by J. J. Murray
“We did. And do you remember what I said to you on the bus the day we finished reading it?”
“No.”
She takes my hands. “I said that no girl would ever wait on a boy for twenty years.”
“You did?” I wish I could remember.
“Yes, and I also said that if there was one boy I would wait for, that boy would be you, Peter.” She kisses my forehead. “And here I am.”
And here she is, happy, despite what I’ve put her through. “You said all that?”
She wraps her arms around my neck. “I was advanced for my age back then, wasn’t I?”
“Yeah. You’ve always been ahead of your time.”
She turns sideways and sits her beautiful butt into my lap, draping her arms around my neck. “You’re still writing another book for me, right?”
“Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of, Desiree?”
“I don’t want to be Desiree Holland anymore. I want to write under my own name. I’ve been working on another novel simultaneously with my latest Desiree novel.”
“Is it any good?”
“I’ll let you be the judge.”
“Okay,” she says, tracing my earlobe with her tongue, “but whatever your next book is, I want the dedication to say ‘For Ebony Mills’ this time. I’m tired of being plain old ‘E.’”
I feel a stirring in my loins as she begins to nibble on my ear. “Sure.”
“You’re working hard on both of these books, right?”
I nod, a shiver traveling from my earlobe all the way down to my toes. I’m also working hard in my boxers. “Yes. Do you want to see them?”
She bends my head down to look at the bulge in my boxers. “I already see something, Peter.” She swivels her hips to straddle me, pulling my penis from its hiding place. “I know I’m going to regret this.” She eases down on me, twisting and wincing. “I’m already regretting this.”
“I’m not,” I say, and I start to thrust upward.
“Stop,” she says. “Please stop.”
I stop thrusting.
“Just let me…whoo…let the boat do all the work, please.”
“Okay.”
She smiles and eases all the way down, her legs crossing behind me and pulls off her T-shirt. “Just don’t move.”
And for the next twenty minutes, the Argo rocks us as we make love to the gentle movement of the waves.
15
“That was nice,” Ebony says, her face and my chest bathed in sweat. “We have to do it that way more often until I’m used to you again.”
“Yeah.”
“Now can you get me your computer and let me read what you’re working on while you go get me something to eat?”
I get up and pull on my boxers. “What are you hungry for?”
“I need a greasy, greasy pizza, so greasy you have to wring it out first. I want a pizza so greasy that I could squeeze it into my gas tank and drive for miles. I have been starving myself like crazy since you sent me that first e-mail, and I miss me some greasy cheese most of all.”
“You’ve been starving yourself?”
She nods.
“But you don’t have an ounce of fat on you, Ebony.”
“That you can see,” she says. She points at the burned-out candle on the Captain’s desk. “Candlelight hides a whole bunch of cellulite.”
“But what I see is a goddess.”
“When’s the last time you had your eyes checked?”
“Even if I were blind, you’d still be a goddess.”
She bites her lip. “Thank you.”
After dressing, I bring the laptop and set it on the Captain’s desk. Ebony sits up in bed, a pillow propped behind her, her breasts spilling over the edge of the sheet.
“Do you want your T-shirt?”
“No. I’m proud of my titties. Remember when I let you touch them that time under the deck?”
I could never forget that moment. “Yes.”
“Remember how soft they were?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I have a confession to make. I was wearing a padded bra.”
I pull up A Whiter Shade of Pale. “Really?” As if I would have known that.
“Yeah. They were just little nubs then. I had to grow them.” She cups them. “And one day, when I’m old, they’ll be drooping little nubs.” She sighs. “You better get me my T-shirt, and could you bring your computer over here?”
I hand her the computer, and she stares at the title page. “A Whiter Shade of Pale? Did you or the people at Olympus make up this title?”
“I did.”
She twists her lips. “Is it supposed to be funny?”
“Uh, well, yeah. A little.” I see her pouting at me. “I’m sure they’ll change it to something better.” She smiles. “I’ll, uh, I’ll just go get your pizza.”
“And a two-liter of something and some napkins. And some Vaseline.”
“Some Vaseline?”
She puckers her lips. “For my lips. They’re chapped.”
“Oh.”
“And I don’t want to be kissing on you later with chapped lips.”
I smile. “Thank you, Ebony.”
“For what?”
“Just thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take the Zodiac to shore and drive the Nova to Little Vincent’s Pizza, get an extra large, extra sloppy, extra cheese pizza and a cold two-liter of Coke, then stop by the Southdown Community Market for some Vaseline. I look very strange waiting in line with just a container of Vaseline, so I grab a few candy bars at random on my way to the cash register.
And I look even stranger. The people around me are probably wondering what I’m going to do with such a combination.
By the time I return to the Argo, the white pizza box is already stained and leaking grease. I find Ebony scrolling down the pages.
