"As a rule, the men end with a game of soccer while the women and kids watch," he finished up.
It sounded dismal. "But — but you said you wanted magic," she said, utterly dismayed.
"And so I do. What have you got in mind?"
He opened a door that was dwarfed by the height of the shed. Liz stepped through, and he followed her, letting the door swing shut behind them.
After the blinding light outside, the hangar-size shed seemed dark, despite the fiberglass upper walls that let in a limited amount of daylight. Without waiting for her eyes to adjust, Liz went trotting forward across the hard-packed dirt floor and instantly tripped on a block of wood that lay across her path.
With a yelp of pain, she stumbled sideways into Jack's arms. He caught her handily, just as he had when she fell from the ladder on her upstairs landing. But this time he wasn't inclined simply to stand her up straight again.
He let his hands linger on her upper arms, sliding them slowly up and then down. She felt his callused palms through the thin sleeves of her salmon-pink blouse. An odd, irrelevant thought popped into her mind: Hardly the hands of an artist. But she felt the power in them, a strength that she found almost intimidating.
"I say again," he murmured as he lowered his face closer to hers, "what did you have in mind?"
"M-magic," she repeated, aware of his warm breath wafting over her cheeks.
"Can you be more specific?" he asked, his voice low and amused, as he lowered his mouth gently onto hers, catching her lower lip in a soft, tantalizing caress.
Her eyes fluttered closed as she struggled against the temptation to enjoy what he was doing to her ... with her... for her. Specifics, she told herself. He wants specifics.
"I—I wanted a fairy tale of a picnic," she whispered, turning her mouth a little away from his. "A ... castle," she said, catching her breath as he slid his mouth across the line of her jaw, dropping nibbly, exciting kisses along the curve of her neck.
Kiss me, she thought dizzily. Kiss me and be done with it so that I can act hurt and outraged and we can get on with this ... this — oh, God — magic. His mouth was pure magic.
He lifted his head and caught her chin gently in one hand, turning her face back to his for the very kiss she desired and dreaded.
"I can't," she murmured, her mouth half a breath from his.
"Can't?''
"Make a castle out of a shed. No one can. This is all wrong."
She wasn't even sure she was talking about the picnic. But at least she was talking; her brain had begun functioning again on some minimal level. She lifted one shoulder in an attempt to ease out of his grip. Jack understood the signal, childish as it was, and let go of her instantly.
A gentleman, after all. Or not too terribly interested. Just her luck either way, she thought with a sad, wry smile.
In the meantime, he was taking her at her word. "So you don't think you can do something with cardboard turrets and an asphalt moat?"
"I thought I could," Liz admitted, "but now I see it would be idiotic to try."
She had a thought — she'd had the thought since the day he'd first suggested the event — and now she threw it out to him, letting her words soar upward like barn swallows in the great, cavernous expanse of the nearly empty shed.
"Picnics are for kids," she said in an earnest, coaxing voice. "I don't want them to go away from this with some memory of a bunch of grown-ups playing soccer. I want them to take the memory of my picnic into their own adulthood; I want them to wonder why no twenty years from now knows how to throw a shipyard picnic as good as the ones in the good old days."
He laughed sardonically. "There may not be a shipyard, much less a picnic, in twenty years."
"All the more reason!" she shot back.
"I can't afford to rent one of Newport's castles on a Saturday in July," he warned.
"Of course not," she said, detecting a certain responsiveness in his answer. "East Gate will do fine."
"East Gate!"
She could see he was scandalized by the idea. People like him simply didn't throw their doors open to — well, people like her.
"What if it rains? Where do you think I'm going to put a hundred people and a soccer net?" he asked incredulously.
He could probably put them all in his entry hall, if it came to that. But she didn't want him to feel cornered, so she said, "I absolutely, positively guarantee it's not going to rain. And if it does, we can empty your carriage house of vehicles and carry on there. Half the people wouldn't show, anyway, if it rained."
