Night Music

by Linda Cajio

  He faced front again and gazed out over the water. He wished he’d drawn the line at Hilary too. Somehow she managed to push him out of control, like the way she had moved against him in the cramped galley, just the lightest touch of her body to his provoking that wild kiss. His blood heated again at the remembrance.

  He scowled. Only once before had he been out of control with a woman, and the results had been tragic. A part of his brain reminded him that there was no best friend this time, that Hilary was hardly brimming over with knowledge of her own sensuality, that she wasn’t a manipulator. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to lose his control again.

  Still, he wondered what she might do to ignite such a kiss again.…

  Forcing the thought of her aside, he steered the boat out away from the coast to deeper waters where schools of weakies and bluefish tended to gather. His rationale was that a bout of fishing might force the grandparents at least to acknowledge each other. Even though he wouldn’t be able to hear any conversation up there in the pilothouse and over the throb of the engines, he had the distinct feeling there wasn’t anything to hear.

  That was more ominous than the two of them toe to toe, arguing at the top of their lungs.

  He cut back the throttle until the boat stopped. The Madeline Jo bobbed up and down on the swells, rocking gently like a cradle. He climbed down the ladder.

  “Why have we stopped?” Lettice asked.

  “I thought we’d do a little fishing,” he said, opening up the portside bench and taking out a large tackle box and two rods. “Do you fish, Marsh?”

  The older man frowned, clearly not liking the use of his first name. Dev just grinned. Hell, if this worked, he’d be calling him Grandpa before too long.

  “I’ve done some in my time,” Marsh finally said.

  Dev handed him the heavier rod. “This ought to do you. It’s weakies and blues.”

  Marsh hefted the rod. “Feels right.”

  Dev handed the lighter one to his grandmother. He was surprised she hadn’t retreated below with Hilary. But then, Lettice would be damned before she’d back down.

  “And what am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

  “Fish, woman,” Marsh snapped.

  “Let’s play nice,” Dev admonished. He felt like a referee at a heavyweight fight. If he didn’t stay out of the way, he was likely to get clipped.

  He got the bait bucket and pierced the hooks with bits of fish. Lettice wrinkled her nose. She reminded him of the women he didn’t normally allow on his boat, and the notion that his grandmother could be coquettish shocked him.

  Hilary came up from below carrying a tray. He saw that her feet were bare, and he grinned. She’d probably had enough of slipping and sliding around the galley.

  “I was missing you,” he said, falling easily into his role of lover. He refused to admit he fell into it a little too easily.

  Her lips turned up in a weak smile. “I missed you too. I’ve made iced tea with mint.”

  Lettice instantly put down her rod and took a glass.

  Marsh glanced at it disparagingly. “None for me.”

  “I’ve got the cheap stuff out of the jar just for you,” Hilary said.

  Her grandfather grinned at her, then fed out his line. Dev frowned at the obvious private joke. He hated private jokes.

  “What happened to your shoes, child?” Lettice asked.

  Hilary’s face turned from pale to red. “I forgot them.”

  “Let her be,” Marsh said, looking out over the water.

  “I was only asking,” Lettice said sharply.

  Dev looked at Hilary, then glanced heavenward. He took the tray from her and set it on the bench. “Come up with me.”

  “I have lunch …” she began.

  “For a little while,” he wheedled. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Marsh grimace. It disappointed him that Hilary’s grandfather didn’t like him, though he didn’t know why he should care.

  Snorting at his own craziness, he put his hand on the small of Hilary’s back to guide her toward the steps to the fly bridge. His fingers fit perfectly along the curve of her spine.

  He let her climb first, taking pleasure in the view of her rounded derriere. She was one of the few women he’d ever seen who looked good in pants. In a pair of tight jeans she’d be a knockout. He doubted, though, that she even owned a pair. He sighed. What a waste.

  Once up in the fly bridge, Hilary leaned against the far window, her bottom braced on the tiny ledge. She yawned, then looked down at her feet.

  Dev started up the motor again and pushed the throttle forward slightly so that the boat moved slowly through the water.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “In circles,” he answered. “We’re trolling while those two fish. I just hope they don’t try to use each other as bait.”

