Good Nights

by Heather Grace Stewart

  “Will you stop being a naff!” She laughs, then gets up and sits on my lap, wrapping her arms loosely around my neck. I’m so relieved that she’s staying. As we watch the ferry boats coast along the restless sea, I quietly thank the angels who sent her here to me.

  Twenty-six

  Tripp

  “Do you trust me?” I say, as I balance the teal blue bicycle on the gravel road for her one more time, hoping she’ll climb on.

  “Oh, I trust you. It’s that beast of a bicycle I don’t trust,” she says, and she takes a step back. So much for getting somewhere. Or getting groceries.

  I carefully lean the bicycle against the side of the garden shed and walk over to her, taking her hand in mine.

  “Right. I know this is new for you.” I give her hand a squeeze. “But you wanted to try new things and not say no!”

  “It’s not me. It’s my knee. My knee says no.” She pouts.

  “But it’s tandem. I’ve read all about this. I take the lead, and you’re ‘stoker.’ I do all the work, and your legs just move as I pedal us along. It’s physiotherapy. It will be good for you.”

  “A cup of tea and lots more sex would be better for me.” She lets go of my hand and crosses her arms over her chest. I’m about to taunt her with ‘Princess Hani,’ just to see if that convinces her to take the ride with me when she walks over to the bike and caresses the black leather seat with one hand. Oh, she’s thinking about it. Definitely going there.

  “Okay,” she says, turning to look at me. “In the name of trying new things and physiotherapy, I’ll do ten minutes.”

  “That’s great! That’s all we need to get us to the store and back.”

  “I miss room service.”

  “Hannah…” I tousle her hair. “I’ll cook for us when we get back. Sunset dinner.”

  “I was kidding,” she says as I pull the bicycle out and set it in the right direction for us. “I’ve loved being alone in this house, on this island. No phone calls every five minutes, no assistants telling me what I’m supposed to do next. It’s such a radical change from my old life.”

  “I would think so, hashtag Douannah.” I smile at her as she pulls her weaker leg over and straddles the back seat. I make sure that she’s steady, checking her hip and feet position.

  “How the? How’d you know?” She doesn’t look upset, just slightly startled that her old life has intercepted her new one.

  “Paper delivery started up again this morning,” I say, my hand steady on her hip. “I guess James subscribes. Found it on the woven front doormat. You and your ex are on page thirteen. I didn’t realize Doug was so… so big-money. Big-time,” I say, realizing how ridiculously jealous I sound.

  “He was. He was the lead in a TV sitcom that was very popular a few years ago. After doing Broadway for a while and getting mixed reviews, his star lowered in Hollywood’s celestial sky. His publicist has been working overtime lately trying to assure that he—and because it helps him, me—are trending again.”

  “Trending? It’s not Hot or Not anymore?” I wonder if I’ll ever understand this world she comes from.

  “It’s a Twitter thing. Did it say we’re a couple again? Because we aren’t, if you’re worried about that.”

  “It was mostly about him signing on for a new ‘it shall not be named’ TV show. All rather cloak and dagger, if you ask me.” I bend to check that the bike’s tires are properly inflated. “Sells more papers I suppose.”

  “That world is about that, yes. Selling. Hearts and feelings don’t seem to matter.”

  “Well, the interviewer mentioned the hashtag, and Doug replied something about how ‘your love may be forever engraved on the public’s heart.’”

  “Oh, barf. Can we just go? I don’t really want to spend our date talking about my ex.” She sighs.

  “Me neither,” I say, and I climb onto the bike’s lead seat. “You ready to be ‘stoker’?”

  “Not too stoked, no. But I wasn’t ready to meet you, either,” she chuckles. “Let’s do this.”

  Oh, this woman. One moment she’s throwing a wobbly and insisting on the Wi-Fi password, the next, she’s an adventure-seeking, forest-hiking, tandem-biking babe. The bloody shocking thing is, I like all of it, because she’s being authentic. At least she’s never fake with me. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to handle all of her moods, but I want to. I want to imitate her when she’s grumpy, make her laugh, and hold her hand through all of our adventures.