“I’m almost finished,” she says.
“Really?” I ask.
“I’m a fast reader, Peter.”
“So, what do you think?”
“Feed me a slice first.”
Four slices, two candy bars, and half a two-liter later, Ebony lets me know what she thinks. “This Whiter Shade book is pretty over-the-top.”
She’s perceptive as always. “Uh, I know. That’s how relationship books are getting these days. That’s what Henry expects.”
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but Ashy and The Devil to Pay had much more reality than this. Witness protection? A former basketball star turned middle school teacher? A Mafia guy who works at a skating rink?”
“It does take a certain suspension of disbelief.” At least she’s trying to like it. “How would you improve it?”
“I was enjoying it, I really was, Peter, until the skating rink and all that Mafia nonsense. You’ll just have to have my namesake meet a normal guy who has freckles.”
“Henry won’t like it. He’ll say it isn’t commercial enough.”
“Well, make him like it.”
“I’ll try. Um, what did you think about Promises to Keep?”
“Other than it’s missing half the story?”
I’m shocked. I knew she’d have trouble with Whiter Shade. What thinking, breathing human being wouldn’t? But I thought she’d like my book. “What do you mean?”
“It’s missing my half, Peter, my twenty-five years, and I want to write them.”
My eyes blink rapidly before I can stop them. “You do?”
“Yes. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
What? “You want to write it as nonfiction?”
“Sure! Just sit me in front of a computer for a couple weeks—or months. I read faster than I can type. Just give me enough time, and I’ll tear up the literary world. It’ll be kind of like ‘I say, you say,’ you know, your version of what happened and then the real version of what happened.”
“You really want to write a nonfiction book with me about us
?”
“Yes. It will be fun.”
Fun? I’ve never written anything with a partner. It just might be fun. I nod. “It’ll take some time, and we’d want to have lots of pictures, and I’d have to change my half from third person to first person, but that won’t be too hard.” I see her smiling at me, her face glowing. “Edie might be a problem, though. Some of what I wrote could be considered slander.”
“Isn’t it the truth?”
“Yes. For the most part.”
“Then it isn’t slander.”
I blink again. “Do you know what you’re getting into? Our lives will be open books, literally, for the whole world to read.”
She shrugs. “I don’t care what other folks think about me, as long as it sells.” She licks her lips. “Remember what I said about compensation?”
“Yes.”
“This will be my compensation.”
That doesn’t sound so bad. “Just writing a book with me is enough?”
“And having you around.”
“That’s all the compensation you want?”
“It’s all I’ve ever needed.”
I don’t know what to say. This is so wonderful! “But your name has to be first on the cover. ‘Promises to Keep by Ebony Mills’ in big, bold, forty-eight-point type, and underneath in eight-point type will be ‘with Peter Underhill.’”
“We’ll have equal billing, Peter. You are, after all, the writer.”
“But your name comes first in the alphabet.”
“True.” She smiles. “Promises to Keep by Ebony Mills and Peter Underhill.” She shakes her head. “No. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Why?”
“It could say Ebony and Peter Underhill, couldn’t it?” She bites her lower lip.
Is she saying what I think she’s saying? I haven’t got a single drop of spit in my mouth. “I guess it could, if you want it to.”
“Do you want it to?” she whispers.
“Yes.” More than anything in this or any other world!
She looks at her hands. “I’ll have to think about it for a while, but you know it’s what I’ve always wanted.”
My heart sinks a little, but if I were in her position, I’d probably be hesitant to have any long-term plans with me, too. “Yeah.”
She flutters her eyes at me. “Do you think Olympus can put our book out on July seventh, you know, for luck?”
Seven-seven. “I don’t know, but we can ask.”
“And I get to do the cover art, and it won’t be neon anything. It’ll be a nice watercolor, maybe a view of the Sound from my house.”
Hopefully without a sad-faced Ebony in the foreground. “I’d like that.”
“Well,” she says as she stands. “We better get dressed so we can go home.”
Home. Home! What a wonderful word to say!
Before Ebony can finish dressing, we hear bells sounding and the roar of many boats, and the Argo rolls back and forth violently.
“What’s happening?” Ebony asks, heading for the deck.
When we emerge from the cabin, we see the reason: the bunker are running in Huntington Bay. The harbor seethes with bunker, the meal of choice for bluefish, and fishermen and women are pulling fifteen-to twenty-pound bluefish out of the water and into their boats all around us. I see the yacht club’s dock teeming with men casting and catching something huge on nearly every retrieval.
“Dag, you could almost walk across the water on top of them,” Ebony says.
I lean over the railing and see a thousand bunker eyes. “Remember when they ran that day, and we skipped school—”
“—and caught, what, thirteen of those slimy bunkers with our hands?” Ebony interrupts. “You wanted only five cents apiece at the bait shop, but I talked them up to ten.”