She glanced around the empty shed. A couple of yachts sat forlornly in their cradles, like rich kids left behind at their boarding school for the holidays.
"Not here," she said at last. "I simply can't do it."
He hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and glanced at the roof, then at the dirt floor. "Just what I need," he said, half to himself. "A prima-donna party planner."
"Events coordinator." Yes! He was going to say yes!
"You'd better damned well pray for sun," he growled as he turned and headed outside.
Liz fell in beside him with a satisfied spring in her step. "You won't be sorry, Jack," she said with a sideways taunting look. "I'll probably end up working for free again."
He smiled at the memory, then took out the cigar he'd been given and began peeling away the cellophane. "Why do you do it, then?" he asked. "Just for the pleasure of my company?"
He bit off the tip of the cigar, pulled out a pack of matches, and turned away from the wind and from her, cupping his hands around the stogie while he made a couple of attempts to light it.
He couldn't see her face, which was just as well: Liz was blushing furiously. The pleasure! of his company! That was like saying she had a cavity fixed for the pleasure of the novocaine!
Jack turned back around, blue eyes squinting in the sun, cigar rolled jauntily to one side of his mouth. Amazingly, he seemed to be waiting for her to tell him just how much pleasure he did give her.
Plenty, dammit, she realized with a sinking heart. His kisses had left a white-hot trail on her neck that — now that the shock of the encounter in the shed had worn of — was beginning to throb in earnest. Involuntarily she raised her hand to the spot, as if she'd been scratched by a bramble.
"Thanks for taking the barbed wire down," she suddenly said, free-associating like crazy. "The view is so much prettier now."
"For me, too," he said with a smile that was oddly wistful.
He stroked her cheek lightly with his fingertips, then let them trail lazily along the scorched route of his kisses.
Yowch. Liz turned her cheek away, embarrassed by the low threshold of her pain. What was going on here?
"Well!" she said briskly. "That's it, then. Don't worry about a thing. It'll be a day to remember."
He gave her a wry look. "Didn't you say something along those lines about Caroline's birthday party?"
Liz was saved from having to come up with a smartalecky answer by the sight of Cornelius Eastman shepherding her daughter in their direction. Susy was skipping her happy-skip; the child-size life jacket she clutched in her hand probably had a lot to do with it.
"Where'd you get the life jacket, sweetie?" asked Liz when her daughter drew near.
"Mr. Eastman gave it to me," Susy said, hardly able to contain her joy. "He said that if it's all right with you, we can all go see his family's boat. Even you, Mommy! It's right over there! Not for a ride, though," she added in a stage whisper. "But sometime soon. He promised! It has a bathroom and a TV! And a kitchen — no, a galley! Isn't that right, Mr. Eastman?" she asked as Cornelius caught up to them. "The room with the stove is a galley, isn't it?"
"That's right, Susy," said Cornelius. "And the bedrooms are called staterooms. And the bathrooms are called heads."
Susy said, "I know. I remember from what you said!" and kept on happy-skipping in the direction of a stunning antique motor-yacht that was tied up to a dock not far from where they st
ood.
Liz, who thought she was beyond being impressed by Eastman status symbols, was impressed all over again. My God! A sixty-footer with all that varnish, all that brass — what must it cost to keep it up? Even if you did own the shipyard.
"Pretty snazzy," she conceded, repressing a surge of bluecollar resentment.
Cornelius said gruffly, "That old bucket of rot? She's been around forever; more trouble than she's worth." But he complained in a voice that was deep with affection.
Even Jack was smiling. It was obvious that here, at last, was something the two men agreed on.
In the meantime Cornelius, with a good-natured grimace, was saying, "I didn't realize how enthusiastic Susy was about boats. I hope I haven't made things awkward for you by promising a tour."
"Not at all," Liz said with a smile of her own. "I'm sure she just took your hint and ran with it. I have no idea where she gets this love of the sea. Hardly anyone in the family is into boats," she explained, without adding that hardly anyone could afford to be. "The Portuguese side has always been heavily into agriculture, and as for the Irish side — no sailors there, either."
