Chapter 7 Mona #2
After the manual labor the day before, we both agreed today would be less strenuous, and when Douglas mentioned we could sail because the weather was supposed to be good, I was thrilled.
Three hours after we set off, the day has more than lived up to my hopes.
Sailing is even better with Douglas than anyone else I’ve been out with because he’s such good company.
He obviously knows what he’s doing out on the water.
He handles the lines and sails with the leisurely assurance of long practice.
I ask him to teach me since I’ve always wanted to improve my skills, and he’s as careful and thoughtful a teacher in this as he is in everything else.
There’s no stress or pressure in his instructions, and he puts all his advice into the context of his own experiences and his deep knowledge of nautical history.
I’m not bored for a single moment despite the fact that it feels like I’m getting a graduate seminar in sailing. After a couple of hours, he takes us to a scenic, quiet spot on the lake and anchors us there so we can eat the lunch I packed.
And better relax, he explains.
Even though I’ve been relaxed and happy the entire time.
We eat the chicken salad sandwiches, cheese straws, and grapes I prepared and drink imported beer.
Douglas is watching me after I pick up our trash and stow it neatly away.
“What?” I ask, darting him a self-conscious look.
“Are you having a good time?”
“Yes. Of course. I thought you knew my tells, so surely you can see I am.”
“I thought so. But I’m clearer on the tells for your being annoyed than I am on the tells for your being happy. I didn’t want you to be faking it for my benefit.”
“No!” I blink at him. “I’m not faking anything. The only thing I fake is professionalism when I don’t feel like being polite. I’d never fake having a good time to assuage a man’s ego.”
He chuckles at that. He’s leaning back on a built-in seat across from me. His legs are extended, his hair is windblown, and his face is slightly flushed. He looks as at home on the boat as he does in his library.
He really is as attractive as a man’s ever been to me.
“Good. Because a lot of men willfully live in an artificial world of their own devising, constructed merely so they never have to feel less than successful and in control. And far too many women play along with their ego-fueled delusion because they want peace and security.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, lifting my legs so I can stretch out on my seat. “I never actually thought about it in those terms, but that’s what it is. So many women settling for less than they deserve because they believe something—anything—is better than being alone.”
“And so many men never stepping up because they’re never required to.”
I stare out at the water, thinking about his words and my own experiences in dating. “I’ve always figured out how to take care of things on my own, so I decided a long time ago I’d rather be alone than be with someone who doesn’t actually make my life better.”
“Yes. I sensed that about you almost immediately. Your self-sufficiency. I’m quite sure that explains why you’re still unattached despite how beautiful you are, despite how warm and intelligent and giving you are, despite how much better you would make any man’s home, any man’s life.”
I gulp, staring at him, my cheeks burning with a pleasure that makes my chest ache.
He said the words with his normal, quiet, matter-of-fact composure. He’s not trying to flatter me or charm me or seduce me. He obviously believes the words to be so self-evidently true that there’s no reason not to state them. As if he can’t imagine anyone disagreeing with them.
That makes what he said about me mean even more.
“I think you might be overstating a bit,” I manage to say.
“I assure you I am not.”
“Well, we can disagree about it to a certain degree, but I’ve never believed myself to be… undesirable. I used to sometimes wonder why I was never as popular with guys as other girls.”
“It is because you’re so self-sufficient. You don’t need a man. A man looking to build that flimsy, fake world around the empty space of his ego will immediately sense you don’t need him. He’ll look for someone willing to support the veneer of the world he’s constructed.”
“Not everyone is like that.”
“Of course not. But there are enough to significantly lower your dating prospects.”
I hear myself giggling again, that overflow of pleasure and confusion and excitement that always comes out of me as a laugh.
“What about you?” I ask after a minute, when I’ve gotten my emotions back under control.
“What about me?”
“You’re twenty years older than me, and you’re not in a romantic relationship.”
“I told you I was married for fourteen years.”
“I know that. But it’s been ten years, and you haven’t looked for anyone else to share your life with. Statistically, most widowers who were happy in their marriages marry again very quickly.”
“I know they do. The numbers are really quite shocking about the speed at which they remarry.”
“But you haven’t. Is it because you’re self-sufficient the way I am?”
