Rory’s business card lay on the seat beside her. She managed to read and stab out the number for his cell phone on hers. On the fourth ring, he answered.
“The press are camped out at my place,” she told him. “I’m not sure if they saw me.”
“Listen carefully.” He was all business. “I’m at my townhouse. On Vallejo, up high, on the right.”
She checked her rearview mirror and saw a white van with roof-mounted satellite equipment a few lengths back in the other lane. Speeding up, she whipped her car around the first turn on the way to Vallejo.
“Where should I park?” she asked Rory.
“I have a two-car garage. You drive in, I’ll close it.”
All the way to Vallejo, the news crew stayed with her, so close that she was able to identify the “On The Spot” logo. They were right behind her when she drove into the open garage and watched daylight disappear with the lowering metal panel.
Rory waited in the doorway from the garage into his townhouse. Instead of the suit he’d worn to the cemetery, he’d changed to casual navy pants and a red long-sleeve pullover.
Mariah left her car and followed him into his kitchen to see how he lived. The place was bright, decorated in a nautical theme of white and dark blue. No sign of a bachelor’s dirty dishes in the gleaming stainless steel sink.
The doorbell rang. She jumped.
“You’re safe here.” Rory’s protective tone both surprised and warmed her.
She followed him into his living room, decorated in the same white and dark blue, with red and gold accents. “Did you choose all this?”
“I did.” He grinned. “I let Elizabeth keep pretty much everything and started over.” On a mirrored shelf in his dining room, he pointed out an array of tall ship models. “I put those together myself.”
“They’re wonderful.”
The doorbell rang again, and the sound of heavy knocking came from around the corner in the front hall.
Trying to ignore the would-be intruders, Mariah continued to look around. On an end table beside the couch was a picture of Rory at age five or six. In the cockpit of a sailing vessel, the small determined boy stuck out his skinny chin and manned a wheel taller than he was. Behind him, Davis stood watch, a father’s softness in his eyes.
Rory moved to stand beside her. “It’s strange. Sometimes I can’t deal with him, yet …”
A wave of longing for things to be different swept over her.
The news crew kept exhorting someone to come to the door.
“What if they don’t leave?” she asked.
Rory arched a brow and moved closer. “We can stay here.” His expression suggested he was all too aware they were alone with the world locked out.
Before she could react, he bent and touched his mouth gently to hers. How well she knew the shape and texture of his lips, yet how different this kiss was from ones they’d known long ago. Then, he’d been urgent and eager, rushed by the single-minded passion of youth. Now she sampled a more complex recipe.
How easy it would be to get lost in this, but she managed to remember. “I need to get to the Hotel Nikko. My Dad and the Barretts are going to stay there this weekend.”
“I thought you’d let me take you sailing,” Rory said with obvious disappointment.
She gestured toward the front door. “Won’t ‘On The Spot’ follow us?”
“I can outrun anything they’ve got in my Porsche. Come on, go with me.” Taking in her black suit, he said, “I’ll find you some sweats or something to wear.”
Mariah’s determination wavered. Her father and Tom were the best of friends. They and Wendy would spend the afternoon and evening in discussions of people she didn’t know, the way generations failed to cross-communicate.
“Please,” Rory entreated. “Think of what you need right now … and what I need.”
Sausalito hadn’t changed much. A few more bungalows and townhouses on the hillside above, a few more galleries and shops than when Mariah first came to Davis Campbell’s yacht.
Midday sun cast sharp shadows between the close-packed stucco buildings, flowers rioted in window boxes. Waves slapped at the breakwater, sending up a salt tang to mix with aromas of cooking seafood and other delicacies.
As Rory parked his Porsche in the marina lot, Mariah’s sense of unreality increased. None of this fit the expectations she’d had waking up this morning for a funeral.
Although she’d changed into workout clothes and shoes from a gym bag in her car, she had trouble keeping up with Rory. He hurried past a fountain surrounded by pigeons, making a beeline for a little Italian market. When he apparently recalled that her short legs were no match for his stride, he waited for her with a rueful smile.