  As I pedal off the downward sloping driveway and turn left towards the corner store, Hannah calls out a hesitant, “uh oh,” followed by a gleeful, “woohooo!” and I know I made the right choice in encouraging her to join me.

  The wind feels warm against my face as I pedal into it. It’s a humid afternoon with a slight taste of sea salt in the air. I’ll take that over the cool, unrelenting rain we had a few days ago. The road we’re on is nearly treeless, winding its way through shimmering fields of gold.

  “You doing okay there?” I call behind me.

  “I’m great. This feels good, actually. I’m surprised.”

  Just as she says it, a family of chickens from a nearby farm appears on the road ahead.

  “Put your feet down slowly, I’m going to brake,” I say, wobbling a little, but pulling it together just in time. I’m able to slow down, and we pull off to the side and stop to watch the brown mother hen lead her four chicks across the road. As they reach the other side and scurry away into the field I turn back slightly to look at Hannah.

  “Now we can say that we witnessed it, and we still don’t know.”

  “Chickens aren’t very talkative,” she says. “They keep their secrets close to their… chicken breasts…” Now, I’m laughing.

  “It’s just another minute down the road, but if you’re in pain at all, we could walk,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I think it’s helping stretch everything out. I’m good.”

  “I’ll have to charge you for this exercise, but the massage tonight is free.” I smirk.

  “Uh huh.” She grins. “Just you wait until you get my bill.”

  The grocer remembers me from last week. “How’d you folks make out in the flooding? Kept dry?”

  “Yeah, we’re up on the hill, at James Tander’s place? Some homes along the shore nearly didn’t make it, though.” I hand him our small bag of strawberries, peaches, flour, butter, and blueberries.

  He wipes his hands on his white apron and arranges several items in my backpack, placing the heavier ones first, just as I asked.

  “That would be a shame. Some of those places should be deemed heritage homes.” He shakes his head.

  I turn to Hannah. “See? We need you.” She smiles at me and bites into a peach. “Mmph.”

  “I could try the lead seat,” she says as I adjust my backpack and start to climb on the bike.

  “Uh, that’s a little too ambitious for today, I think.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow. After we eat our blueberry crumpets.”

  As we start our ride home as the sun starts to lower in the sky, I feel something shift behind me, and I have to straighten my handles to readjust our ride. We’re fine, and I know what she’s doing, just on instinct.

  She’s got her arms wide open back there, like a little kid running into ocean waves.

  “See? I do trust youuuu!” she squeals.

  “Get your bloody hands back on the handle bars!” I growl, and after a few seconds more, she obeys. We laugh the whole ride home.

  I love her! I love country, bike-riding, peach-kissing Hannah. I wonder if we can simply send for her things in Burnaby. I had to let Mags go without saying goodbye. I don’t want to have to utter any goodbyes to Hannah.

  Twenty-seven

  Hannah

  “You know what I like the most about this supper?” I ask, putting
my fork down beside my remaining chicken parm and taking a sip of savory red wine.

  Tripp has once again gone to extremes to create a romantic setting for us, this time, up on the bedroom balcony. Not only is there a lit kerosene lamp at every corner, but he’s also strung up some white lights he grabbed at the corner store. “The grocer said they were Christmas stock. They were dirt cheap,” he said when I found him unpacking them. “I figured, we had weird weather in May, why not have a little bit of Christmas as well?”

  Once everything was set up on the balcony, we sat in silence and breathed in the perfume below: lily of the valley blooms mingling with wet grass and salty ocean air. The sun is a brilliant orange, fading and lowering below cotton candy clouds. It’s pleasant enough for us to be sitting out barefoot and in our waffle robes. They’re becoming our go-to ‘Let’s Stay In’ wardrobe, and I cannot believe I have never dressed like this for days at a time before. I’ve grown fond of my blue slicker, jeans, and this waffle robe. I do not miss constrictive VIP attire one bit.

  “What do you like the most? Hm. There’s no Entertainment Tonight reporter, asking you how you feel?” he teases.