In other words, she descended from a line of farm help and houseworkers. Why couldn't she just say it?
Maybe because both Jack and Cornelius were looking so damned aristocratic, poised alongside their family yacht. There was no denying it: everything about the two, from their Waspy good looks to the offhand way they carried themselves, suggested that they were to the manner born.
"You strike me as a superconscientious mother," the older of the men ventured to say to Liz. "Which is why I fished out a life jacket. I assumed you wanted Susy wearing one for the tour."
"You assumed right; thanks," said Liz, fitting the orange vest over her daughter's head. It was a long way down from the deck to the water, and Susy couldn't swim. That was Liz's fault; she'd never really encouraged her to learn.
Cornelius unhitched a heavy nylon line that was roped across the gangplank and led them down it. The slope was steep—it was low tide—and Susy was forced to take little mincing steps. Liz hovered behind her, ready to grab her if she tripped or fell. She was aware, all too aware, of Jack behind her, obviously impatient to get down the darned thing. What did he know about children and drowning?
The gangplank led to a float to which the yacht was tied up. Between the rolling gangplank and the floating dock, Liz was feeling a little rubbery-legged. "Be careful, honey," she cautioned.
Susy, as sure-footed as a three-legged stool, laughed at her mother's warning and dashed up the five boarding steps through a cut-out gate in the side of the hull.
And there they were: aboard their first and probably last true yacht. It was a spectacular vessel: miles of teak decks with every seam in place; varnished cabinsides that gleamed in the midday sun; a small sailing dinghy hanging in davits, ready to be swung over the side and lowered into the water; an afterdeck with a built-in crescent of cushioned seats around a low round table topped with a crystal bowl filled with cut flowers. Cut flowers, for Pete's sake! On a boat!
Susy sat gingerly on one of the canvas-striped cushions, looked around briefly, then slid off, ready for the next feature on the tour. Cornelius said to her, "Wanna see the anchor? It weighs more than I do."
Susy said, "Yes!" and ran forward, despite her mother's warning to "Walk, young lady!" sounding in her ears.
"You listen to your mother," Cornelius said amiably.
He turned to Liz and said, "She's a doll. Reminds me of my — of Caroline. We'll have to have 'em out for a little cruise soon."
Jack gave his father a dry smile and said, "Caroline hated the boat, Dad."
"Because she had no one to talk to," his father said easily. He ambled up to the bow, where Susy was waiting, with little hops-in-place, for the tour to continue.
Spoiled forever, Liz thought as she fingered the name of the yacht, Déjà Vu, that was gold-leafed on the white lifering hanging alongside one of the cabin doors. "This truly is a magnificent yacht," she said to Jack. "I always thought of wooden boats as old, smelly, and leaky."
"I prefer to think of her as 'seasoned,' " Jack murmured with a dangerous smile. "As for your other misconceptions: she smells clean and sweet — and she's real tight."
"Oh," said Liz, coloring deeply. "Then I guess I was wrong. Is ... is the hull fiberglass?" she asked, just to have something to say. "It looked so smooth."
"Fiberglass wasn't invented then," he said, brushing her windblown hair away from her mouth with his fingertips. "The boat's over a hundred years old."
"Oh," she said faintly. "Wrong again."
"And contrary to what you're thinking, when it was built, it was regarded as a modest vessel for the time — especially considering the owner had a shipyard at his disposal."
She heard a loud thump and whipped her head around. "Susy!" she cried.
"It's all right, Mommy. I was just jumping down from the — the capstan!" Susy said proudly, glancing at Cornelius. "That's what holds the chain for the anchor!"
"Well, come back here by me," Liz said sharply. "We've taken far too much of these people's time as it is."
Looking chastised and sullen, Susy began dragging her steps toward the back of the yacht. She perked up when she reached the small dinghy hanging in its davits, however, and said to Jack, "Do you ever go for boat rides in this?"