  “Have they been sniping again?”

  He glanced at her, then went back to concentrating on steering the boat in circles. “They haven’t been saying anything at all. They’ve been sitting there like two icebergs. That’s why I got the fishing gear out. If they’re not going to talk to each other, at least they can be catching my dinner. I figure it’ll keep them from killing each other too.”

  “Well, let’s take hope in the fact that my grandfather didn’t take a hike when—”

  “He can’t out in the middle of the ocean,” Dev broke in, grinning. “That was the whole point.”

  “No, on the dock before we left. I thought he would when he spotted your grandmother.”

  “Did he ever tell you what happened between them?”

  She shook her head. “I only know he blames your grandmother completely. I have the impression she dumped him—maybe for your grandfather?”

  “Come on,” he said. “My grandmother can be a pain, but she’s not a tease or anything. She’s honest. Sometimes too honest, but she’s honest.”

  “I wasn’t implying that she wasn’t,” Hilary said.

  Her tone was touchy. Dev decided one fighting couple was enough and changed the subject to something innocuous. “What’s for lunch?”

  “Wild mushrooms in black ravioli with crab sauce.”

  He looked at her. “You’re kidding. For lunch?”

  “Yes.” She leaned her head back against the glass and closed her eyes. He had a tantalizing view of her throat.

  “What the hell are black ravioli anyway?” he asked. “Burnt to a crisp?”

  “It’s a form of pasta, very dark from the spices and black walnuts in the flour mix.”

  “Sounds … Never mind. What else are we having?”

  “Lobster salad à la Saigon.” There was a long silence. He was about to ask what that was, when she moaned slightly and added, “It’s lobster chunks with big basil leaves and a vinegar-based dressing. Blueberry-carrot cake with cream cheese frosting for dessert.”

  “Have they caught anything back there yet?” he asked hopefully.

  “I … no.” She made a funny sound, and he glanced over at her. Her head was still back, her eyes still closed. Her skin was almost translucent, like fine pearls. She yawned. A vague alarm bell went off in his head as he wondered why she seemed so tired. Probably from cooking all that strange food, he decided.

  “I’d better go check on lunch,” she said, abruptly raising her head and opening her eyes.

  She immediately looked away from him and headed toward the steps, lurching a little from the boat’s rocking. She disappeared down the steps faster than he’d thought she could in bare feet.

  Dev knew an excuse when he heard it. Dammit, he thought. She mystified him, making easy small talk with him one moment, then leaping away the next as if he had a contagious disease. She didn’t have to make her intolerance of him that clear. He’d gotten the hint long ago.

  On the other hand, he added, though she might not tolerate him on one level, on another she’d damn near kissed his socks off. Dev grinned. There was more to the coolly social butterfly than
was on the surface. She probably didn’t like the way she responded to him. As a matter of fact, he bet it irritated the hell out of her. Maybe he ought to “irritate” her some more.

  A voice inside him reminded him that she “irritated” him. And she did it very well.

  The silence was deafening.

  Marsh was very good at fishing, Lettice thought as she waved her rod back and forth.

  “That won’t get a fish,” he said, his voice cold.

  She knew that, but she preferred for him to think she was a novice. If he had to help her, then he had to talk.…

  Stopping her movement, she said, “Really? I thought you had to sort of jerk the line so that the fish sees it.”

  “Not in deep-sea fishing. The waves mask the movement. That’s why Dev’s keeping the boat going. Trolling it’s called, to entice the fish. He’s doing a damn good job too.” This last was said with reluctant admiration.

  Lettice suppressed a smile as she wondered if he realized he was having a conversation with her. She wasn’t about to tell him. The children had come up with quite a scheme in this outing, a euphemism, she was sure, for stranding her and Marsh in the middle of the ocean. She was proud of them too. Unfortunately Marsh was a bigger holdout than she’d thought. But she had time.…

  No, she didn’t, she reminded herself. She’d already wasted sixty years.

  Suddenly she felt a tug on her line, then a pull. A hard pull. “I’ve got something!” she shouted.