Inside the shop, colored peppers and garlic hung in strands from the ceiling, red ripe tomatoes and bright oranges overflowed bins, and wooden shelves groaned under the weight of canned goods and olive oil tins. Despite her lack of appetite the past few days, the mingled aromas of spices and fresh-baked bread made Mariah’s stomach growl.
With interest, she watched Rory select a thick crusty boule, then hold up Fontina, Brie, and vintage Chianti for her approval.
Walking toward the marina took her back to the day they’d sailed with Charley. Even more of a rowdy kid then, Charley had been like a younger brother going along on his sister’s date. Through misty eyes, she smiled at the houseboats and the forest of sailboat masts.
When she and Rory stepped onto the dock, the music of the shrouds grew more melodious, a blend of pitch as lines beat against the hollow tubes of the masts. About halfway down the pier, Rory indicated a sailboat with a royal blue hull and white decks. No ostentatious yacht like his father’s, it looked older than the other vessels, lifting and lowering with the swell. Its teak trim had faded to a gentle gray.
When she stepped on the rail, the boat didn’t move. It only dipped a fraction of an inch when Rory joined her aboard.
“Pearson Rhodes ‘41,” he said with pride. “Built in ‘65, back when they didn’t know the strength of fiberglass. Her decks are this thick.” He held up his thumb and forefinger two inches apart. “She’s fast, too. I like the zip of a smaller boat than Privateer.”
“What’s her name?”
Rory looked thoughtful. “That’s a puzzle. When I bought her earlier this spring her name had been painted over. I haven’t had a chance to decide on one.” He cocked his head and grinned. “I could always call her ‘Mariah.’”
Her heart thudded at the suggestion he’d put her name on his pride and joy in foot-high letters, but paint was cheap, and perhaps he’d made the same offer to Sylvia Chatsworth.
At her lack of reaction, Rory’s smile disappeared, and he turned his attention to unlocking the companionway slide. She sensed his withdrawal and felt ashamed of what she’d thought, but couldn’t figure out what to do about it.
Mariah put the sack she carried onto the deck, waiting for instructions. It might go against feminism, but one thing she recalled about sailing was that the captain made the rules. “When you have your own boat,” Rory had told her long ago, “you’ll be in charge.”
Remembering details as they went along, she helped him prepare to cast off. Together, they removed blue canvas covers from the sails and brought up cockpit cushions along with lifejackets.
The engine started with a roar, exhaled a cloud of blue exhaust, and subsided to a gentle putt-putt as Rory backed out of the slip and steered toward the Bay. Once in open water, Mariah took the helm while he clambered forward to raise the mainsail. It caught the wind, and the boat heeled.
Untying the sheets from the huge jib sail wrapping the front stay, Rory threaded color-coded lines back to the rear winches. He unfurled the jib and called for her to shut off the engine.
Immediately, the loud laboring was replaced by the smooth hiss of water against the hull.
Mariah inhaled the sense of peace that surrounded them, yet noted the bustling of ferries and windsurfers le
aping wave crests, their colorful sails and wetsuits contrasting with the blue water.
Over the next hour, she fell back into the old rhythm of tacking, changing directions against the wind. “Ready about,” Rory would say, while she loosened the sheet that held the jib taut. Then “Hard alee.” Amid flapping chaos, the jib and main swung to the other side of the boat while she climbed across to sheet both sails in firmly.
The Pearson glided soundlessly under the Golden Gate Bridge, its vermilion metal towers rising in majestic contrast to the cerulean sky. Huge tankers and container ships ploughed in and out of port. Their wakes gently lifted and lowered the sailboat’s hull, yet crested against the bridge supports with startling violence.
In a sheltered area on the north side of the bay, Rory sailed in lazy circles while Mariah laid out bread, cheese, and wine. Going below, she located stemmed glasses wrapped in dishtowels to keep them from breaking in rough seas, and brought them on deck.
