by Susan Wilson
Kiley held Grainger’s hand in hers, leading the way up the back staircase. They hadn’t spoken their intent. In this soft, blessed calm there was no need to say that they meant to take their reunion to its ultimate end. Briefly embarrassed by the unmade bed and strewn towels, Kiley brought Grainger into her bedroom, once her parents’ room. The oversoft double bed on the old-fashioned springs took their weight with squeaking complaint. They alternated between urgency and leisure, enjoying each moment, celebrating the small steps toward the final act.
Like a seductress, Kiley untied his bow tie and played with it, holding the ends in both hands and bringing his face to hers. Grainger slid the straps of her persimmon red dress down, drawing the top of the stretchy fabric lower and lower until her breasts were exposed. He lingered there until he’d consumed every taste they offered him. Urgency overtook them and they stripped each other of the remainder of their clothes, mindless of how they threw them on the floor. Then they paused, assessing in the yellow lamplight the changes time had wrought to their youthful bodies.
“You are so beautiful.” Grainger let his eyes drift along Kiley’s body, still trim despite the years and childbirth, still firm, high-breasted, and curved. Her skin, newly tanned by her three weeks at the beach, glowed in the lamplight. He rolled her over to reacquaint himself with this body he had only once possessed. He kissed the dent above her buttocks, let his tongue trail a shivery trace along her spine until he reached her neck, when, tormented, she rolled back over and began her own exploration of him.
The long lanky youth had been replaced by a solid, muscular man. Everything about him seemed bigger, stronger, more virile. She touched the hardened disks of his nipples, then let her hand drift downward until she found him, cupped him, admired the weight of him, and teased him into an extraordinary hardness.
They entered into the dance of coupling, their passion not to be corralled any longer. A mere touch and she came in endless waves of surreal sensation until she felt lost, spinning out of control, never to reach the bottom. A moment later Grainger joined her, their voices singing their exquisite joy. Afterward they lay panting, entwined, his head on her heart. Silent except for the sound of their breaths.
They might have lain like that for an hour, lightly dozing, waking to feel their conjoined parts, renewing the moment with kisses and touches until, without having fully separated, they brought each other again to climax.
Sated at last, they dozed again, spooned together, Grainger’s breath tickling her neck. Later they were wide awake and talkative, full of questions. Kiley whispered little things she thought he might want to know about her, about Will and how he had lifted her so many times from the despond of old misery. Then she asked him, “What about you? Tell me about your life. Have you been married? Have you been all right?”
Grainger stroked his thumb against her hand and told her how he’d twice come close to marriage, and how he’d come back home. “I was able to make a new life here, after all. Like you, I was afraid I’d be consumed by the memories. You just have to set about making new ones.” As if to illustrate his point, Grainger gently kissed her again, this time with simple affection.
The clock in the living room chimed, and he raised his head. “It’s midnight. What time is Will coming home?”
Kiley untangled a foot from the tossed sheets. “His curfew is at one.”
“Isn’t that kind of late?” Grainger pushed himself over Kiley, leaned back down for a last bedded kiss, then extricated himself from the covers to pick up his shorts.
“Not at his age. Once they get to be eighteen, it’s pretty hard to demand a curfew.”
“What can he be doing in Hawke’s Cove at this hour?”
“My God, you sound like a parent.” Kiley sat beside Grainger, looking at their bare legs aligned side by side on the edge of the bed. She cleared her throat with a stagey cough. “He and Catherine are making the most of their last night together.”
“Oh.” Grainger pulled on his trousers, drew on the crumpled white shirt, and pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders.
Kiley sat naked on the edge of the bed and watched him. “You are incredibly sexy in that outfit. I’d make you wear it all the time.”
“It would get pretty nasty after a while. Marine varnish is very hard on dinner jackets.”
“You love what you do, don’t you?”
“Yes, and I’m very good at it, which is why I can afford to send Will to Cornell.”
The act of slipping on shorts and a sweatshirt covered her mixed emotions. It was too late; there was no recalling the forward motion of the house sale. Again Kiley felt the wash of regret that she hadn’t come back, had waited all this time to renew her claim to this place. Now it was too late.
“It’s not my decision to sell the place. It’s my parents’, and they aren’t going to change their minds, despite your offer.”
Grainger slowly buttoned the white shirt, studying each button as he pushed it through its buttonhole. “So, I’m still not good enough for them.”
“No, that’s not it. That was never it.” Kiley stood against his back, her arms around him, feeling the hard muscle of his belly, her cheek pressed into the soft fabric of his shirt.
“Then why not let me help out? You’ll come back, now that there’s no reason for you to stay away anymore. Or am I wrong about that?” He had her back in his arms now.
“Grainger, it would be asking too much of you to take on this responsibility. To compromise your own financial well-being for a kid you’ve only known three weeks.”
“I’m not going to lose interest in Will, like some impulsive hobby. You really can’t expect that I’m going to back away, out of his life. Or yours.”
