by Susan Wilson
Unaccountably, he walked a little ways past it toward the beach, looking at the cove beyond. A pier jutted out, with a wooden rowboat tied to it. A small sailboat swung at anchor a few yards offshore, and three or four larger craft were moored farther out. In the rain and wind, they all pointed southwest, the same as the weathervane atop the boathouse. A rubber dinghy was bottom up on the sand, a line running from under it to a granite block high on the beach with an iron ring hammered into it like a hitching post. Three big boats in varying stages of repair loomed in the yard. At a distance, Will could see a fourth boat, its small hull shrouded by yards of blue plastic sheeting, the cords tying it down green with age.
Visibility across the cove was nil, the opposite shore obscured, the narrow enfolding arms of the cove rendered invisible, the only sound that of the surf booming on the ocean side of the barrier beach. Will heard the chime of a clock and glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. He went back to the side door and knocked.
It was nearly a minute before Grainger pulled open the heavy door. He looked at Will with a vague surprise on his face, as if he’d doubted Will would show up. Or maybe he hoped he wouldn’t. “You’ve come.”
“Yes.”
“Well, come in, get out of the rain.” Grainger disappeared for a moment and came back into the room with a heavy cotton towel. “Dry yourself.”
Will rubbed the white towel over his head, then down the length of his dripping body. He wrapped it around his waist and stepped out of his soaked sneakers. Most of the room was taken up with a large vessel, its bowsprit almost touching the plank sliding door, its stern close by the open sliding door of the opposite end of the building.
Overhead was a loft, from the bottom of which hung ropes on hooks neatly coiled in figure eights. Half a dozen pairs of oars of varying lengths stood sentinel against the walls between timbers and wooden blocks and pulleys; mooring flags and glass floats made up the remainder of the artwork on the walls.
In one corner was a woodstove, in front of it a soft easy chair, a small coffee table stacked with magazines featuring boats on their covers, and a thirteen-inch television set on a painted bureau. In the opposite corner, a stove and refrigerator were separated from the rest of the room by an island counter.
Will smelled a tantalizing mixture of pungent oil, fresh sawdust, and coffee. A faintly fumy undertone lingered like a taste behind the more pleasant odors of the boatbuilder’s trade. He saw the protective goggles and masks hanging over a workbench, the hand and power tools neatly stowed on hooks or in cubbies along the length of the massive workbench. A vise attached to one corner was gripping together two pieces of wood.
“You live here?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Grainger’s wirey haired dog eased himself out from under the workbench.
“What’s his name?” Will bent to pet the dog sniffing him with deliberateness.
“Pilot.”
“What is he?”
“A dog of uncertain parentage. His mother was a purebred springer spaniel, his father a complete mystery.”
Will looked at Grainger to see if he was taunting him. He rubbed the towel over his hair once more, then handed it back to Grainger. Pilot left off his sniffing and wandered to his water bowl, where he lapped with sloppy abandon.
“Why didn’t you drive here?” Grainger tossed the wet towel across a wooden dowel. “Or just call and cancel?”
“I want to start running, maybe do cross-country in college.” If he repeated it often enough, it would be the truth. “And I didn’t want to cancel either. I wasn’t sure how you’d take that. I mean, given…”
“The circumstance of our meeting?”
“I thought you wouldn’t think I was serious if I canceled just because it was raining. Besides, it’ll stop.”
“Not today.” Grainger walked over to a bookshelf tucked beneath the wide ship’s ladder leading to the loft. “Hands-on work doesn’t make sense, so, here.” Grainger handed Will two books; one an illustrated book on sailboats, the other a brief guide to learning how to sail. “Read those and come back and we’ll apply what you’ve learned.” Grainger pointed to the small sailboat framed by the wide-open rear doors of the boathouse. “That will be your craft.”
“What kind of boat is it?”
“Beetle Cat.”
“Is it a good boat to learn in?”