“Too deep to drop anchor.” Rory steadied the wheel with his knee while he pulled the cork.
Mariah took the bottle from him, catching a whiff of the wine’s sharp-edged bouquet, and poured. The first glass she handed to Rory. The second she filled and took into her hand.
“To Charley,” Rory said before she could.
“To Charley.” She swallowed the tart crimson liquid around the lump in her throat.
Reflected in Rory’s sunglasses, Mariah saw herself pour wine into a third glass. He came to her and wordlessly put his hand over hers on the stem.
Was that an echo of Charley’s laugh or a sea bird’s cry? In her mind’s eye, her friend appeared once more, long limbs, freckled face, and mischievous eyes. A vivid image that time must inevitably fade.
In fitting farewell, she and Rory poured wine upon the water.
On the sail back, Rory kept the boat close-hauled against the wind, showing Mariah what it could do. He brought a yellow foul weather jacket from below for her, but even with the coat on her face and hair were soon dripping from the spray. He liked that rather than complaining or flinching, she laughed with each dousing.
His sense of exhilaration lasted almost all the way to the marina. Then he began to have the sense of time running out. Just before they pulled into the quiet water of the harbor, he lost a battle with himself and leaned over to kiss her. The quick buss tasted of salt on their chilled lips, but it was also a memory. He’d also kissed her on that perfect long-ago sail with Charley, before bringing the boat to the dock.
When he nosed the Pearson into its slip, it was nearly four o’clock. The sun shadow of the hill above Sausalito covered the harbor as Rory and Mariah worked together to put everything back in its place. With the sails covered, life vests and cushions back below, they washed the salt from faces and hands and dried their briny hair on thirsty cotton towels.
Even without makeup, with her hair brushed back and caught in a clip, Rory thought Mariah looked wonderful. In an effort to prolong the afternoon, he suggested another trip to the Italian market, this time for a warming cappuccino.
When they approached the counter, the proprietor recognized them and asked how was their sail. With a wink, he told Rory his “missus” was “most beautiful.” Mariah immediately appeared engrossed by the tubs of gelato in the freezer case.
Rory reached for his wallet and counted out bills. The man’s innocent assumption burst the fragile bubble he’d constructed around him and Mariah today, reminding him that despite a raging obsession there could be nothing for them. No normal progression from an afternoon sail to dating on the town, no getting down on one knee with the diamond ring … he’d tried all that with Elizabeth and ended up in divorce court.
Their drinks in hand, Rory led the way to a table on the exterior patio where they were the only customers. Sipping hot sweet coffee, he studied Mariah and found that despite his resolve to avoid getting burned again, he was once more playing “what if.” With her hair drying from dark gold to wheat and her cheeks sun-warmed, she made him want to protect her from the roving press, from sorrow over Charley. The last thing he wanted was to take her back to the city.
“Drive down the coast with me,” Rory decided aloud. “We’ll spend the weekend at Big Sur.”
Mariah gasped. “I can’t,” she said automatically. “Dad expects me at the Nikko.”
Rory unclipped his cell phone from his belt and held it out. Her own was in her purse in the Porsche’s front luggage compartment, the charger at home on her bedroom dresser. “Tell him you’re with a friend,” he said. “He’ll be glad you have something to take your mind off things.”
In the interest of harmony, she decided to drop the issue of her father. Rory might feel the same involuntary negative response she did at the mere thought of Davis Campbell. Instead, she gestured at the still-damp, salt-stained legs of her workout pants. “I don’t have a thing to wear.”
He dug in his pocket and tossed a credit card on the table. “We’ll buy whatever we need in Carmel.” Reaching across, he took her hand. “Haven’t you ever wanted to go someplace on the spur of the moment?”
She had thought about it. Inevitably, it had been with a darkly handsome man who looked a lot like Rory Campbell.
His fingers persuaded, stroking a light rhythm on hers.
To keep things in perspective, she pulled away. “Let me think.”