  “Well, there’s that. I never had swarms of paparazzi around me. That only happened when I was with Doug.”

  “Well, then, I say good riddance to all that.” He lifts his wine, inhaling its strong oak and vanilla aroma. “Who needs fame and fortune when you can have a quiet balcony dinner with this hot and happening British mug?” He stops and lifts his chin in a GQ-like pose, stroking his beard.

  I grin. “Exactly, but there’s more.” I nibble lightly on my corn. It’s dripping butter onto the white ceramic plate on my lap. Why did he have to go and buy messy food for our date?

  Tripp sees me hesitating with the corn and smiles politely. He lifts a fork and knife. I think he’s going to cut the corn off the cob, but he puts them down again and suddenly dives into his cob with his entire face. I can’t see his eyes anymore. He’s making noises like Disney’s Beast. I have to put my plate down at my feet so it won’t fall off my lap, I’m laughing so hard.

  “Ahhh, yes that’s how it’s done in the lowlands, lassie,” he says in a Scottish drawl. He lifts his face to look at me. There are pieces of corn all through his beard. Nose. Neck. Even one earlobe. He’s absolutely covered in corn.

  “You want me badly now, don’t ya, baby?” he says with a low growl.

  “You are such a Tripp!” I laugh and drift over to him to begin picking the mess out of his beard.

  “Oh, so we’re monkeys now, is that what we’ve become?” he asks. “Is that how you see me?”

  “We’re descended from…”

  “Don’t. Don’t even start. That’s not bedtime banter.” He pulls me onto his lap, hands on my hips, and starts covering my face in kisses. Corn kisses and a beard burn. I’m glad I’m done eating, because I can’t stop laughing.

  “Ha! Agreed! Wait!” I say, gasping for air. He holds off with the kisses for a second and starts wiping himself down with a linen napkin. “I was going to tell you what I like most about this balcony meal—no mosquitoes! We would have them up here bothering us by now if we were in Canada, or at least, black flies. I wanted to ask, why is that? But I’m afraid you’ll go into one of your long Factoid-man speeches. We should really just enjoy the peace and quiet of this spring evening.”

  “Well, I’m glad you asked,” he begins. “We ornithologists do have to know a lot about entomology, since birds eat bugs, you know.”

  I roll my eyes. This is going to take a while. Reading my thoughts, as usual, he leans over to the patio table to his left and hands me my wine. “It’s spring, and mosquitoes usually aren’t a problem here ’til summer, but we’re up on a hill, away from the water. They’re probably having a party over at Béa’s place.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t forgotten about her, but we’ve been inside a dreamy couple bubble these last twenty-four hours. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “She called the house when you were in the bath, actually. She’s just fine. Water on her shoreline has receded, and she’s warm and happy. I want to visit her tomorrow, though. Tell her we’re hiring her for our project.”

  “We?” I smile at him.

  “Slip of the tongue, but, I like how it sounds.” He slides one hand under my robe and strokes my lower back.

  “Me too.” I say. “In fact…” I take a breath, shake off my nerves, and continue. “I kind of like the idea of acting sort of like… adoptive parents to her. Watch out for her. She’s eighteen, but she’s still young, living alone on this island. She needs somebody. We could be her somebodies.”

  Tripp looks at me and nods but doesn’t say one word. He closes my robe for me, tying it with the belt, then gets up and starts adjusting the white string lights, his back turned. I sit back, dumbstruck. I can’t see his expression. What’s he thinking? Was that too much?

  Oh, I said too much. I went too far, too soon. Damnit! Why can’t I do relationships? Why? I’m a savvy negotiator, an Emmy-award winning writer, and a failure at love.

  Twenty-eight

  Tripp

  Parents. She wants us to be parents; like a team.

  I’m at a complete loss for words, so I keep my back turned and continue working with the string of lights, pretending that they’re tangled. I swallow hard to hold back the tears, so she won’t think I’m a wuss. I know she already accepts me for who I am: strengths, weaknesses, goofy man-child. All of it. All of me. That’s why I’m so emotional.