Jack smiled and said, "I used to sail that when I was just about your age."
Susy's mouth fell a little open; she gave Liz a big brown-eyed look of reproach that said, "You won't even let me take lessons with a grown-up!"
They went through the wheelhouse and down the cabin steps and toured the sparkling galley, with its gleaming brass sinks, leaded-glass cupboards, and wood-paneled fridge, then made their way through the cozy staterooms and the main salon, with its varnished furnishings, built-in bookcases, and deep-green-velvet upholstery. It was all very stately and dignified, as masculine as East Gate itself. Liz wondered where, if anywhere, the Eastman women got to express the softer side of the empire. It was a silly thought; obviously the men ran the show in this family.
They came back up into the wheelhouse, and Cornelius sat Susy on the tufted leather helmsman's seat, where she pretended to steer the brass-bound varnished wheel. "When I grow up," she announced blithely, "I'm going to drive a ferry. Or maybe even a big ship."
"I thought you wanted to be president," Liz said, smiling.
"—if I don't get elected," Susy shot back.
They all laughed and retraced their steps through the boat, with Liz warning Susy at regular intervals to go slow, be careful, not touch, and leave it alone.
Jack murmured to Liz, out of Susy's earshot, "She's not going to be president or ferry captain if you keep such a tight rein on her. I mean, an untamed cub like Caroline is one thing, but don't you think—"
Surprised by his impertinence, Liz turned to him and said tersely, "Excuse me, but Susy is all I have." All I'll ever have, she thought, washed over by a complex wave of emotions. "Naturally I'm protective."
"Okay, okay," he said, throwing up his hands as if she'd pulled a gun on him. "None of my business."
"None at all," Liz agreed.
At the top of the gangplank she said to her daughter, "Go get your backpack, honey. I'll catch up to you." After Susy thanked Jack enthusiastically and set off for the office with Cornelius, Liz said to Jack, "I guess we're done for now?"
"Look, I'm sorry if I stepped over some line you've drawn. After all, I'm not a parent — as far as I know. What do I know about childrearing?"
"Apology, such as it is, accepted," she said, annoyed by his flippancy.
"Prove it," he said suddenly. "I'm taking the boat out on a twilight cruise tonight with half a dozen friends. Cocktails, the usual thing. Join me."
"Um..."
Was it a date? It didn't sound like a date. It was a cocktail, with other people just like him. What did one wear on a yacht at twilight? What did one say when one was as
ked where one went to school, and what yacht clubs one belonged to, and what one thought of so-and-so, the new tennis instructor at the Casino?
And what did one tell one's daughter when one's daughter — who'd give her baby teeth to be able to go for a boat ride — learned that her mommy was going instead?
"Um. . ." Liz bit her lip and shook her head.
Jack gave her a level look. "I see."
No, he didn't see; but she let it pass. Let him think she was still angry over his bachelor-knows-best advice. Let him think anything except the ultimate rock-bottom truth: that she didn't want to end up being another notch in his gun. If he couldn't find a suitable match among the rich and the gorgeous, he sure as hell wasn't going to be swept away by a thirty-something mom who couldn't even bear him the heir he would so obviously require.
Still, it would be nice if she could come up with another reason besides "um."
She gave him a carefully friendly smile and said, "I have other plans." (She didn't.) "I'm sorry." (She wasn't.) "It would've been fun." (It would've been agony.)
Jack was about to say something when an older, overweight man in a plaid sportshirt came hurrying up to them shouting, "Jack, Jack — my boat's been broken into!"
"What! Impossible, Jay!" Jack said automatically. Under his breath he murmured, "Shit."
Liz gave Jack a quick, sharp look; he seemed almost to be expecting the news.
"What'd they take?" Jack asked as the man got near.
"Can't tell," Jay said, winded from his sprint. "It looks like a hurricane went through belowdeck. Everything's in a heap. They even busted in some of the bulkheads, by God." He held his hand over his left ribs; he'd gotten a stitch from running. "Should I call the cops?"
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