“Don’t think.” He recaptured her hand and brought it to his lips. With the tip of his tongue, he teased the space where two fingers joined, a butterfly’s touch with a deep, roiling impact. “Just feel.”
She took her hand away again, thoughts swirling … of conflicting interests between their companies, Davis Campbell’s ire, and her father’s disappointment if he knew where she was.
“No thoughts of the future or the past,” Rory proposed. “Just an escape to a fantasy world where we can do whatever we want.”
“That’ll be the day.” She rose and turned away. Standing in front of the low wall surrounding the patio, she heard the scrape of his café chair on the tiles. Surrounded by the scent of potted flowers, she detected the spicy addition of his aftershave … just before his hands spanned her waist.
Though she couldn’t see his eyes, she imagined their expression. Seductive and pleading, yet with a pride that said he was no beggar. Desire swirled and gathered at the base of her stomach. In the two weeks since she’d seen him again, she’d relived their past with a sense of hopelessness, like biting on an aching tooth. Now, for the first time, she permitted herself to imagine making love with him again.
“Trust me,” he whispered near her ear. “You won’t be sorry.”
It was too soon for trust between them; she could not forget his past betrayal. But her knees went weak with the same primal reaction she’d always had when his breath warmed her neck.
In an uncanny display of mind reading, he said, “If you don’t trust me, trust your instinct.”
He reached back to the table, picked up his cell phone, and held it before her eyes.
As if in a dream, she saw her hand lift and take it.
Yes, said the Nikko operator, John Grant was registered. The line began to ring.
He wouldn’t be there. It would ring and ring and then she’d tell Rory she couldn’t go.
“Hello,” said her father.
“Dad.” Mariah took a hesitant breath and glanced at Rory.
“Don’t say no,” he said urgently.
He was right. “No” wasn’t good enough anymore. Neither of their fathers had any business telling her and Rory how to live.
“Mariah?” John asked. “Where are you?”
Once more, she paused. She could truthfully say she was with a friend, but that set a precedent for a secret affair, something she had no stomach for. Though he might be let down, even angry, Dad deserved the truth from her rather than from an “On The Spot” story about her going to Rory’s townhouse.
“I’m with Rory. He rescued me from the press this afternoon.”
/> “When will I see you, then?” he asked tightly.
“I know you don’t approve, but you were right about there being something between me and Rory. Maybe you saw it before I could admit it to myself.” She spoke into her father’s silence. “With all that’s happened this week, the accident, and Charley …” She swallowed. “Rory and I are going to drive down to Big Sur for the weekend.”
CHAPTER 6
On the drive down, Mariah had trouble believing she had told her father where she was going. All he had said was, “I hope you know what you’re doing, daughter,” but the resignation in his tone had her wondering if she should ask Rory to turn the Porsche around. It wasn’t too late to get back to the city by sunset.
For it was in this night’s darkness that she would truly cross the threshold. She knew from her experiences in the past eight years that going to bed didn’t constitute commitment, but with Rory, it would be different. Although the storm of feeling that had surged through her at his touch had subsided, images of them together kept flashing as if on a screen.
Of their past … the incandescent glow of the first time they’d made love. In the vee berth in the prow of Privateer, looking up at silver raindrops on the Lexan forward hatch, feeling the canvas cushions rough beneath her bare back, she’d given herself to him. Given and taken with a fresh, unfamiliar hunger, been filled and fulfilled, fierce joy seizing and transporting her until she felt she exploded into glittering shards. She sparkled and shone despite the gray day, all the while she felt herself floating somewhere above the bunk. Finally, softly, the pieces of her landed, gradually reassembling into someone that did not even resemble the old.
At least that’s what she had believed. Could she now truly set aside his marriage to Elizabeth, and believe he was not his father’s man?
Even as the thought formed, she recalled Rory’s premise. No thoughts of the future or past, an escape … that was what she had bought into when she took his cell phone and called her father. With a sinking feeling, she feared she had made a terrible mistake.
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