she said, “We have been avoiding something.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “Maybe you have. I haven’t.”
“In the larger than the you-or-me sense. In the we sense.”
“Okay. What have we been avoiding?”
“We’re getting older.”
“Not me. And I swear”—he studied her hair, face, neck, and nodded—“neither are you.”
“Inside me.”
Now his head shook. “Not true. I’ve been there. I know.”
“Carney, listen to me. I want to have a baby. Maybe even two.”
“Hmm,” he said. They’d spoken of this before, but only in the hypothetical: what would it be like if? So this wasn’t a surprise, not totally. And he could almost see himself as a father …
“I’d like to have a baby soon, Carney.”
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