  “Reel it in steady and don’t wave the line about!” Marsh said excitedly.

  “I know—” Lettice stopped herself. “What do I do, Marsh?”

  He jumped up from his chair and was over to hers in two strides, his own line forgotten. “Just what I said. Reel it in steady. You’ve probably got yourself a blue.”

  She turned the spindle and knew instinctively from the amount of resistance that she had more than a bluefish. Surreptitiously she let go of the spindle, and the line spun out.

  “Oh!” she said helplessly.

  “Here.” Marsh put his arm around her, his hand covering hers and placing it back on the spindle to stop it. “Just reel it in, Lettice.”

  She settled in for the duration, content.

  Hilary stared down at the shiny-black pasta in the long glass dish, and her stomach heaved over.

  She raced for the small porthole and flung it open, breathing in deeply to clear her head. Unfortunately all she breathed in was the smell of rank salt and diesel. She slammed the porthole shut, then wet a paper towel, covering her face with the cool, damp material and pressing her fingers against her lips. She hadn’t been able to stand talking about food any longer, so she’d fled the deck with Devlin. But this was worse. Much worse.

  It must be the flu, she thought. She felt clammy and feverish at the same time. She got the Dramamine packet out of her purse and read the directions—or tried to. They swam before her eyes. She yawned again and wondered why she couldn’t seem to stop those yawns. Worse, she could actually feel the boat going around and around and around. Couldn’t Devlin just park the damn thing? Butterflies fluttered another warning.

  She decided it was long past time for another pill. If it was the flu, it ought to help her stomach and dizzy head. And if it wasn’t, the Dramamine ought to cure her.

  She drank the pill down with water and was instantly sorry when her gut roared out an immediate protest.

  She leaned her face against the cool wall and closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to make it through this lunch, she thought. She was ill. Unbidden, she remembered when she’d been deathly ill with the flu once before and had hid it long enough to cater a dinner party for twenty-five. Her client was still talking about how wonderful the food and ambience had been. In fact she was her best client now. Considering it, Hilary decided she’d felt just as bad then. Worse. Really ill. Ready to make the bathroom her best friend.

  Maybe she ought to take another Dramamine, just to be sure.

  Common sense told her to wait, but five minutes later the combined smells of crab sauce, cooked mushrooms, and vinegar had her shaking out another pill and washing it down with a minimum of water. She nearly didn’t survive the second dose.

  Make it stop, make it stop, her brain chanted as she slid down the wall to sit on the floor. Shaking, she forced herself to crawl into the other room to get away from the smell. The first thing that swam into view was the low, padded bench that masqueraded as a sofa. She crawled up onto it and curled into a ball, closing her eyes. The sofa spun and rocked, but she was beyond caring. She was going to die.

  Death by ravioli, she thought. It would be a fitting ending for someone in her profession.

  She only hoped she didn’t throw up first.

  Dev pulled back on the throttle, stopping the boat, then climbed down onto the deck to watch Marsh help his grandmother reel in her catch. Progress was in the making, he thought. He’d better go tell Hilary. Besides, he was hungry enough to eat black ravioli and lobsters from Vietnam, or whatever the hell it was called.

  He went below and stopped dead on the bottom rung. Hilary was lying on the saloon sofa, her knees against her chest. She looked lifeless.

  “Hilary, what’s wrong?” he asked, crossing the room.

  She didn’t answer. He pressed his hand against her forehead. It was cool, but clammy. Her skin was so pale, paler than when she’d been on deck. Almost a pallor, he decided.

  “Hilary!” he said loudly.

  “Sick,” she mumbled. “Flu.”

  Everything clicked in his head, and he said, “You don’t have the flu. You’re seasick.”

  She groaned. “No … took Dramamine.”

  “Wonderful.” He looked around the room for help, then remembered his grandmother. He turned and went back up on deck.

  “Hilary’s seasick!” he announced.

  Marsh glanced at him. “Get her to the bathroom.”

  “No, I mean she’s lying on the sofa looking half-dead.”

