CHA PTE R 13
N SATURDAY MORNING I FIND a white gauzy sundress in Patsy’sO closet and wear it over the turquoise bikini Naomi brought over at eight a.m. Apparently, she woke up terrified by the prospect of me wearing my perfectly good bathing suit and headed straight to her store. Of the four choices she brought me, this one gave the most butt coverage. I put on sneakers and pack flip-flops in my straw bag. Gus is very excited. He makes pancakes for Christopher and himself, tiny little silver-dollar ones, and serves them in a teetering stack. He pours Christopher’s syrup around the tower like a moat and serves it with a low “Your Highness.” Christopher laughs that laugh that totally smooths out my nervous system.
The old green Range Rover pulls in to the driveway just as Clay arrives by bike. Christopher forks the entire stack of pancakes and follows us out to the front porch. Stewart gets out of the car and raises a hand at us. He looks younger in a navy-blue T-shirt—no collar—washed enough times that it rests lazily on his shoulders. He smiles a half smile, and I think of Jake Ryan fromSixteen Candles. I make my way down the steps, and I feel like this dress is too short.
He watches me approach. “Your thighs,” he says. “The whole leg, actually.”
I look down to see what’s wrong with my legs. “What?”
“The compliment. I’m practicing. I saw you and that’s what popped up.” He shrugs.
“Oh.” I blush like I’m twelve and look over my shoulder at Gus approaching in his Red Sox hat. “Thank you.”
“Clay. Gus. This is Stewart Whitfield,” I say.
“Hi,” Stewart says, shaking both of their hands. “I’m a
Red Sox fan too. Do you play?”
“Third base,” Gus says.
“What do you think of Howie Carver?” asks Stewart.
“I think he’s going to change everything,” Gus says. This makes me smile, though I try not to. Just the certainty he has around this particular topic.
“I think so too,” Stewart says. He looks up and takes in the house. He waves at Christopher on the steps.
“That’s my brother, Christopher,” I say.
“Would he like to come?”
“He likes to sit right there,” I say.
Because Stewart hasn’t known Christopher for thirty-six years, he asks anyway. “Do you want to come out on the boat with us?”
“Who are you?” Christopher calls, the plate of pancakes
teetering on his knees.
“Stewart. I’m a friend of Dolly’s.”
Christopher stares him down in a way that makes me smile. It’s the protective glare of a million other brothers.
“I’ll stay here,” he says finally.
“Okay,” Stewart says. “You guys ready to go?”
Gus and Clay reply enthusiastically, and Stewart opens the door to the backseat for them and then the passenger seat for me.
“Thank you,” I say, and get in. I don’t know why I’m a tiny bit nervous. The compliment about my legs has totally thrown me, and Stewart seems different dressed in his off-
duty costume. He’s clean shaven, but his hair isn’t arranged as precisely as it usually is.
I sit in the passenger seat of the Range Rover and realize it’s the first time I’ve been in it or any car like it. The brown leather on the seats is like a fine handbag, lovingly restored.
Gus and Clay talk a mile a minute in the backseat. About this car, other cars, all the cars.
I steal glances at Stewart as he drives. He’s comfortable, like this car is a favorite pair of jeans, molded to his exact shape. He looks my way and catches me staring. I smile the world’s most neutral smile.
“This is my actual car,” he tells me. “I’m getting rid of that shiny black one. I can’t stand it.”
“Is this the part where I ask you why you love this car so much? Because Busy warned me that your answer might make me want to stab myself in the eye.”
“With a fork,” he says. “Yes, she tells me that all the time. Since you don’t have a fork, I’ll just say they stopped making this car in this quality in 1994. So I keep it going.”
“Are we going on a sailboat or a motorboat?” Clay asks from the backseat.
“Sailboat,” Stewart says into the rearview mirror. “I called this morning to ask them to get it ready. Just check the sails and the lines. My dad’s worried I don’t remember how to sail it. But I’m sure I do.” He turns to me and lowers his voice a bit. “He was thrilled, by the way. My mom too. This was a great idea. All around.”
I didn’t even think of how good this would look to his parents. Stewart’s new girlfriend encouraging him to engage in a leisure activity. “Stick with me, Stewart,” I say, and turn my smile to the window.
We pass the giant Whitfield yacht in front of the club and pull into the valet parking area. “Good morning, Mr.
Whitfield,” the attendants say in unison.
Stewart hands one of them his keys as Michael, the club manager, rushes out. “Marian’s ready to go,” he says to Stewart. “I don’t remember the last time you took her out.”
