My Soul to Keep

by Davis Bunn

  Celia opened her door and walked to the drop-off while Brent unpacked their meal. Their peak was surrounded by the minty shades of new life. Directly below them, a pasture was ringed by blooming trees, shimmering like tethered clouds in the evening light. She asked, “What are those, cherry trees?”

  “More likely wild dogwood. That and tulip poplar.”

  She grinned. “Font of all knowledge.”

  “One of the pastors at the gathering told me.”

  They ate in the comfortable silence of old friends. A pair of jays complained over having to share their hilltop. Three sparrows arrived to beg for crumbs. The occasional car passed in a quiet whoosh, there and gone. Otherwise the dusk was theirs.

  Celia scrunched up the waste paper and carried it to the trash can. Above it was a sign that warned in bold letters to refasten the lid and not feed the bears. When she returned, she slipped onto the bench beside him. She used both hands to free her hair from its tightly bound ponytail. She swept the hair down over her left shoulder, a gesture that tugged hard at Brent. This was how she had always worn it. Before.

  She said to the westering sun, “We need to talk.”

  Brent felt his heart kick into a gear he did not recognize.

  “We’re paid to be temporary,” Celia said. “There ought to be a clause in every actor’s contract that warns them that their star will soon fade. People want to escape, they want to live vicariously, they want safe adventure, they want forbidden fruit. And when they’re done, they walk away and leave us with the empty popcorn containers. The attendants come and they sweep us up and dump us out. We’re paid to shine and then disappear.”

  “That’s hard,” Brent managed.

  “I’ve had five years of sitting in my living room listening to the phone not ring.” She stroked her hair where it spilled over her shoulder. “Don’t talk to me about hard.”

  The sun touched the ridgeline, and all their world became rimmed in gold. The scar on Celia’s temple was the only dark shadow on an otherwise perfect day. “I’ve said it a hundred thousand times. To you, to God, to anybody who’ll listen. I’m so sorry, Celia. So very, very sorry for the pain I caused.”

  She sat and stroked her hair and studied the gold-green valley. “I need you to be honest with me, Brent. I can take a lot of things. I’m a big girl. But I can’t handle this uncertainty. Liz thinks you’re in love with me. I want to know if it’s true. I’m not sure I can handle that either. But before I even consider … I need to know. That’s all.”

  Brent felt his heart swell so big he had to give himself a while just to find breath. “You’re the reason I got so blind I parked my car in somebody’s front room. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming you. But I knew down deep that I was undone by how I felt about you. All the shields I’d built to hide behind couldn’t stay in place. I wanted you to know who I really was. But I knew, Celia. Down in my gut I knew that if you saw the real me you wouldn’t love me anymore. So I tried to end it all. Not consciously. Down deep, where the little kid screamed at me in total panic every time I was around you.”

  The hand touching her hair rose up to stroke her temple. The golden girl probed her wound, her memories. The gesture left him choking on the acid of old sorrow.

  She asked in a voice one notch off idle, “Is it true what Liz told me? You’re living alone, not dating, not seeing anybody?”

  “The last time I went out with anybody was the night of our accident.” He let that linger in the still air for a time. Then, “I was afraid to even think the thoughts. Afraid to hope …”

  The sun disappeared, leaving behind a crown of arching light and a sea of shadows below. “Hope what, exactly?”

  “That I might make myself good enough to have you love me. And if not love me, be my friend. And if not that, then maybe just forgive me.”

  31

  CNN carried a snippet. The LA station that gave the most coverage to the film world played it hourly. A would-be challenger to the Hollywood system stood in front of a charred expanse of rubble. Farther out, the windswept waters of some unnamed bay glinted blue-green. The man, a producer with no soundstage, an investor in carnage, stood defiantly and asked the people watching to pray for a miracle. The reporter asked if he thought there was any credence to the rumors that the film unions were behind the fire. The man with the decidedly southern name of Bobby Dupree, and with an accent to match, simply repeated his confident request. People who shared his dream were asked to pray with him and give thanks for the miracle he knew was about to unfold. All the while, oily ashes swirled in the stiff breeze and made a mockery of his defiance.

  Shari wanted to laugh. She would have, in fact, had it not been for her grandmother. Lizu Khan insisted upon watching the news piece a second time. And then a third.

  Shari tried hard not to glance at her watch. Again. “Grandma, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  Her grandmother shook her head at the television. “I know this man.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “His kind. You think just because you stomp upon the snake’s head he is gone. Joined to the dust. Never to bother you again.” She flipped the channels. “Wait. Here it is again.”

  Shari wanted to brush it aside. Today of all days. “It’s exactly the same thirty-second spot.”

  “Yes, but do you not see?” Her accent, always carefully hidden away, was becoming more pronounced. “He is everywhere!”

  This time she could not completely repress the sigh. “Grandma. Jason is picking me up in ten minutes.”

  “Yes. Of course. That is most excellent. Speak to your gentleman. He will tell you what needs doing.”

