Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Matt
At that hour of the night, there was no shortage of parking spots on the street as he pulled his Bronco easily into one fairly close to her building.
"Want to see the roof deck?" Nessa offered, pressing the elevator button marked R. "It's pretty up there at night."
"Absolutely."
And pretty it was on such a clear night, the twinkling lights of the city's tall buildings set against the twinkling lights of the dark sky. They leaned on the railing, thinking their own thoughts.
"My favorite place to look at the stars is on a sailboat," he said, breaking the silence. "The sky fills your vision, and it's so comforting to me because it's time immemorial. Every human has seen it before us, and every human will see it after we're gone."
Her mouth dropped open a little in amazement. "I can't believe you said that."
"Yeah, I guess I'm not the first person to think of it. Kind of trite?"
"No, not at all–it's exactly what I was going to say! I went to sailing camp every summer growing up, and then I was a counselor. It's the thing I love most in the world–it's the thing that makes me who I am. Sometimes I go over to Community Boating on the Charles, if it's a nice breezy Saturday. I'm going to have my own boat someday. When I grow up." She rolled her eyes.
"I'll take you out on my parents' Beneteau! Do you like to race?"
"I love it! But I'd rather be crew than skipper."
"Good to know. You're on the roster now." This was an unexpected development, and they stared at each other in the dim light, retrofitting this new information. "She's really more of a cruising boat than a serious racer, but I like to do the club regattas and some of the local races."
"Let's go downstairs and I'll make you a Dark 'n' Stormy," she suggested. "Not sure how well it follows sake, but it'll remind us of summer and sailing."
"Sounds great."
They'd almost reached the elevator when she halted and unzipped her purse.
"I just realized I haven't posted about the building in days, and this is a perfect shot–do you mind? You won't be in it. It will only take a second." The fake-shutter sound of her phone camera filled the air for a minute. "Okay, got it. I can make the actual post tomorrow."
"How many posts are you contracted for?"
"For the building? Three a month. They wanted four but I told them people would get sick of it and it would backfire. They don't all have to mention the property specifically, though. It can just be a shot in my apartment or up here or in the gym. I did one in the mail room once–it was me opening a package from Shein, these great black leggings with a ruffle."
"There's a gym here?"
"Um, yes, but I don't go in there much. They don't have classes, just machines and weights. I mostly go to yoga at Chakroga123, or sometimes SoulCycle." They were at her door now. She unlocked it and they went in.
"I'm just going to change out of this slipcover pretending to be a dress, okay? The kitchen's in there–I'll be right back to make those drinks."
This time, Matt was paying closer attention to his surroundings.
Someone's personal space and how they live can tell you a lot about who they are. The apartment's entry was small, with room for just a long, narrow console table. Hung above it was a framed etching of a schooner under sail, clearly from the nineteenth century. How had he not noticed it before? This wasn't your typical generic sailing print of a yacht gliding majestically across peaceful waters. The waves were high and the boat's starboard rail was in the water, the crew clinging to the port rail, capsizing only seconds away–or not, depending on the skill, and the luck, of the skipper.
The caption read: Corinthian Yachting, A Misunderstanding of Orders .
He burst out laughing. Her surroundings made it clear they were even more compatible than he ever imagined.
Moving in the direction Nessa had indicated, he found the kitchen. Very modern, very clean, very… new and unused. A matte black tea kettle sat on the stove, a white bowl full of Granny Smith apples rested on the counter. On impulse, he opened a random cabinet door, and laughed again but more quietly. She'd been serious: A glass Chemex coffee pot stood beside a bag of Dunkin' coffee, pre-ground, the top folded down haphazardly.
"You thought I was joking about the coffee, didn't you?" she said behind him.
"Next time, I'll know to take you at your word." Smiling, he turned around and saw that she had changed into yoga pants, a crop top, and a soft knit sweatshirt. Her hair was looser, and she was barefoot. This was yet another version of Nessa: not sophisticated chic like when they met; not casual chic, with her grandmother at the play; not professional Nessa, managing a client's event; and not, of course, role playing a pastor's wife.
This Nessa was relaxed and approachable–she looked like fun. At dinner she'd said she thought he had different personas, but maybe she did, too.
She'd stepped behind him to open another cabinet, taking out a bottle of dark rum and a can of ginger beer. As he watched her making the drinks–inhaling the scent of rum and ginger, licking lime juice off her fingers–he saw that there was also sensual Nessa. Not sexual, although he knew that aspect of her definitely existed, but enjoying what her senses perceived.
From the moment he first saw her, he'd known she was a visual person; it was evident in the way she presented herself. Tonight, he was learning about her enjoyment of taste and smell. She'd turned on some music, and as she moved around the kitchen, pulling out glasses and scooping ice from the freezer, her hips occasionally swayed with the beat.
Finally, she turned, handed him his drink, and held hers up.
"The wind that blows…"
"...the ship that goes…" he responded, his own glass in the air.
"...and the lass that loved a sailor!" they finished together, laughing.
"Why isn't it 'the lad that loved a sailor'? she asked.
"Historical context, I think."
"My mother sent me to that camp because she thought it would keep me out of trouble," Nessa said. "Little did she know…"
"I hear you."
Her phone rang in another room, and she gave him a puzzled look. "Who could that be, on a Friday night?"
"Better get it."
"Be right back."