“No. I won’t let you. But I can’t let you…”
“Pretend for a little while that he’s mine? Act the role of surrogate father? Take some responsibility for an act nineteen years old?” Grainger’s voice was rising and his arms around her were almost too tight, as if he was afraid she was going to pull away from him. “I’m being selfish. I want you to stay in my life; I can’t bear the idea of—”
“Sssh. I won’t disappear. Never again. I ran once, and kept you out of a part of your own life you should have had access to. I made big mistakes.”
Grainger rested his cheek on the top of her head, rocking her slightly, as if they stood on the deck of a becalmed ship. “Do you think we can ever move ahead?”
Kiley reached up and pulled his mouth down on hers. “I think we’ve already begun very nicely.”
As the clock in the living room chimed again, Grainger checked his watch. “It’s one in the morning. Where is he?”
“Malingering at the girl’s house.”
“You’re awfully calm.”
“I’m relishing my uninterrupted time with you.”
“What will Will think if we spring it on him like this: me here, in the middle of the night, lipstick all over my collar?”
“I was careful about that.” Kiley pretended to examine his shirt. “I really don’t know what he’ll think. Or expect of us. Or if he’ll even know what he wants.”
Grainger took her hands in his. “What do you want, Kiley?”
Kiley smiled at Grainger. “To get to know you. As an adult, who you are now. To try and see if we have more than a shared childhood and a shared tragedy.” She bent to kiss the hands grasping hers. “And we’ll need to give Will the time to adjust to the idea.”
“In that case, I’ll go home now. It’s best I’m not here when Will comes in. But I’ll be back at eight.”
“I’d be horribly disappointed if you weren’t.”
“A mere seven hours.” He smiled around the words, but they seemed unduly heavy.
They rose and held one another as if afraid they would each vanish from sight once the screen door slammed. As if in the morning, they would wake to know the night had only been a dream.
Thirty-three
Blithe Spirit danced on her moo
ring with little up-and-down motions, like an excited dog. They climbed into the sailboat, taking care to tie the dinghy to the mooring. They were only going to be out here for a minute.
“Is she a lot of fun to sail?” Catherine ran a hand along the smooth coamings.
“I guess so. Grainger…” Will was going to say “hasn’t let me,” but the words seemed so weak. “…has me working nonstop on my grandfather’s boat.”
“But you’re leaving tomorrow. When are you ever going to get to sail her?”
Ah, the looming question. If Will didn’t take Catherine out now, when would he? What was the point of having the boat, if he was never going to sail her? It wasn’t even like they were ever coming back to Hawke’s Cove. The house was sold, and soon Pop’s boat would be too. There would never be a reason to come back.
“Take me for a moonlight sail?”
“Now?”
“Sure. Why not? Just ten minutes around the cove.”
Will shrugged, then smiled. “Great.” Why not? After everything Grainger and his mother had put him through this summer, didn’t he deserve ten minutes of pleasure? As he moved to the bow to release Blithe Spirit, he paused to kiss Catherine, happy to please her.
Maiden Cove, roughly U-shaped, funneled out between two low headlands through a narrow deepwater channel guarded by buoys. Grainger had told him that the outgoing tide was strong there, deceptive. Will wasn’t sure which way the tide was running, but it really didn’t matter—he had no intention of leaving the cove. Besides, he knew all the danger points of Maiden Cove already. Grainger always insisted that he cruise around the cove before heading out into open waters, and that’s what he’d do now. Nothing fancy, just tack a couple times to show off, then back to the mooring and on to dinner.
The western sky was purple dark; the cloud-veiled moon offered a thin light. Along the curve of the cove, pinpricks of house lights began to show. Enough to steer by.
Will handed Catherine a life jacket from under the forepeak and fastened his own. Then he removed the boom crutch, slipped in the centerboard, and hoisted the sail. He was pleased with himself as he made fast the throat and peak halyard lines, then stepped to the stern with the practiced balance of an old salt. Within seconds the breeze caught the sail, making the mainsheet in Will’s hand feel like a live thing.
“Why do they call her Blithe Spirit?”
“After some poem.” Will tucked the tiller beneath his arm and reached over for Catherine’s hand. The boat dipped unexpectedly, and spray lashed up to hit them in the face, much to their delight.
Under the cover of gentle darkness, Will thought he might tell Catherine what he’d done: how he’d impulsively visited the MacKenzies, only to find out life wasn’t a Disney movie. If he could speak out loud the confusion he was feeling in having so disturbed their comfort, he might begin to squeeze his guilty conscience back into its box. He might be able to convince her, and himself, that he was justified in springing his existence on them. She was so solid, so pragmatic that she might put it into perspective for him, reduce the size of his error and thus the weight of his remorse.
But he said nothing as the wind bullied the sail, making the sheet in his hand feel like a live thing trying to get away from him. Suddenly, the line jerked away from his grip, and the boom swung out until the sail was perpendicular with the boat. He yanked the mainsheet hard and fast, wishing that he wasn’t so wet. The line was slippery in his hand, making it more difficult to regain control of the wind-filled sail. A furtive whimsy touched Will. Was this unanticipated rise in the wind Mack’s ghost?
He shook off the notion. This was a stupid idea. He needed to take them back in. “I’m going to jibe, so be prepared to shift to the other side. And remember to duck.”