  “That’s not …” Shari reached over, took the remote from her grandmother, and shut off the TV.

  “I was watching.”

  “I’ll be gone and then you can watch this guy all day. Listen to me, Grandma. Jason is taking me sailing.”

  She turned crossly from the television. “Yes? This is your big news?”

  “I’ve done some checking. He has a boat, but it’s kept under his attorney’s name. It’s his secret hideaway. Jason never mentions this to anyone.”

  Finally, finally, she had her grandmother’s full attention. “You wait to tell me five minutes before the gentleman arrives?”

  “I wanted to tell you last night. Actually, I’ve been putting it off for the past three days. Since he asked me.”

  Lizu Khan was astute as always. “So. Your gentleman and you are about to become an item.”

  Shari twisted her hands in her lap. “I think he’s going to ask me to move in with him.”

  “And you are going to say yes.”

  “I …” Her fingers were a tight knot. “I think that’s what I want.”

  “Of course it is. So you have lost sleep over telling your grandmother she is about to live alone again. Is that it?” Lizu’s back straightened even further. “I shall not lie and say that I won’t miss you.”

  The doorbell rang. Shari said miserably, “I wish I knew what to do.”

  “You know precisely what you are doing.” Lizu Khan patted her granddaughter’s hand. “You simply wish it were easy.”

  The Los Angeles River basin was a charmless concrete funnel. When it rained hard, which happened more often than Angelenos liked to admit, the city’s runoff colored the Pacific from Zuma to north San Diego County. The Los Angeles harbor’s reputation for being refuse-filled was based upon such days. But outside the periods of torrential floods, the harbor was beautiful and, for a city of this size, relatively empty. Which was exactly how the locals wanted it to remain. Let the tourists clog the roads to Malibu.

  This much Jason told her as they motored out of the boat slip. Shari wore shorts, a sleeveless sweatshirt from Commes des Garc ons, and boat shoes she had bought for this excursion. Jason had welcomed her on board with the gift of a yellow Specialist slicker, fleece lined and hooded. A desert wind blew in from the east, but even in the harbor Shari could feel the
Pacific chill rising from the water.

  She knew it was a test. That he was watching her carefully.

  “Have you done much sailing?” Jason asked.

  “None at all. I’ve been water skiing on the lakes up north a couple of times. Otherwise I have no experience with boats at all.”

  Jason was as serious as she had ever seen. “Are you frightened?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I will keep you safe and bring you home at the end of the day.” He talked as though outlining a new contract, spelling each item out with somber exactitude. “Or earlier if you ask.”

  “Why would I want to come home early?”

  “You may be seasick.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “There’s not much you can do. If it gets really bad, I’ll bring you in. But if you can, it’s best to endure. With some people it just goes away.”

  “How long does it take?”

  “Couple of hours is about the average. Sometimes longer. But they can be very long hours.” He was clearly very worried. “Sometimes it never leaves.”

  He wore the same white knit shirt she had seen on him the day they met. Navy shorts, no belt. Boat shoes, but his were worn to the consistency of battered moccasins. Ray-Ban Wayfarers were slung from a woven leather leash around his neck. A white cotton sweater and a yellow windbreaker to match her own lay on the pilot’s seat. He stood so he could watch their progress across the harbor and observe her seated in the opposite chair. He rested one hand on the massive wheel, the other on his seat back. Shari had never seen his legs before. They were tanned and very muscular. He looked utterly at home. Completely in charge. And so very concerned.

  Shari slipped from her seat and crossed the teak deck. She ran her fingers lightly over his wrist, up to the dark hair sprouting from the back of his forearm. “Well, in case I’m soon incapacitated, I want to say how much it means that you would invite me out today.”

  Jason did not move. “I’ve never invited anybody before. I mean, not from business.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t mean to say this is a business thing.”

  “I know that.”

  “That’s not it at all. I never talk about this with anybody. It’s my one place where I can go and leave the world behind.”

  “Jason.”

  “What.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you.”

  The swell began building as soon as he made the first turning and headed for the harbor mouth. The water rushed in a sibilant hush against the hull, spilling in a constant musical stream. The stone barrier fronting the harbor entrance was topped by a whitewashed lighthouse, and it by a wind vane. The blades whirled to a pale blur. She heard them squeak over the motor’s rumble.

  “Are you okay?”

  She smiled at him. “So far.”

  “You want a Coke or anything, the galley’s right at the base of the stairs.”

  “I’ll wait.” She remained so close to him that the boat’s motion joined them in a slow dance. “Tell me about your ship.”

  “You generally don’t call anything this small a ship. It’s a vessel, or just a boat.”

  “I might not know anything about sailing. But I know this isn’t just a boat.”

  He seemed to like that a lot. “It’s a thirty-six-foot sloop of Finnish design. I flew to Helsinki twice. First to see its keel laid. Then to work on the outfitting. It’s designed for single sailing, and I can guarantee you it works, because I sailed it back.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes, alone. Didn’t you hear me say I don’t bring people down here?”