Grainger shrugged. “It’s a good one for beginners.” He grasped the handle of the big door and drew it closed, blocking Will’s view of the cove.
Will bent to put his sneakers back on, the books on the floor beside him. The insides of his running shoes were sodden and unpleasant. He’d only brought the one pair of shoes with him, and he’d have to spend the day in flip-flops.
Grainger handed Will a plastic grocery bag to put the two books in. “Why don’t I drive you home?” He pulled on a yellow slicker. Pilot met them at the door, his front feet pumping up and down with anticipation of an outing.
“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”
“I’m worried about my books.”
“Oh. Okay.” Will stood up and patted Pilot’s head. “He’s happy.”
“Yeah, he’s always happy.”
They ran out to Grainger’s truck, Pilot leading the way.
“I live on the other side of the town. Almost to…”
“I know where your house is.” Grainger slammed the truck door and twisted the ignition.
“So, where’s my grandfather’s boat?”
“That one.” Grainger pointed through the foggy window to a wooden hull, lifted high in a cradle.
“Wow. She’s a lot bigger than I thought.”
“They always look bigger out of water.” Grainger backed out of the parking space and turned up the driveway. Then he put the truck back in park. “Why didn’t your mother ever come back?” Grainger’s voice was nearly a sliver, as if he’d spoken the question out loud accidentally.
Will shrugged, shifting away from the weight of the dog that leaned against him as if he were an old friend. “I really don’t know. It has something to do with…” With who my father was. Who you might be to me. “…a family thing.”
Grainger made a sound like a humph, or stifled pain, then put the truck in drive. They continued the journey in silence, with only the sound of the beating windshield wipers and Pilot’s occasional whine as they passed other dogs.
As Grainger turned left onto Seaview Avenue, Will wondered if maybe this was one of those windows of opportunity, and he pushed the words out of his mouth. “You and my mother were friends, right?” One hand was on the armrest of the truck’s door, clutching it as if they were careening around.
“Yeah.”
If Will had hoped for elaboration, he was disappointed. “How come you didn’t say anything to her that night, about our having met?”
“Don’t know. Probably for the same reason you didn’t.”
“It was just awkward.”
“So you haven’t told her about your lessons?”
“Not yet.”
Grainger kept silent the remainder of the drive, and Will could think of nothing else to say.
When they got as far as the Yacht Club, Grainger pulled into the parking lot. “You can manage the rest of the way, I’m sure.”
Will climbed down from the truck, tucked the plastic bag under his arm, and came around to stand beside the driver’s side. “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Egan.”
“Come back Friday. The weather’s due to clear out late tonight, and it’s predicted to be clear with light wind. We’ll put what you learn between now and then into practice.” Grainger put the truck into reverse. “And, Will…”
“Yes?”
“Tell your mother.”
“Tell her what?” For a moment, Will thought Grainger meant to give him a message to take to his mother.
“Tell her about the lessons.” Grainger backed away and then pulled onto the main road with a crunch of gravel.
Will stood
gripping the bag of books, staring after the truck, Pilot’s muzzle poking out of the open rear window. Somehow, this laconic man didn’t seem like the sort of guy his mother would have had as a boyfriend. Her dates were almost always pale, balding, slightly rumpled businessmen, medical salesmen mostly. She called them “nice chaps.” They talked a lot, about work, or sports, or politics. His mother said she liked them because she didn’t have to work hard at these dates. “Just wind them up and off they go, yapping away about themselves, and I don’t have to do a thing. They go away thinking they’ve had a great time, and I get a nice meal and a little adult companionship.” She’d laughed when she said this to a friend over coffee, unaware of Will’s eavesdropping. “It’s a good thing I’m not interested in a long-term relationship; I don’t have the energy to work hard at these things.” Will had been too young to understand that he was the reason she had little desire to pursue a relationship.
Now he was older and ready to leave, and he wondered what she would do without him. Would she, finally, have the energy?