Mentally Will ticked off the elements of the procedure, Grainger’s voice echoing in his inner ear. He let go of the sheet, careful to maintain a grip on it. The sail sagged, the boom swung, Catherine ducked and came up safely on the other side of the boat. Will moved the tiller to change direction, then hauled on the sheet to draw the wind back into the sail. Instead, the sail continued loose in the breeze, ineffective.
Will yanked harder on the line, then understood what had happened. The old sail had split in half. The wind passed impotently through the tear. “Shit.”
“What happened?”
“The sail’s ripped.”
“I’m guessing there’s no motor.”
“You’d be guessing correctly.” Will made his way forward to release the lines and lower the sail to just above the tear, leaving a small triangle of fabric just above the boom. Immediately the wind gusted, ripping the worn canvas higher. The chop bounced the boat around. Blithe Spirit turned her nose back toward the outlet, and the outgoing tide pushed her closer to the mouth of Maiden Cove.
“We should have kept the dinghy.”
Will tried hard not to show his annoyance at her for stating the obvious. “We’ll be fine.”
“So what are we going to do?” Catherine didn’t seem frightened; she trusted him to get them out of this situation. “I don’t suppose you have a cell phone.”
“No, but I bet Mom will think again about not getting me one after this.” Will looked at the shoreline, wondering if they might get pushed into it. At the very least they could swim, if they got close enough; at the very worst, they could end up on the rocks. “If the tide was coming in, we could just let her drift home, guided by the tiller, but I think we’re headed out.”
“What we really need is a paddle.”
“We might as well wish for oars.” Will knew he sounded angry at her, but he was very angry with himself. He wished that he could tell Catherine this was an adventure, but the truth was, he was too scared. He’d only had a handful of lessons, and hadn’t been given permission to take Blithe Spirit out in the first place. He glanced at the lighted dial of his watch. It was only nine. His mother wouldn’t start worrying about him until one-thirty. First she’d be mad; then she’d be panicky. Then, who knew? Would anyone think to look for them out here?
The tide was stronger as they neared the mouth of the cove, and the nearer they were to being out of the lee of the cove, the stronger the wind was, and the waves were no longer loose chop, but outbound rollers. Will felt the friction of the wet, rough line burn through the heel of his hand, but he ignored it, intent on getting the small boat turned around with the bit of sail left.
Blithe Spirit fell into a trough, pitching her on her side and dousing the pair in cold water. Catherine cried out, and Will knew that she realized what danger they were in.
“It’s going to be all right; just don’t panic.” Will worked the tiller back and forth, and managed to finish the turn into the waves and away from the outlet. “It’ll be all right.” Yet against his every effort, Will felt the inexorable pull of the tide taking them nearer the tight channel where they might crash on the rocks, or get pushed, sailless, out into an unseen sea.
All the time he struggled, his prayers childishly alternated between hoping that Catherine would forgive him for his stupidity, and that his mother would never find out what he had done. His third petition, as the moon’s weak light began to fade, was that they would simply survive. In broad daylight, this scene wouldn’t have been as terrifying. It was the inability to judge the waves, to see where they were going, that was so frightening. They weren’t even especially big waves, but frequent, erratic, and bullying.
Blithe Spirit was seaworthy; she’d already proven that with one or two dips in the troughs. She wasn’t going to capsize. They could just sit tight and wait for rescue. Surely it must nearly be dawn. Will managed a look at his watch and was amazed to find that it was less than two hours since he and Catherine had climbed aboard. In that two hours the waves had built and the moon’s orb had shrunk, pulling the tide with it.
During his first sailing lesson, Grainger had told Will that things happened rapidly upon the sea and that no sailor left port without a weather report and a tid
e chart. He’d been so certain that he was capable of giving Catherine a pokey little sail around a safe cove he’d never given those things a moment’s thought.
“I’m sorry, Catherine.”
“I talked you into it.”
“If I hadn’t been so pissed off at Grainger.” The first heavy drops of rain began to pelt down, splatting against the canvas-covered bow. “He told me not to take her out alone. I thought he was just being pigheaded about me asking him for a DNA test.”
“He won’t do it?”
“I can’t go into it now, but no. Maybe in December, he says.”
The moon was gone, obscured by the thickened clouds; the comforting pinpricks of house lights gone too, as the rain began to sheet down in earnest. They huddled in the cockpit, all bearings lost; top and bottom, inland and seaward, lost.
“If we survive this, I swear I’ll never…”
“Will—we will survive this. Don’t start with the rash promises no one ever keeps.”
“You don’t know what else I did tonight.”
“You went to the MacKenzies’ house.”
“How did you guess?”
“It’s what I would have done.”
The boat seemed to be spinning, but without any reference point they couldn’t tell if it spun clockwise or counter, or if it was just an illusion of spinning, as the small vessel rocked side to side and up and down in no reliable order. Will felt the nausea rise up and he leaned over the tilting gunwale to vomit.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mrs. MacKenzie seemed really happy to see me.”
“That’s good then, isn’t it?”
“Dr. MacKenzie and the old guy weren’t. Dr. MacKenzie warned me about getting her upset.”
“That’s natural, don’t you think?”
“Mack died in this boat. Her son.”