Clean Sweep

by Jane Heller

  “What’s so special about a schooner?”

  “As I told you before, I’m a purist. And there’s nothing a sailing purist loves more than a schooner. It’s a totally impractical rig, but it sure is beautiful to look at.” Cullie paused and sipped his rum-and-tonic. “So I went up to Maine to take a look at her,” he continued. “Even though half of her ribs were broken, her keel was filled with dry rot, and she needed to be re-planked, it was love at first sight.”

  “Love at first sight? I can see why Preston resented Marlowe. She was probably jealous.” Neither of my husbands had ever spoken as lovingly about me as Cullie had about his boat.

  “Preston jealous? I doubt it. But I do love this boat. We’ve been together for the last ten years. After I brought her back from Maine to the Jessup Marina, I began the long task of rebuilding her.”

  “Where were you living at the time?”

  “In a beach cottage in Layton. Preston’s family had money.” Cullie scowled.

  “Was that really such a bad thing—that they had money? You wouldn’t have been able to live by the water if they hadn’t.”

  “True, but the money vanished the day Preston did. So who needed it?” Cullie took another sip of his drink and continued the story of how he rebuilt Marlowe from stem to stern. I didn’t understand much of what he told me—there were enough sailing terms to fill a dictionary—but I was able to deduce that Cullie Harrington was a man who had dreams, pursued his dreams, and didn’t quit until he realized them.

  “Time to eat,” Cullie said suddenly after checking his watch. I checked my Rolex and it was nine o’clock. Where had the evening gone? I felt pleasantly lightheaded as I sipped my wine and allowed my body to roll with the gentle waves that lapped against the dock. All thoughts of Sandy, Soozie, Melanie, and Maplebark Manor evaporated in the sea air, as I found myself surrendering to the womb-like coziness of the boat. The fact that I was wildly attracted to my host didn’t exactly detract from the situation.

  “What can I do to help?” I asked as I followed Cullie into the galley.

  “Not a thing. It’s your night off, remember?” he said, flashing me a big grin.

  “Okay with me,” I said. “Whatever you’re cooking, it smells wonderful.”

  “It’ll be ready in about twenty minutes. I just have to do the rice, throw in the shellfish, and heat the bread. I started everything else before I left to pick you up.”

  The man could cook, too. Aside from the fact that he wasn’t rich and didn’t want to be, Cullie was starting to look like a mighty good catch.

  I went back to the main salon, sat down on one of the berths that was about to double as a dining room chair, and listened to the Everly Brothers croon “All I Have to Do Is Dream.” I felt like I was in dreamland myself.

  “I want to hear all about Melanie Moloney,” Cullie called out, breaking the spell.

  “You said it was my night off.”

  “Yeah, but I’m curious about her. How’s she doing with that book about Alistair Downs?”

  “Todd, the guy she works with, said the book’s almost done. He said it’s going to be a real shocker, like her other celebrity biographies.”

  “Did he say what’s in it?”

  “He almost slipped me a juicy tidbit the other day, but Melanie walked in and scolded us. I don’t know what Todd’s punishment was, but mine was Windexing all the sliding glass doors in the house.”

  “Sounds like fun. So you never got to hear the juicy tidbit about Senator Downs?” Cullie sneered when he invoked the name of Layton’s most illustrious citizen.

  “No, but I’m not giving up. I’ll get Todd to talk one day soon. I’m dying to know what skeletons Alistair has in his closet. After all, he’s my boss. My other boss.”

  “I forgot that you wrote for his paper. What’s everybody down there saying about the book?”

  “Not much. Melanie’s done a great job keeping the manuscript under wraps. She won’t let me near it, I can tell you that.”

  “Isn’t it all on computer?”

  “No. Melanie uses a plain old typewriter—and plain old index cards for the sources.”

  “Sources?”

  “You know. People Melanie and Todd talked to about Alistair. People who have dirt on the guy.”

  Cullie was silent for a few minutes. I assumed he was putting the finishing touches on his meal.

  “Voilà!” he said finally, carrying two plates of steaming hot food to the table, then sitting down next to me. “More wine?”

  “Please.”