Will walked along the bluff road. The rain came down in a steady drizzle, but the air had warmed enough to make it almost pleasant and the visibility had improved. Below the bluff, a motorboat ground its way toward the harbor. On the horizon he could pick out two boats heading out to the fishing grounds. It wouldn’t become a beach day, but that was all right. He’d spend the rest of the day on the porch reading these books. He’d go back on Friday and surprise Grainger with his studiousness. After all, he’d had plenty of practice pleasing teachers. And, above all, Will wanted to please Grainger Egan.
Twelve
After Will had gone out on his soggy run, Kiley lingered on the porch, her arms folded against the damp morning air. She couldn’t shake the image of Will jumping off the top step, exactly as Grainger and Mack had time and again. The rain began to sheet down hard, and Kiley went back into the house. Gray morning light softened the bright primary colors of the kitchen; the yellow walls and the wooden floor, painted long ago in big blue and red squares, faded to muted tones in the dim light. Kiley flicked on the overhead light and poured water into the coffeemaker.
The little blue jar had been pushed to one side of the oval table, and she pulled it back into the center. Imagine that jar still sitting on the shelf in the pantry all these years. With its deeply chipped lip and general uselessness, why hadn’t anyone tossed it? It must have been saved simply out of the inertia of a familiar sight. No one could possibly know its significance to her.
• • •
“These are for you.” Mack held a little blue jar with a bunch of field daisies crammed into its wide mouth. The stems had been clipped very short and the effect was of a bursting white-and-yellow corsage.
She’d been sitting on the porch rail, waiting for the boys. Mack arrived first, handing her the improvised bouquet as he might have handed her a book or a half of his sandwich. These are for you. Slightly gruff, self-conscious. Kiley took the jar and sniffed the daisies for scent, as if the bouquet had been long-stemmed roses. “Thanks.” Had he meant this as a joke? Should she take this seriously? She went for the slightly amused. “So, what’s up with this?”
“Nothing. Just the field on Bailey’s Farm Road was filled with them. I thought that you might like them.” His voice was half muffled by a faked yawn. “You being a girl and all.”
“Right.” The comfort level righted itself like a gimballed lantern on a boat.
They sat on the rail, the blue jar of flowers between them, waiting for Grainger to arrive from his morning at the Yacht Club.
“Don’t say anything to Grainger. Okay? He’ll bug me about it.”
“Okay.” The comfort level tilted a degree. Kiley was glad that the flowers were between them, acting as a nominal barrier. If she had moved it, and put out her hand, Kiley knew that everything would change. Neither spoke, feigning an interest in the horizon. Grainger came up behind them, startling them both.
One of them—Kiley was unsure if it was Mack or herself—knocked the little jar of daisies off the porch rail and onto the stones; a piece of the lip broke off and the water drained out onto the ground.
• • •
Kiley now ran a forefinger gently along the broken edge of the blue jar. As usual, her finger was ragged with hangnails and she self-consciously nibbled at the skin. Some women cherished their hands, coddling them with weekly manicures and rubber gloves. It seemed the height of vanity to Kiley; she preferred to clip her nails short and use whatever hand lotion was on sale.
She picked up the blue jar and carried it to the growing collection of sentimental items. Toby Reynolds was due to stop by early this morning to see how she was doing, probably to hurry the process along. All he saw was the fat commission this place would provide him. All he knew was the rarity of such a place being on the market. As if conjured by her thoughts, his Lexus crunched the oyster shells in the driveway, proclaiming his arrival.
She hadn’t met Toby face-to-face yet, and unfairly imagined a powder blue leisure suit on an overweight, slightly sweaty man with a toupee. Of course, Toby was none of these things. Tall, slim, impeccably dressed in Hawke’s Cove casual garb of pleated Dockers and a polo shirt, Toby extended a smooth, dry, manicured, and ringless hand to Kiley. Instantly, she felt underdressed in the cutoffs and yesterday’s T-shirt she’d thrown on to send Will off.