  “Best place for her,” his grandmother said. “Just put a bucket beside her, in case she gets sick again. Oh, Marsh, it’s really pulling. I don’t think—”

  “Of course you can,” Marsh said, helping her turn the spindle.

  “What about Hilary?” Dev asked.

  “Let her sleep,” both grandparents said.

  “What about lunch?”

  “Eat it,” Marsh said.

  “Save some for us,” Lettice said. “We’ll be hungry once we get this in.”

  “Lettice, I think you’ve got a shark! Play him!”

  Dev stomped below. Damn lot of good they were, he thought. Once they caught the fish, he’d head back to shore. Hilary would be better then.

  He got a blanket and covered her with it, then stared at her, wondering what else he could do. They’d been at sea for less than two hours, and she was completely seasick. He lived by the sea. He loved it. If he’d ever needed proof that they were incompatible, he’d just gotten it.

  Why hadn’t she told him she got seasick? Hadn’t she realized it could happen? He remembered her saying something about Dramamine. Had she taken some? Didn’t she know she had to take it before she came on board? What a day. He had two septuagenarians playing Captain Ahab up on deck and one half-dead woman in the saloon.

  He shook his head, annoyed with himself. He was the one who’d had this brilliant idea in the first place. If he’d just ignored his grandmother’s parade of women, he would be happily content with his life. A little, perverse voice told him, Not happy and not content.

  Cursing under his breath, he went into the galley. Somehow Hilary had managed to get everything cooked and set out in pretty dishes. One look at the gleaming black pasta and he knew instantly why she was so sick. Black pasta was enough to flip anyone’s nose up. Still, it smelled good. The salad looked good, too, with its chunks of meaty lobster and big basil leaves.

  He got a fork out of the drawer and tried the pasta. It was a little on the cool side, but the flavor
s burst in his mouth like exquisite ambrosia. A bite of the salad told him it was outstanding. He ate some more of both, straight out of the dishes.

  Hilary’s job might be a froufrou, but, boy, could she cook.

  Six

  Hilary slowly surfaced from a black sleep. Her tongue felt woolly, her mouth had a bad taste to it, her head was pounding, and her stomach felt queasy. Slowly she blinked, then raised her eyelids.

  She was in a strange room that seemed to be rocking gently like a cradle. A rough blanket covered her. Underneath she was nearly naked except for a T-shirt and her underwear.

  “Ah, she wakes,” Devlin said, coming down some steps on the other side of the room. “About damn time.”

  “Where am I?” she asked, instinctively clutching the blanket closer to her as she sat up.

  “The Madeline Jo,” he said. “My boat.”

  Everything came back in a rush. “Where’s my grandfather and Lettice?”

  “Back home beginning their Monday.”

  “Monday?” she squeaked, horrified. “It’s Monday?”

  What happened, she wondered, to Sunday afternoon, Sunday evening … and Sunday night? She glanced down at the blanket covering her in shock, then looked back up at Devlin. He was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeve knit top. She swallowed convulsively and asked, “What—what happened to my clothes?”

  “You don’t remember a thing, do you?” he asked in return.

  She shook her head. “No … I … no.”

  “Well-l,” he said, drawing out the word as he sat down on the edge of the sofa. She scooted back against the wall. “You were something, Hilary. Full of surprises—”

  “I slept with you?” she asked in a panic. “I couldn’t have—”

  “Clearly a fate worse than death,” he said, wryly.

  “I’m sure it was fine,” she added, not wanting to hurt him. “I mean, I’m positive you were … we were …” She stopped. “What were we?”

  “Not that.”

  She sighed in relief. He snorted and got up from the sofa.

  “Then how did I …” she began tentatively.

  “You were sick,” he snapped. “Very sick. And the damn grandparents refused to take you home. Your grandfather didn’t even put up too much of a fuss about leaving you. ‘She’s too sick,’ ” he mimicked in a high, sarcastic voice. “ ‘She’ll have to stay.’ You were only lying on the sofa, nearly dead. You should have been tossing your cookies when you were halfway to Philadelphia. Instead you tossed them here on my boat. Lucky me.”