He stares at me for a long time without answering. So long I’m worried I overstepped.
I say, “I like to ask a lot of questions. I’m naturally a curious person, and I feel comfortable with you. But if I ever get too pushy, just tell me. I’ll back off.”
“I know you will. I will tell you. I don’t mind your asking, but I’m not sure how to answer the question.
I am self-sufficient in many ways, but we aren’t in the same situation.
You are clearly open to romantic possibilities.
” He blinks as if he just heard his own words.
“Not with me. Obviously. But in general. You don’t have a closed door to your heart the way I do. ”
“No,” I admit. “I don’t. I would like to fall in love. I would like to find someone to share the rest of my life with. Are you really saying you don’t?”
My question appears to have stumped him. He shifts his gaze to just over my shoulder. His mouth opens. Closes again. His expression flickers a couple of times like he’s sorting through conflicting emotions.
Finally he says very softly, “I don’t actually know.” He meets my eyes again. “All I know is that the door is closed.”
* * *
We stay out on the lake until the sun starts descending toward the horizon and the wind lessens. Then we dock the boat, lift it back into the boathouse, and head inside.
I’m a little chilly, so I take a quick, hot shower and change into leggings and a cozy sweater before I head down to the kitchen to put a loaf of bread into the oven. I prepared soup in the slow cooker before we went out, so it’s already done and smelling delicious.
Douglas comes into the kitchen as I’m pulling the bread out of the oven. “It smells like heaven in here.”
“Fresh bread and vegetable beef soup.”
“Perfect. Being out on the lake always makes me hungry for some reason.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He changed clothes too. He’s wearing a soft gray shirt with long sleeves and black pants.
I quickly take in his appearance before I start slicing the bread, but then it registers and I look again. And then again.
“Yes?” he prompts at my distraction.
“Are you wearing sweatpants?” My eyes are wide and round as I stare at his lower half.
He frowns. “I was cold. Were you imagining something more formal for dinner?”
“Of course not! Look at me. But I didn’t know you even own sweatpants!”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve never seen you wearing them before.”
He gives me a cool, narrow-eyed glare. “If you continue this unnecessary focus on my sartorial choices, I’ll go change before we eat.”
“Don’t you dare! I like them.” I can’t stop laughing as I cut the bread. I’m almost intoxicated by the feeling.
By him.
“I’d be more convinced by your claim could you manage to stop laughing at me.”
I giggle even more at his aggrieved tone. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing. Although anyone who uses sartorial in casual conversation can’t be surprised by the occasional chuckle.”
He’s laughing too as he disappears into the wine closet to pick out a bottle for our meal.
We eat in the media room as we watch a movie, which we’ve been doing every evening this week. We’ve been alternating who chooses each night, and tonight he picks out an Alfred Hitchcock film.
I’ve seen it before, but I’ve always liked it, so everything about the evening is enjoyable to me.
When the movie is done and we’ve cleared the dishes, I expect him to return to his library or bedroom as he usually does.
He doesn’t tonight.
He returns to the media room and turns on a news channel, so I join him.
After half an hour of news, we’ve heard everything there is to know about the current state of the world, so Douglas turns on an old series of British mysteries.
He must be doing it for me since I told him the first day that my mom and I always loved them. I smile as I settle in under a throw blanket to watch.
* * *
I’m not sure how it happens.
I mean, I’m aware of each stage of the progression, but I don’t actually do it on purpose.
Douglas and I start on different sides of the couch, but we gradually get closer and closer. When we’re close enough, I offer to share my blanket. After all, earlier he said he was cold.
He accepts.
And eventually we’re cuddled together under it. His arm is around me. I can feel him breathing. His heart beating. His shirt and sweatpants are soft, so I can really feel his body.
He’s warm and strong and solid and real. Inside and out.
I want to be close to him. Even closer than this.
His heart is closed. He’s told me so himself. So I can never have this long term. But we’re only eleven days into the month. We’ve got weeks left to spend together.
And I’d like to spend those weeks as close to him as I can get.
He doesn’t make a move though. Nothing more than his arm around me. I’m not going to push.
Instead, I just enjoy it until I fall asleep in the circle of his arm.