“Ms. Harris, a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Kiley, please. Come in. What a miserable day.” Was she speaking of the weather, which still pissed down with no sign of letting up, or the fact that Toby was here to relentlessly discuss this process of selling the house? “Where should we start?”
“Oh, I’ve already looked around. Your mother sent me a key.”
Partially relieved not to have to take this stranger on a sentimental journey, at the same time, she was annoyed with her mother for having allowed the invasion. “Okay. Well then, let’s go into the kitchen. I’ve got a pot of coffee on.”
“None for me, thanks.”
While Toby highlighted some of his concerns about the house, Kiley poured herself a cup, taking her time adding sugar and milk, glad to have her back to him for a minute.
“The roof might or might not be a problem. It’s conceivable that, given the value of the house, buyers won’t blink at having to reroof. In fact, it’s possible that they’ll pop the roof off and create a third floor with a widow’s walk. Lots of buyers look at these places as footprints: they’re ready, willing, and rich enough to renovate or even dismantle to create the perfect house with the perfect view.”
“Dismantle? You mean tear it down?” As she set it down, a little coffee from Kiley’s mug sloshed onto the bare wood table. She grabbed a paper towel. “What are you talking about?”
“Now, I’m not saying that anyone would do that; I’m just saying it’s being done all over the place.”
“And I’m saying that I will not sell to anyone with that idea in mind.” Kiley sat down.
“You could be restricting a really good offer.”
“Do you have such an offer on the table?”
Toby shook his head. “No. But it could happen. You should be aware of it.”
“Then why the hell am I going through all this…” She flailed a hand around to catch the word. “…all this effort if, in the end, everything ends up hauled away to the landfill?”
“Look, Kiley, I’m only suggesting that someone might be more interested in the location than the building.”
“Isn’t this house in the historic district?”
Toby’s ruddy skin deepened in color. “No. The historic district ends at Seaview Avenue. Incorporating the houses on the bluff is still in the planning stages; so far no one has gotten the paperwork together. Which is another good thing for you. Purchasers can, within reason, do whatever they want, without that layer of interference.”
“Toby.” Kiley reached out to touch Toby’s lightly furred arm, to secure his full attention. “Pr
omise me you won’t sell to anyone with plans to change it.”
“I can’t do that. If that’s what you want, you’ll have to find another agent.” Toby didn’t move his arm from under Kiley’s hand.
“Maybe I will.” Kiley removed her hand, letting it drop to her lap.
Toby stood up; his chair scraped against the wood floor. “Tell me something, Kiley. If you haven’t been in this house in umpteen years and have no interest in being here, why do you care what happens to it?”
Kiley got up and stepped to the back door, pressing her hand against it. “Because I love it.” She held the door open as if letting out a cat.
“You’re talking about sentiment, which isn’t a practical consideration in these things. It only stands in the way of progress.” Toby hesitated on the back steps. “Think of your son. The more money we can get for this place, the better off he’ll be.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your mother told me why she’s selling. That’s a very fine use of the investment quality of real estate, good planning. Using the money to put your son through college.”
“My mother had no business telling you that.”
“I make it my business to know why people want to sell. It helps me help them.”
“Altruistically, I’m sure.”
“No. It’s my living.” Toby strode to his car and yanked open the door, then turned back to face Kiley. “Think about what we’ve talked about. Don’t do anything yet. Call me.”
If it hadn’t been a light screen door, the slam would have been much more satisfying.
The phone ringing from the front room exacerbated Kiley’s annoyance and she wished that she’d brought the answering machine from home. Maybe she’d just let the stupid thing ring. But the momentary irritation fell away as she realized that only her parents would call her here; and, right now, this minute, she had to convince them to change agents.
“Kiley? Kiley Harris? This is Emily Fitzgibbons, née Claridge. Do you remember me?”