  “Just checking.”

  “It was real, what I told you, Shari.”

  The feeling of intimacy was so strong she kept her silence, and when the next wave pressed her to his chest, she held herself there with one arm around his waist.

  “You feeling ill?”

  “No, Jason.”

  “Really?”

  “This is wonderful,” she replied, and meant it.

  She was grateful for the closeness, because it meant she could feel the shiver of response that coursed through his muscular form.

  The waves continued to build until the ship slipped down the rear face like it was surfing. The bow pushed up the next face, careened through the frothy peaks, and plunged again. The first few times Shari feared for everything—her balance, the boat, her footing, the possibility of becoming extremely ill. Gradually she drew into the rhythm, copying Jason’s balanced sway. Even when a pair of larger waves broke and spilled across the bow, he was unconcerned. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. Shari relaxed further.

  “You’re really okay?”

  “Are you kidding?” She felt like singing. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever done!”

  He laughed, the most genuine sound she had ever heard him make. “The forecast was for three to four feet and a ten-mile-perhour wind. If I’d known it was going to be like this, I would never have taken you out.”

  “Then I’m glad you didn’t know. Is this really rough?”

  “‘Is this …”’ He laughed again. “Shari, you are amazing.”

  He helped her into the slicker and showed her how it also served as an inflatable life vest. He walked her through the various components of the vest—mini GPS, dual lights, even a pouch containing two energy bars. She asked, “How much did this cost?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I could have bought you a Valentino fur and come out better.”

  She gripped the front of his jacket and pulled him in for another kiss. He smelled of some spicy male scent and tasted of salt and coffee and a perfect day.

  When he released her, it was to grab a wire cable. “I’m going to tie you up.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “Think you can handle the ship?”

  “Don’t call it a ship. It’s a sailboat or a vessel.”

  Jason had laughed any number of times. But this sound was something entirely new. “Can you?”

  “I’d love to try.”

  “Okay.” He showed her how to line up the bow for the incoming wave, not fighting against the flow, just holding it easy and allowing the ship to correct itself once the downward rush was gone. He stood beside her, one hand by hers on the wheel, the other around her shoulders. Three waves later he said, “I think you’ve got it.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m absolutely staggered.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Yes, Shari. That is extremely good. That is the goodest thing I could possibly have imagined.”

  Before she could respond, he was gone.

  “Wait!”

  His head popped back into view. “What?”

  “You can’t just leave me here!”

  “Lady, you have the helm.”

  Three minutes and two waves later, he emerged from a square opening far forward. He unzipped canvas coverings first from the jib and then the mainsail—she learned the words because he shouted back what he was doing. Shari watched the way he moved with ease, despite the increasingly rough seas, and knew she was seeing the secret man.

  The sense of intimate power was superb.

  “Shari, do you see the button marked Jib? Press it.”

  At her command, the forward sail slipped up the front wire. Jason kept a hand on the guide rope, making sure everything ran smoothly. “Now the mainsail.”

  The larger sail sang up the mast above her head. The world became framed by snapping, billowing canvas. Jason slipped down beside her and steered them ten degrees further off the wind. The sails snapped once more and went taut. Jason inspected both carefully, then hit the red button marked Mains. The engine died.

  She had never known anything so amazing as the silence that followed. It was intensely quiet, yet filled with sound. The wind whistled, the ropes banged agains
t the mast, the waves broke and tumbled, the bow cut a splashing valley through each crest. And yet it was so powerfully silent.

  The galvanized wheel was four feet across and rimmed with a softly abrasive finish. The compass was set in the middle of the dash and was gimbaled so that its globular face always looked directly up at the helmsman. There were all sorts of other dials and a pair of radar screens to either side of the compass. Jason checked them occasionally, a habit so ingrained he appeared to do it without thinking.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  “No. The way you were looking at me.”

  “I was just wondering what it would be like to sail this across the ocean. How it would feel to become so attached that the vessel almost becomes an extension of you.”

  He looked at her for a time, then reached into a side hold and pulled out a cap. “Want to get the sun out of your eyes and the hair off your face?”

  “Please.”

  He fit the cap into place. “Would you like to find out?”

  She met his gaze and question with equal frankness. “I think I would.”

  He nodded once. Then disappeared into the galley.

  The solitude seemed to have been waiting for just that moment. She knew all she had to do was call his name and he would return. For the first time, she felt genuine fear. The waves were huge, almost as tall as the mast. When she crested each wave, there was nothing else. Just more waves and the wind and the sun. On and on forever. Her ship was tiny.

  She shivered again. Her ship.

  The fear vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

  After a time, Jason returned bearing two steaming mugs and a plate of sandwiches. “Hungry?”

  “Suddenly I’m starving.”

  “The sea will do that to you.” He set the plate on the dash by the compass, returned below, then came up with a plastic map. He pointed at a spot in the blue and said, “We’re somewhere about here.”