by Teri Emory
“I was born forty-six years ago in a hospital just a mile up the road,” he began, pointing straight ahead. “My mother grew up in Savannah. Her family had been here for generations. Dad was from Texas, but he had distant cousins who lived here. Mom and Dad met at a Lutheran church social one weekend when Dad was in town visiting his family. The story goes that after one dance with Mom—she was a real looker in those days—Dad told his cousin he had just met the woman he was going to marry. And they did marry, just three months later. My sister Agatha was born the next year. I arrived five years later. Mom and Dad were the happiest pair I ever knew. Dad had a heart attack and died three years ago. No warning. Six months later, Agatha died of cancer. Mom has never been the same since that terrible year.”
I reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“What else do you want to know?” he asked.
I thought, I want to know about your marriage, of course. And about every woman who’s ever laid claim to your heart.
But I asked, “Where did you go to college? How did you become a photographer?”
“Mom’s brother, my Uncle Jasper, was a camera collector. He had hundreds of strange-looking cameras all over his house. None of his own kids were interested in them, but I was fascinated. He’d tell me tales about them—how the miniature ones were used by spies, how one of them had come from a burlesque theater where they took naughty pictures backstage. One summer when I was in high school, Uncle Jasper taught me how to shoot pictures. It was the only thing besides sports that ever held my attention for more than two minutes when I was a teenager.
“After high school, Uncle Jasper persuaded me to try South Florida College, where a friend of his taught photography. I became the photographer for the campus newspaper, and I managed to earn a degree in photography, with a minor in painting. After college, I got a job with a nature preservation group, kind of like your friend Violet’s, but in South Florida. I thought I’d be soaking up the sun in the Keys, shooting pictures of endangered flora and fauna. Instead, I found myself in charge of the fundraising newsletter, taking headshots of rich people who donated money to the organization.
“Then I entered a photography contest with photos I had taken of manatees playing off the South Florida coast. I won first prize, and someone wrote a story about me that ran in a national magazine, and all kinds of interesting offers came my way. Pretty soon, I was able to leave my regular job and make a living as a nature photographer. That’s when I started all the traveling I told you about last night. I was also able to move back to Savannah.”
“What happened to Uncle Jasper’s camera collection?”
“He left the cameras to Jasper, Jr., his son. Junior, as we call him, has been married and divorced about four times. One of his ex-wives got the cameras when Junior ran out of alimony money.”
“How sad for you,” I said.
“I just hope those beauties are in the hands of someone who appreciates them. I still have the old Nikon that he taught me to shoot with.
“Well, that brings me to the present. Your turn.”
“I was born in Brooklyn, New York, exactly forty years ago tomorrow.”
“Oh, is it your birthday?” he asked, feigning surprise.
I grinned. “My parents grew up on the same street. They were high school sweethearts, and they married right after graduation. My dad became a lawyer by going to college and law school at night. It took him twelve years to finish. I hardly saw him when I was a kid. I have a younger brother, Neil, who lives in Phoenix. He’s married, two kids, owns a chain of high-priced hotel gift shops. Mom worked for years at Bloomingdale’s, in the children’s department, which came in handy because she got a discount. We didn’t have much money, but we always wore very nice clothes. I went to a public elementary school, the same one my parents had gone to. I even had one of my mom’s teachers in the second grade. Everyone in our neighborhood was Jewish or Italian.”
“I dated the only Jewish girl in my senior class,” said Peter. “Her name was Naomi, and she and her family seemed so exotic to me. We had to stop dating because her mother was always threatening to put her head in the oven if Naomi and I got serious about each other.”
“Naomi’s mother probably had good reason to be concerned.”
“What do you mean? I’m a respectable Southern gentleman.”
“So you say.”
“Go on,” he laughed. “Tell me more about you.”