Stewart introduces us. “Michael, this is Dolly Brick. Gus and Clay. We’re headed to Ruddy Duck Cove. I think I still remember how to get there.”
Michael says, “Dolly. I can’t believe it.”
I smile at him. “In the flesh. But I am not going into the laundry dungeon today. You can’t make me.”
“Good,” he says and laughs. “Perfect day for sailing. Any provisions?”
“In the trunk, thanks,” Stewart says. I elbow Gus, who makes his way around the back of the car just as the valet attendants do. “It’s fine, Gus,” Stewart says. “They’ve got it.” Gus shoots me his biggest eyes.
We head through the club, bustling with breakfast cocktails, and go out back to the docks. We pass a sea of fiberglass, a dozen yachts built to cross the Atlantic. We stop at the very end, and Stewart’s boat is a jewel, thirty feet of gleaming wood. It has a single mast and a wooden helm polished to a high shine. It makes me think of Cary Grant’s boat,True Love, inThe Philadelphia Story.
“This isMarian,” he says.
“Wow,” Gus says.
“I say that every time,” he says. “I love this boat.”
“Do you ever take out the giant one? That’s yours too, right?” Clay asks.
“Savannah was my grandfather’s boat,” he says. “My dad used to take it out sometimes, but I’m too chicken.” He lets out a laugh like he’s kidding, but I feel like he’s not.
“Why?” I ask. I step aside so that the guys can load the coolers onto the boat.
He’s looking down at me, expression serious. “I don’t want to be the Whitfield who sinks the family ship.”
The coolers are identical and don’t have wheels. This strikes me because you would never have a cooler without wheels if you intended to transport it yourself. There’s a tote bag too, white with a blue handle andMarian embroidered in green on the side. I peer in and see four kinds of sunscreen, extra hats, and a corkscrew.
Stewart is all business as the captain of this ship. He gives quick and decisive orders. Untie the ropes, push away from the dock, wrap the line clockwise around the winch and turn. When the sail is up and we are moving, he steers us into deeper water. The wind blows back his hair and presses his T-shirt against his chest, and I decide that swimming must be exceptionally good exercise. Afraid I might get caught looking at his chest, I sit behind him on the long bench seat.
The boys go up to the bow and dangle their legs over the edge. Stewart cuts the motor and we’re moving entirely by wind. The wake behind us sends a spray onto the deck, and I stretch my legs out to let it cool me. A Saturday on a boat with my son, who has a friend. An unobstructed view of the backs of a man’s legs, tan and muscled, with a faint layer of hair disappearing under his pale yellow swimsuit.
He turns around and smiles at me. “Want to steer?” he asks.
“I’m not sure I want to be the kindergarten teacher who
sinks the Whitfield ship,” I say.
“I’ll back you up,” he says.
“Oh yeah?” I say, brow raised.
“Of course.” His easy answer hits me. I’m not a woman who is used to backup.
“Sure,” I say, getting up. He steps aside and I rest my hands on the helm.
“You have the conn,” he says.
I turn my head, and he’s right there. He’s not as cleanly shaven as I thought, and his stubble is flecked with gold and white. “The what, now?”
“The conn. It’s a nautical thing, a change of responsibility. You’re in charge now. You have the conn.”
“But you’re still backup,” I say. It’s time for me to turn away, back to the helm, but I don’t. I stay there, looking up at the ridge of his cheek and the way the faintest stubble trails down to his jaw. I want to tell myself that I am recording data for Naomi as a thank-you for the free bathing suit. But the fact is, it’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a man, and I’m enjoying the swirly way the heat off his skin is mixing with mine.
“I’m backup,” he says. “Just point it toward that tiny speck of land.”
We don’t talk. I steer toward the land, and he sits back on the bench like he has all the confidence in the world that I’m not going to sink this thing. He pulls ropes to adjust the sails, and I feel my way through the adjustments I need to make at the helm. We’re moving more quickly than I would have guessed, and the wind is misting my face with sea spray.
I love the rhythm of the boat moving under me, rolling over waves as they come.
When we’re close, Clay shouts, “Land ho!” We anchor, and everything is completely silent.
I turn to Stewart and he’s smiling at me. “You did it,” he says.
“I did.” I smile back and flex my hands to release where I’d been gripping the helm.
“I forgot how good it feels to be out here,” he says,
running a hand through his hair.
“How long has it been?”
“I got this boat for my sixteenth birthday,” he says. I got a pair of UGG boots, and that was a big gift. Patsy was jealous and I didn’t even care. “I took it out every day that summer and some of the next. But not much since then, since I was seventeen. Busy and her friends take it out now.”