  Cullie poured us both some wine, then lifted his glass in a toast. “To Sonny’s two bosses: Alistair Downs and Melanie Moloney. May they get what they deserve.”

  “Here, here,” I said as Cullie and I clinked glasses yet again. “I know I have an ax to grind against Melanie and Alistair, but what’s your problem with them?”

  “Melanie writes books that invade people’s privacy.”

  “Okay. And how about Alistair? What have you got against him, other than the fact that he’s a very rich man, which, we all know, is tantamount in your mind to being a serial killer?”

  “No, a serial killer has a code of morality, twisted though it may be. Alistair Downs is completely immoral.”

  “He may be a bit of a pompous ass but immoral? That’s a pretty strong word, isn’t it?”

  “He’s immoral. I’m telling you. But hey, our dinner’s getting cold. Cullie’s seafood stew, the specialité of the maison. Bon appetit.”

  Cullie’s stew was an aromatic potpourri of clams, shrimp, and calamari in a rich tomato-based, garlic and herb-infused sauce. Accompanying the stew were a nutty tasting wild rice pilaf and piping hot garlic bread.

  “Dinner is absolutely delicious, Cullie,” I told my host. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” Sandy’s idea of cooking was reheating the little white boxes of Chinese food from the Golden Lotus.

  “My dad was a good cook.”

  “Was? He’s no longer with us?”

  “Nope. He died about nine years ago.”

  “Right around the time your marriage broke up, if I remember correctly. That must have been a tough year for you.”

  “It was, but rebuilding Marlowe was great therapy.”

  “What about your mother?” I asked. “Is she alive?” Mine would have died if she saw me dining at the Jessup Marina, which was a far cry from Grassy Glen Country Club.

  “She died when I was born. I never knew her.”

  “And your father never remarried?”

  “He wanted to, but your friend Alistair Downs had other ideas.”

  “Did they know each other?”

  “Paddy Harrington knew everyone connected with the sailing world.”

  “Paddy? That’s your father?”

  “Yup. He was from Isle of Wight off the coast of England. When he was in his late twenties, he crewed in the Fastnet Race, which is part of the Admiral’s Cup series. You have to sail from Isle of Wight around Fastnet Rock off the coast of Ireland and back. Anyhow, after the race that year, my father met a rich American who suggested there were good-paying sailing jobs over in the States. He gave Paddy a couple of names and addresses, and a year later, my father was the sailing instructor at Layton’s own Sachem Point Yacht Club, where your friend Alistair Downs is the commodore.”

  “So you were born in Layton?”

  “Yup. My dad met my mom the year he got here. She was a waitress at the yacht club. They got married, lived at the club, and had me. She died in childbirth, so my dad raised me alone.”

  “He sounds like an interesting man. And it must have been wonderful living at the yacht club.”

  “Wonderful? It was hell. Paddy Harrington was the sailing instructor—The Help—and I was his kid. We lived in the servants’ quarters.”

  “Is that how you met your wife? At the yacht club?”

  “What else? Preston’s family was big stuff there. They were appalled when she said she wanted to marry the saili
ng instructor’s kid.”

  “I still don’t understand how Alistair Downs fits in.”

  “Let’s leave all that for another time,” Cullie said. “How about some more wine.”

  I nodded, slipping into a deeper state of mellow.

  “Tell me more about Melanie and her work. How does she keep the contents of her books such a secret?”

  “For one thing, she doesn’t let anybody into her house who isn’t authorized to be there. And if you do get in, she watches you like a hawk. When I first interviewed with her, she thought I was from one of the tabloids, can you imagine?” Cullie smirked. “The security at Bluefish Cove is pretty tight, so someone would have a tough time getting into Melanie’s house and sneaking a look at her book. Hey, that reminds me. How did you get through yesterday? The security guard never called to say you were at the gatehouse.”

  “That guy knows me. I’ve shot a lot of houses down at Bluefish Cove. More wine?”

  “Oh, no. I’ve had plenty. Thanks.” I had cleaned my plate, finished my wine, and felt only like stretching out on the berth and rubbing up next to Cullie. “How about some more music?” I suggested. The Everly Brothers tape had long since played out.

