Chapter 13 #2
“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.”