“Seventeen seems kind of young to give up on fun.”
“That’s when Busy got sick,” he says, looking straight ahead. I am caught in that place between wanting to know more and not wanting to pry. Finally, he turns to me and says, “She was seven. Kind of a perspective change for me. Life didn’t feel so lighthearted after that.”
I have a million things to say in response to this. Like how sorry I am that his family went through that. How much I understand having the rug pulled out from under you and then clinging to whatever you can control. I just say, “Bad things can happen to anybody.”
He nods over the helm. “It threw my family into chaos.
My mother lost a lot of weight, and my dad got this hollow, sad look about him. They stopped gardening and nagging us about our schoolwork. It felt like everything was slipping away. Busy is fine. She learned to embrace life. I became afraid of ever seeing us fall into chaos again.”
“So you work,” I say.
“So I work,” he says. After a beat, he turns to me. “To my detriment, if you ask my parents. Who are probably popping champagne because my new girlfriend got me to take the day off.” He smiles at me, and there’s a softness there that seems new. I want him to know just how much of this I understand. Perpetually running at full speed to keep the chaos at bay is my jam.
“So far you’re nailing this cool mom routine,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve heard you say one embarrassing thing.”
“That’s probably because I haven’t said anything,” I say. I motion like I’m zipping my lips and he laughs.
Stewart goes below and comes back with cups and plates. I want to see what else is down there. A full kitchen with boat crystal? He pulls up a foldaway table and calls the boys over. “Are you guys hungry?”
“Sort of, but can we go to shore?” Gus asks.
“Sure,” Stewart says. “That’s Ruddy Duck Cove, and it looks like it’s low tide. There used to be great clamming, if I’m remembering right. And caves to explore.”
Gus and Clay are live wires. I can see their excitement wiggling through their skinny frames. “Can we jump off and swim to shore?” Gus asks.
“Go ahead,” Stewart says. “We’ll take the dingy.” He unpacks the tote bag and fills it with foil-wrapped sliders, Cokes, and beer. The coolers are still half full, and I’m dying to see what else is in there.
The tide is very low. We take the dingy as far as we can and then drag it up on the beach to where Gus and Clay are waiting. We are the only people here. Around us is white sand and rock, uninhabitable but perfect for exploring.
“I think the best clamming is right over there,” Stewart says.
The boys go off in the direction of the clams, and I look out at the ocean, at the boat I just sailed, and beyond it to Rhode Island.
He spreads two towels on the sand, and we sit, arms resting on knees. We’re quiet for a bit and I don’t feel the need to break the silence. The waves are rolling in and out, on a different path than the breeze. The sun warms my arms and legs, and it makes me feel kind of dreamy.
“This is good, right?” he asks. “I forgot how it sort of slows down your mind.”
“I’m a genius.”
“So they think this is cool?” he asks.
“Taking a yacht to explore a deserted beach? Yeah. The alternative was riding bikes to get a slice at Wally’s.”
“Good,” he says. He’s squinting against the sun and the lines around his eyes look rugged, like he’s earned them through decades of focus. “My dad used to take us here, starting when I was a bit younger than Gus. He actually would have been close to my age. CEO already, three kids, happy marriage.”
I turn to him and watch his profile. I am surprised to hear that Stewart Whitfield feels like he’s behind. “Were you ever engaged before Audrey?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says, and turns to me. “That was my first try.”
I think he’s going to say more about all the beautiful women he’s dated. Instead, he says, “Let’s go exploring.”
We leave our stuff on the sand and walk up the beach toward the massive rock formations. Our feet are bare as we make our way from rock to rock, along the coast. As we get farther from the sand, waves crash and spray our legs.
Stewart turns back every few yards to see if I’m okay.
“This is the roughest part,” he calls back. “It’s a little mossy on the rocks. Want me to come back for you?”
“I’m good,” I say, though I am a bit unsteady. The waves are splashing higher now, and the next rock I’m going to step to is barely visible under the water. Stewart doubles back and, in a few steps, is on my rock. His hands are on my shoulders, and I have this feeling trickle through my core that I haven’t had since Laurence. And the sad thing about Laurence is that he was a guy in a Netflix movie.
“You okay?” he asks. “This is lifesaving touching, for the record.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze, and I feel it all over my body. Shoulders not being an erogenous zone, I have
to chalk this up to the way his chocolate-brown eyes are locked on mine. The way his hair is swirling, messy, in the wind while the waves lap our ankles. For a man who is seldom at ease, he is completely at ease on this slippery rock. “If I’m remembering this right,” he says, “we’re going to make a couple more jumps and then it’s going to be amazing.” The ocean is raging next to us, and a wave soaks the bottom of my dress.