  Cullie got up and put on a James Taylor tape. Then he sat down right next to me, slipped his arm around my shoulder, and pulled my face close to his. “When you’re not barking orders at me, you’re nice to be with, Sonny Koff,” he whispered in my ear, his beard and mustache tickling my skin. “I think Marlowe likes you.”

  “I like Marlowe too,” I whispered back, inhaling his scent, a heady mixture of aftershave lotion and sea air.

  “Do you, Sonny?” he asked softly, nuzzling me.

  “Oh, yeah.” And I wasn’t talking about Marlowe. Cullie’s body was smack up against mine and old Marlowe was the last thing on my mind. I was dying to kiss Cullie, I really was. I had fantasized so often about what it would be like to suck on that soft upper lip hidden underneath his prickly mustache that I could practically taste it. Oh, please kiss me, I begged him silently, wishing I were the kind of woman who felt comfortable initiating lovemaking instead of waiting passively for it to descend on her. Oh, come on, Cullie. Take my face in your hands and kiss me. Press your lips on mine. Stick your tongue in my mouth. Bite my ear. Lick my eyes. Do it all. Do it. Do it. Say you want to make love to me, please?

  “I completely forgot. I made a key lime pie. Let’s have some dessert,” he said instead, breaking away from me and heading toward the galley.

  Dessert? I was crushed. I must be some hot number, I thought glumly. Or maybe it wasn’t me at all. Maybe Cullie only had eyes for Hadley Kittredge. But if they were an item, why did he invite me to dinner on a Saturday night? Because he felt sorry for me when he found out I’d been dumped for my second husband’s first wife? Because he heard I was poor and, therefore, a more appropriate dinner companion? Because he was a media groupie and wanted the inside scoop on Melanie Moloney’s new book? He was asking an awful lot of questions about Melanie. But no, it had to be because of that Hadley person, who probably knew how to sail like a pro, in addition to having big tits. “Where’s Hadley tonight?” I blurted out.

  “Hadley? Why?”

  “Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

  “My girlfriend? She’s the dockmaster’s daughter. She and her dad have been great to me since I’ve lived at the marina. It’s pretty lonely here in the winter.”

  Great, so it wasn’t Hadley that made Cullie pull away from me. It was probably me. He wasn’t interested in me. Well, fuck him. “About that dessert. I think I’ll pass,” I said coldly, getting up from the table and stretching. I checked my watch and saw that it was ten-thirty. I faked a yawn, hoping Cullie would think I was bored. I was up to my old tricks, acting one way and feeling another, giving Cullie the old cha cha cha, as he would say. If he didn’t want me, I sure as hell didn’t want him to think I wanted him. Never wear your heart on your sleeve, my mother taught me. Never let a man see your insides.

  “Tired?” Cullie asked.

  “Yes. Must be all that sea air.”

  “Better get you home, then.”

  See? He didn’t even protest a little or ask me to stay for a nightcap or offer to share a berth with me. “Are you sure I can’t help you wash the dishes?” I asked. “Washing dishes is in my line of work these days.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll take you home.” He looked at me and shook his head. Then he cleared the table without a word. When he had finished his chores, he handed me my coat but did not help me put it on.

  The mood on the boat had definitely soured. I threw my coat over my shoulders and waited for Cullie to open the doors to the cabin and help me up the hatch. As I stuck my head out, I felt the cold air hit my face like a blast of cruel reality. My cozy, romantic dinner on a sailboat in the dead of winter was over. It was back to civilization. Back to the land of foreclosures and bankruptcies. Back to scrubbing toilets for a living.

  We rode back to Layton in near silence, and pulled into the driveway at Maplebark Manor at about eleven o’clock. Cullie came around to my side of the car and opened the door for me. Then he walked me up my front steps. He did not take my arm. I was tempted to invite him in for a drink, but I was sure he’d decline.

  “Thanks for a nice evening,” I said, as we stood awkwardly in front of my door.

  “You’re welcome. I enjoyed it, I think.” Cullie looked as if he were waiting for me to confirm whether he had a good time or not.

  “You think you enjoyed the evening? You’re not sure?”