“In high school, I became friends with some girls whose families were rather well off. They introduced me to the idea of going to college away from home. My parents nearly freaked out when I told them what I had in mind. I was the first girl in my family to go to college, and no one ever went away to school. My family was very proud that our relatives were smart enough to get into Brooklyn or City College. ‘Jonas Salk went to City College,’ my mother said, with lots of hand wringing. ‘It’s not good enough for you?’”
Peter laughed. “Does your mother have a real New York accent?”
“Oh, yes. And she’s always surprised when people guess immediately where she’s from. Anyway, I prevailed. I went to the State University at Buffalo, which was as far away as I could get and still pay in-state tuition. It was the best thing I ever did. I met Beth and Sarah there. When we graduated, I stayed on in Buffalo to get a masters degree in education. For a while, I considered moving out west after college. It was the late sixties, after all, and everyone my age thought that California was the center of the cultural universe.”
“I remember those days,” Peter said. “The Mamas and Papas. California Dreamin’.”
“Exactly. When I got my degree, though, there was a shortage of teachers in New York City schools, and I wound up in Manhattan. I love my job, and it’s great having summers off. Not to mention the occasional sabbatical, like this year. My dad died right after I graduated from college, so I feel good about living near my mother. She’s still in the same apartment in Brooklyn.”
We had arrived at Tybee Island, and he was pulling into a parking spot at the marina. “I thought I’d give you a preview of our day on the water tomorrow,” he said. About thirty boats were docked at the shore. “Let’s take a walk. We can see my boat.”
“How long have you known how to sail?”
“My father always kept a sailboat. I’ve been sailing all my life.”
He took my hand, and we walked along, admiring the boats.
“Do you think I could guess which one is yours?” I asked.
“That’s her,” he said, pointing to a thirty-foot sailboat in front of us. “Named for the love of my life.” On the back was painted the name: Michelle II.
“Is there a Michelle I?” I asked.
“I sold the first Michelle and bought this as a present for myself after my first big show at the Telfair Museum. This boat’s supposed to sleep six, though it helps if half the sleepers are under the age of twelve. Come, let’s go see Mom.”
__________
Emma Robinette was sitting in a swing on the front porch of her condo when Peter pulled into the driveway and honked the car horn. Petite, with a knot of wispy silver hair on top of her head, she had the gait and the presence of a woman half her age. She waved and almost ran down the porch steps to greet us as we got out of the car.
“Hi, Darlin’” she sang out. She kissed Peter on the lips. “I’m so glad to see you. You, too, Miriam. How lovely you are, child!”
“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Robinette,” I said.
“Oh, please call me Miss Emma, like everyone else does. I understand this is your first trip to Savannah. I’m sure it can’t be anything as exciting as New York, but I know Peter is happy to have you visit.”
“I’m thrilled to be here. I haven’t seen much yet. I did get a look at the Michelle II, though.”
“Of course, that silly sailboat. It would be like Peter to take
you to the marina first thing. Just like his father. Come on inside. I just fixed some sweet tea for y’all.”
She led us up the stairs and into her condo. “Did Peter tell you that I had the best time of my life once when I visited New York?”
“When were you there?”
“My late husband and I took a train up to New York City, right to Manhattan, almost twenty-five years ago, for our anniversary. We stayed at the Plaza Hotel and we went to see Man of La Mancha in a Broadway the-ay-tah. I still have the dress I wore. We even ate in Chinatown. It was the first time I ever tasted Chinese food. No one could talk me into ridin’ on those subway trains, and I’ve been sorry all these years that I didn’t do it. Do you live right there, right in Manhattan?”
“Yes. And I take those subways almost every day. You didn’t miss much, trust me.”
She handed me a glass of iced tea with a sprig of fresh mint floating on top. It tasted syrupy and delicious.
“Oh, but you’re so lucky to live in such a place,” she said. “I regret that I haven’t been except that once.”
“Whenever you want to come, you just call me,” I said. “My apartment is not as grand as the Plaza, but I think you’d be comfortable at my place.”