“Okay,” I say. He releases me and steps to the next rock and extends a hand. We do this twice more, and we’re at the entrance to a cave. The opening is about ten feet wide, and I’m relieved that we’re walking on sand again. The air cools as we make our way into the cave, and after a few minutes, all the light is behind us.
When it’s completely dark, Stewart stops and turns to me. “If this is the right cave, which I think it is, we are going to walk for a bit, and then it’s going to be light again.”
“Okay,” I say again, and grab his arm.
“The dark part is really fast,” he says. He takes my hand and entwines our fingers, slowly, like he did in the limo.
“How’s this? Any oxytocin?”
“Overload,” I say, trying to sound sarcastic. In truth, the scrape of the insides of his fingers down mine sends a current through me. We take a few steps in the dark. “Keep talking,” I say.
“Okay. This part used to spook us when we were kids, and we loved it. But I’m having this feeling right now that I should have told you it would be dark, like I should have asked you if it was okay, but now we’re probably halfway through, so we might as well keep going.” His voice echoes
in the darkness.
“Keep talking,” I say again.
“Okay, so now we’re even farther along, and if you aren’t blown away by what’s back here, I am going to give you a
million dollars.”
My laugh bounces off the cave walls.
“I hope I hate it, then,” I say, just as the cave brightens ahead of us. My eyes adjust to the light as we step into an open-air grotto with a waterfall trickling into a clear blue pool. The opening to the sky is a narrow oval, and the light plays on the pink cave walls as it reflects off the moving water.
“You do not owe me a dime,” I say, and pull my dress over my head. I’m holding it in one hand and am about to drop it on the rocks before I fully realize what I’ve done. I’m standing there in my turquoise bikini, freckles on my chest, cesarean scar tucked just under my panty line. I am awash with imperfection, but I feel good. I turn to Stewart, who is watching me. His eyes sweep across my body and land on mine, and I feel it again, a jolt like I’ve been plugged in.
“This is actually better than I remembered,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head. People should talk more about the fitness benefits of swimming.
We step into the pool and the water comes up to my shoulders and his chest. I float on my back with my eyes closed. I can feel his eyes on me, but I might be imagining it.
“So you’ve never sailed the big boat? Your grandfather’s.”
“No. It was the scene of my first panic attack, actually.”
He looks away. “I’m not sure why I told you that.”
“You never forget your first,” I say, though I’m surprised Stewart has ever had a panic attack. I’m realizing that Stewart Whitfield is not the impenetrable man Naomi and I thought we knew. The way my body reacts to him against all my better judgment is dangerous enough. But Stewart’s
willingness to share a bit of his own vulnerability is terrifying, just the fact that there might be a way further in.
He stands and walks across the pool to place his hand under the trickle of water. I watch his back, broad and tightly muscled.
“Do you have an ex-husband who helps out?” he asks with
his back to me.
“No,” I say.
“So no husband ever?”
“No. He was a boyfriend, but I misunderstood his
interest in me.”
“Oh.” He turns around.
I shrug and let myself sink under the water. When I come up for air he’s right there. I reach for the ends of my hair to wring out the excess water, forgetting that it’s been cut.
“So what’s Gus’s relationship with him now?” he asks.
“Are we filing a memo on this or something?” He’s looking down at me, waiting for a straight answer. What I really want to do is touch his shoulder and run my hand down the length of his arm. I’m focused on his collarbone because it’s above his shoulder and below his mouth, theoretically a neutral spot, but also not.
Stewart doesn’t say anything, letting it get awkward enough between us that I’ll spill my guts. But it’s not the silence that makes me want to tell him. It’s the fact that he’s opened up. It’s the fact that we’re barely dressed, in a secret place where my freckles are sparkling like the night sky.
We’re in an in-between world, Stewart Whitfield and me.
“He gave me three hundred dollars and told me to take care of it,” I say. His mouth is a straight line, zippered against an angry thought. “And that’s what I’m doing, taking care of it.”
I smile at him to let him know it’s okay. “I bought a crib with the money.”
His eyes soften and his lips stay tight. I look down and
smooth the water between us.
“So he doesn’t even know?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “And we’ve been absolutely fine on our own.”
He’s looking down at me, and I’m not an expert on Stewart Whitfield, but I swear he’s about to reach out to me.
A pity hug with his skin against mine would completely derail any effort I’ve been making to not run my fingertips along his abs.
“We should get back,” I say. “I’m starving.”