  I’ve always wanted to be a dad. To do everything my own dad never did with me. To accept the child for who she is, to help her become her best self. My chance to be a parent with Mags was stolen from me. And then along came Hannah.

  I’ve only known her a short while, but I know her. I know this is our destiny. Hannah and I have a real chance here. A chance to help another human being and ourselves in the process.

  So why can’t I bloody tell her any of this? Oh my God, I think there’s a tear on my cheek. I wipe it away, fast, and turn to take away her plate and mine.

  “I should go clean up.” I swallow hard again, just in case I look wobbly-chinned. “You just stay here and rest that knee, Sweetness.” There. Got out a term of affection. She’ll be fine. She’ll just think I’m tired. It’ll be fine. I did fine.

  When I return ten minutes later, Hannah is curled up on the bed with her wine glass in hand, the bed quilt wrapped around her, wearing nothing else. I’m instantly turned on.

  “Got a little chilly, but I left the doors open, so we can watch the stars, and our white lights. That is, if you want…” She hands me my half-full wine glass from the bedside table.

  “I’d love to,” I say. So, we’re good, then. I crawl onto the bed slowly and sit back against the pillows she’s propped up. I feel my body become less tense as she pulls off my robe, pulls the quilt over me, draws her warm skin close to mine.

  “What a view.” I say, staring out at the twinkling blanket of stars before us. She’s quiet for a moment. That’s unusual. I turn to look at her, take her hand, and give it a squeeze.

  A second later, she speaks. “When you really look at it, that wide, open sky, it kind of makes everything right in the world again, doesn’t it?” she says. “That and walking by the ocean surf roaring in on a clean beach... everything feels bigger than you, and yet a part of you.”

  “It does,” I say, sighing with contentment. I take a long swallow from my glass and set it down again. I know this is exactly when, exactly how I should tell Hannah what I feel. The time is now. Don’t waste a minute. Tell her: yes, let’s foster Béa. Tell her she’s become my whole world, and I want to grow old with her. I want her and Béa and everything on this island to grow old with us.

  I can’t. I just can’t find the words.

  Bugger. I need to call my therapist tomorrow morning, tell him he’s total shite
, and I want my money back.

  We’ve finished our wine and set down our glasses. I’m gently raking my hands through her ginger tresses, and now that I’ve turned to her, I manage to tell her how I feel about… Jughead.

  “You… love him?” She’s looking at me like I’ve lost it. “Are you quite drunk?”

  “It’s not the wine. I just mean that, he’s grown on me. He’s singing bloody eighties’ tunes for crying out loud! He’s alright with me. When you go away for a couple weeks, to sell the house and all, I’ll watch Jughead. He’s happy here. In fact, I’ve grown attached to the bloody petulant parrot.”

  She shakes her head, smiling. “He is quite special. I told you so when I first got here. But, what about when you’re working out in the woods? You can bring Coffee… but Jughead?”

  “Well, don’t go and spoil it all now. I’ve made plans for him, okay?”

  “You have? Aviary plans? Wow. Can I see them?”

  “Let it be a surprise.” I say, and she nods silently, to my surprise, letting this one go.

  Silence again. What’s going on with her? I caress her face. “A penny for your thoughts?”

  “I was thinking…” she says softly, closing her eyes. “Of naming this house The Lighthouse.”

  “Ah, Sorting Hat Hannah. Right. I love The Lighthouse. But why?”

  I know it’s not shaped like an old lighthouse, but it feels like one. The last few days, it’s been lit up only by kerosene lamps…” Her voice sounds sleepy. “Lighthouses really aren’t that bright inside, but here, at the top… they’re beacons of light for others. We were beacons. Beacons of light, exactly when we needed to be. We drew Béa in. You drew me in…”

  “I drew you in, did I…” I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I think it might explode. I kiss her forehead. Her eyelids. Her lips.

  “You drew me in,” she whispers, and when I feel her thighs pressing forcefully against mine, I stop thinking altogether. We make love without speaking, sharing an understanding with each other and nature that no one should disrupt the soulful silence of this night. At her peak of passion, she calls my name several times, then bites a pillow to muffle her screams.