“Aren’t you sweet, Miriam! I just may surprise you one day. So what do you children have planned for the weekend?”
“I’m taking Miriam to a birthday dinner tonight, Mom. And tomorrow, we’ll go for a sail,” said Peter.
“Peter, I hope you’ll give Miriam a proper tour of the city,” said Emma. “You know, Miriam, all the squares and the parks in Savannah were laid out by James Oglethorpe in the 1700s. My mother was a descendant of one of his cousins. We Southerners are just crazy about family history. Everybody likes to tell about their famous relatives. I hope I’m not boring you.”
“It’s fascinating,” I said. “I can’t wait to walk around.”
Peter pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Here are the photos, Mom.”
Emma opened the envelope and took out several black and white photos of people dressed in formal attire.
“We had a welcoming party, a formal dinner, if you please, for the new minister of our church last month,” Emma explained. “I’ve given up trying to get Peter to come with me to church, but I managed to persuade him to take pictures at the dinner. I’m so proud to have such a talented son. Thank you, honey,” she said, turning to Peter. “I’ll give them to Reverend Collins on Sunday.”
Emma wanted to know everything about me. She reminded me of Violet’s mother, Della, who always made me feel as if there were nothing in the world she’d rather be doing than talking to me. Emma leaned forward in her chair, looked intently into my eyes as she asked one question after another. Wasn’t it a challenge teaching in a city school? How did I spend my summers? Did I live near my mother? Did I often go to Broadway the-ay-tuhs?
Emma accompanied us to the car to say good-by, slipping her arm through mine as we walked.
“So lovely to meet you, dear. I hope to see you again,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek. Peter hugged his mother and we got back into the car.
“What a treasure,” I said.
“She’s very wise, a good judge of character. She liked you, I could tell.”
“You need to bring her to New York some time.”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to look at me and wink, mimicking what his mother had said, “I just may surprise you one day.”
We spent a most of the afternoon at an outdoor art show at City Market, where Peter introduced me to some of the painters and sculptors he knew who were exhibiting. By late in the day, we had worked our way through cobblestone paths to River Street, sidestepping swarms of tourists descending from mammoth buses. We strolled past souvenir shops, sipping sweet tea from paper cups.
“Nothing like Miss Emma’s,” I said. “Where’s the mint?”
“You’ve been spoiled,” Peter said. “You started with the best.”
We passed a store selling nautical gear. “Say,” Peter said, “what kind of shoes did you bring to wear on the boat?”
“Sneakers. Will they do?”
He pulled me into the shop. “We need to get you proper sailing gear.” He insisted on buying me a pair of green leather deck shoes and a matching windbreaker.
“Green is your color,” he said. “With those eyes . . .”
In fact, I had brought a jade green dress to wear to Elizabeth’s. What Peter couldn’t have known, and what I didn’t know at the time, was that over and again, I would find myself drawn to buying and wearing green. For years to come, when I opened my closet or bureau drawer, I was reconnected with that moment in Savannah. I didn’t believe I was consciously choosing to spark those memories. But the past is never where you think you’ve left it.
We drove back to his house to change for dinner. We faced each other a little self-consciously in his bedroom, slowly removing the clothes we had been in all day. I slid my jeans off and pulled my shirt over my head. He unbuttoned his shirt and I stroked his chest.
“We have a little time,” he said. “Let’s see if we can work up a good appetite.”
As we fell onto the bed, he reached over to the small stereo on the night table and switched on some music, a tape of Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter songs. Peter sang along: When they begin the beguine/It brings back the sound of music so tender . . .
“I never thought I’d live to hear Cole Porter with a Southern accent,” I said. “But I could get used to it.”
We explored each other’s bodies in the fading daylight streaming in through the window. After we made love, I slipped into my green dress, feeling contented, peaceful, and happy.
__________
The hostess at Elizabeth on 37th was a large woman with a lacquered bouffant hairdo and a bronze complexion that bore the effects of more than six decades of unfiltered sunlight.