  “No, I’m not. I thought I was enjoying myself, but something went wrong. Didn’t you feel it?” He stepped a little closer and planted a quick kiss on the tip of my nose.

  “Yes, I felt it. Is there any chance we could try it again?” How bold, for me. But what did I have to lose? “I’d love to see Marlowe again.”

  “How about me? Would you love to see me again?” This time he kissed my right cheek.

  “Yes, I would.” I closed my eyes and waited for Cullie to kiss my left cheek, or better still, my mouth. This was it, I just knew it.

  “Let’s hug on it,” he said cheerfully.

  Hug? Hug? Who did this guy think he was anyway, Leo Buscaglia? “Sure, let’s hug on it,” I said wryly, then gave him a tepid hug. We broke apart quickly and Cullie turned and walked down my front steps. We waved goodbye to each other as he drove away.

  Confused and frustrated, I put my key in the door and let myself into my big, empty house. Too wound up to sleep, I cleaned the kitchen, then the living room, then the dining room, then the rest of the rooms on the first floor. Before I knew it, it was three o’clock in the morning and I was exhausted. When I finally crawled into bed at three-thirty, I still had trouble falling asleep, so I closed my eyes and pretended I was with Cullie aboard the Marlowe, rocking back and forth in our berth as if it were a cradle. Within minutes, I was dead to the world.

  Chapter 9

  At nine-thirty on Sunday morning, I was awakened by the ringing of the telephone. I was not amused. Sunday was my day to sleep late and I relished the opportunity. Whoever it was would just have to talk to my answering machine, I thought, and turned over in bed. Minutes later, the phone rang again. I let the machine pick up again. When it rang a third time, I could no longer ignore it, and leaned over to grab the phone off the night table.

  “Hullo,” I mumbled.

  “Hi, Sonny. You sound sleepy.”

  “Cullie?” I bolted up in bed.

  “Yup. I’ve been trying to reach you. I have a proposition for you.”

  “You do?” I was wide awake now.

  “Yup. It’s a crisp and sunny February morning. How about taking a walk on the beach and then having brunch on Marlowe?”

  “The beach? It’s freezing out.”

  “Naw. We’ll bundle you up and you’ll feel like you’re at one of your fancy Caribbean resorts. Come on, you’ll see.”

  How was I going to bundle up? I had sold
all my fur coats. All I had left was a moth-eaten wool coat that would hardly keep me warm on a blustery day at the beach.

  “I’ve got an extra down jacket you could wear,” said Cullie as if reading my mind. “And a ski hat and gloves. You’ll look adorable.”

  “Well, when you put it that way…”

  “I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

  “A half hour? I’m still in bed.”

  “Then you’d better get out of bed. I’m on my way. Bye.” Click.

  I raced over to the mirror and gasped. I looked like hell. All that scrubbing and vacuuming till three o’clock in the morning hadn’t done a thing for my complexion.

  I showered, dressed, and was downstairs and ready when Cullie rang my doorbell. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. He was giving me another chance and I wasn’t about to blow it.

  “Boy. You look beautiful,” he said as I opened the door.

  “Oh, right. I don’t have a stitch of makeup on. You didn’t give me time.”

  “I’m glad. You look better this way. More relaxed, less…less…I don’t know…less uptight.”

  “Thanks, I guess. You look pretty relaxed yourself.” In fact, Cullie’s spontaneous, laid-back manner was one of the qualities I liked best about him. I couldn’t imagine him getting all agitated because someone stared at him in a restaurant, the way Sandy did. But then Charles Cullver Harrington and Sanford Joshua Koff were about as different as two men could be. And was I ever glad.

  We drove to the Jessup Public Beach in Cullie’s beat-up Jeep singing songs and playing a little Name That Tune. “Okay. What’s this one?” Cullie would say, then hum a few bars of a rock ’n’ roll song. “‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight,’” I’d shout. “How about this one?” I’d challenge, then hum a few bars of another song. “That’s easy. It’s ‘See You in September,’” he’d guess. “Right,” I’d scream, and we’d break out into simultaneous laughter. There was no mention of the previous evening, when we’d both acted stiff and uncomfortable every time things got remotely intimate.