“Hi, you sweet thing” she said, kissing Peter on the cheek. “Wherever have you been keepin’ yourself?”
“Layla, this is my friend Miriam, from New York.”
“Welcome to Elizabeth’s, Miriam,” she said, guiding us to a table near a stone fireplace.
“This was built as a mansion for a cotton broker in around 1900,” Peter said as we sat down. “The current owners have tried to retain traditional Savannah colors, like the peach and the green you see.”
I opened a menu. “I wish I could taste a little of everything they serve.”
“From what I heard about your appetite, I figured as much,” Peter said. “When I called for reservations, I took the liberty of asking the chef to prepare a sampling of their best dishes for us to share. Hope that’s okay with you.”
“Okay? It’s perfect.”
Peter Bruceled at the delight on my face as I tried each distinctive dish: Southern fried grits in red-eye gravy, black-eyed peas and Georgia shrimp, coastal grouper with peanut sauce.
“Ready for dessert?” Peter asked as our waiter cleared away our empty plates.
“Did you take care of ordering that for us, too?”
Peter was looking over my shoulder towards the entrance to the dining room. I turned to see several of the waiters and Layla, the hostess, heading our way. Layla was holding a plate with a slice of pecan pie and a lit candle. When she caught my eye, she began to sing “Happy Birthday.” Everyone in the restaurant joined in the singing and applauded when I made a wish and blew out the candle.
“Happy birthday, Miriam,” Peter said. “I hope your wish comes true.”
In a way, I got my wish. Not a day has passed in the years since I blew out that candle, without my remembering how I sat across from Peter Robinette on my fortieth birthday, at Elizabeth on 37th Street in Savannah, Georgia, certain that I had found the love of my life.
We left Peter’s house early the n
ext morning and drove to the marina. I wore my new green deck shoes and windbreaker.
I had never been on a sailboat before. I was nervous that Peter would depend on me to help in some way, to do something I didn’t know how to do. As soon as we got on the boat, though, it was apparent that I was in capable hands and Peter wouldn’t expect much of me. With one foot on the edge of the sailboat and the other on the pier, Peter helped me step onto the Michelle II, and then he handed me the ice chest of sandwiches and drinks we had packed. He began to work at loosening the knots in the ropes that held the boat to shore.
“It looks like it rained last night. Those ropes are going to be hard to untie,” I said, as I watched him tug on them.
“If you’re going to be my first mate, you’ll have to learn proper sailing language. These are lines, not ropes.”
“And what exactly are the duties of the first mate?” I asked warily.
The lines were free, and Peter hopped onto the sailboat. He lifted my chin to look at me.
“Just to keep the captain happy,” he said.
I moved around the deck awkwardly at first, but after a while I grew accustomed to the boat’s sway. We sailed south for hours, past destinations with romantic, prophetic names: Thunderbolt; Isle of Hope. Peter dropped anchor when we reached a quiet inlet. I lay back, knees up, on one of the cushioned seats on the deck, and he sat down and pulled my legs across his lap.
“Does your daughter know how to sail?” I asked.
“Of course. She comes for a month every summer, and we spend most of our time on the water.”
“And her mother? Was she a good first mate?”
“Hardly. I should have known better than to marry a woman who was afraid of the water.”
“How long were you married?”
“Almost five years.”
“How did you meet?”
“Joan’s mother has a winter house in Palm Beach. She was on the board of that preservation group I told you about, the one I worked for after college. She introduced me to Joan.”
“What is Joan like?”
“Joan grew up in Connecticut, never wanting for anything. I’ve never cared about being rich, which didn’t sit well with Joan or her family. When Michelle was born, the differences between Joan and me became clearer than ever. I dreamed about teaching Michelle to sail and taking her camping with me when I went on nature shoots. Joan and her mother were talking about cotillions and boarding schools. Michelle was still a baby when we got divorced. Joan moved back home right away.”