She was always the better negotiator. “God, I wish I had a pole.”
Ebony smiles. “You do have a pole, and no, you’re not doing any fishing with it for a while.”
I blush. “I mean, I wish—”
“I know what you meant, but we got us a couple books to write, right?”
“Right.”
After Ebony jumps into the Zodiac, I wrap the laptop case in a plastic bag before handing it to her, just in case we have a rough trip, and dump in the rest of what I own—my clothes—all balled up in two duffel bags. Then we weave around fishing boats and dodge flying lines while seeming to chase the bunker in to shore. No one gives us a second look, and as we near the docks, we see Mr. Cutter putting up a “15-MINUTE LIMIT” sign on the main dock, his pants pockets bulging with money.
I tie up to one of the smaller docks, help Ebony out, and walk over to Mr. Cutter.
“Hey, Pete! Amazing isn’t it!”
“Yep. Um, did anyone call?”
He reaches into his back pocket and withdraws a three-by-five card. “Just this Henry guy. He said it was urgent.” He smiles at Ebony. “Miss Mills, it’s so good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Mr. Cutter.”
As Mr. Cutter returns to the docks, I stare at Ebony. “You seem to know Mr. Cutter pretty well.”
“Who do you think dropped me off at the boat last night?” She whips out her cell phone and hands it to me. “You better call Henry.”
It has to be about Cece, and I don’t want Ebony hearing us talk about any of that mess. “Maybe now isn’t a good time.”
She shrugs. “Mr. Cutter said it was urgent.” She steps closer. “And we’re going to be very busy later, right?”
Yeah. Hmm. I like the sound of that. I dial Henry’s number, and Henry’s secretary answers. “Edith, it’s Peter Underhill. Is Henry in?”
“No, Mr. Underhill, he’s not in today. He and Cece Wrenn are out celebrating.”
I’ll be damned. Henry was up to the task. “So Cece’s pregnant?”
“Cece who?” Ebony says.
I cover the mouthpiece. “Cece Wrenn. She and Henry are having a baby.”
Ebony’s eyes widen. “Cece Wrenn, the singer?”
I nod. “Edith, could you give Henry a message for me?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Underhill.”
“Tell him congratulations.”
“I will, Mr. Underhill.”
Ebony takes the phone. “Edith, here is the number where Peter can be reached in case Henry wants to call.” She gives Edith the number, clicks off the phone, and then dials another number.
“Who are you calling?”
“Shh.” She presses the phone closer to her ear. “Destiny? Make sure you’re dressed, we’re on our way home.” She smiles. “Yes, baby girl, your daddy’s coming with me. Bye.” She clicks off the cell phone. “Let’s go home, Daddy.”
16
After leaving the Nova at Hertz, where the drop-off fee hurts my wallet, Ebony drives us home. And unlike the movies and many romance novels I’ve read, we don’t have a tearful reunion at Ebony’s house, because I am too joyful to cry anymore, and Ebony seems too tired.
Destiny welcomes us in with “Hi, Mama, hi, Daddy,” as if she’d been doing it for years, kisses Ebony on the cheek, and hugs me briefly, while Seven slobbers on us all. It all seems so normal.
Until Destiny starts asking us questions.
She takes my two duffel bags. “Is this all you have, Daddy?”
Yes, it’s not much to show for forty years of life. “That’s it.”
“We’re going shopping for you soon.” She looks from Ebony to me then back to Ebony. “What have you two been doing? Did you make me a little sister?”
Ebony turns to me. “I sure hope not.”
“Why not, Mama? The last time you two got together, you made me.”
Ebony shakes her head. “Don’t go there, little girl.” She sniffs the air. “And we are rank. We need a bath.”
Destiny blinks. “You’re going to take a bath together with me in the house?”
“No.” Ebony hands Destiny the car keys and two twenties. “You’re going out. Get us some Ea
rl Grey tea—that’s your favorite, right, Peter?”
“Yeah.” She has the best memory.
“Also get some soda, some steaks, some potatoes, and anything else you think you’ll need to make us our dinner.”
“Mama, I don’t want to cook.”
Ebony spins Destiny towards the door. “We’re going to be very, very busy.”
Destiny looks at us, shaking her head. “Dag, my mama’s a freak.”
Ebony laughs. “What about Daddy?”
“Daddy’s just freaky.” Destiny leaves with a smile and a wave.
Ebony starts up the front steps, and I fall in behind. She stops, and I bump into her. “We have two bathrooms, Peter. We could go to mine and swim around in a big claw-foot tub, or we could go to the basement where we could squeeze into the stand-up shower. It’s your call.”
I cup her buttocks and gently push her up the stairs.
She reaches back to grab a belt loop on my pants. “You made the right choice.”
Making love in a claw-foot tub is almost like making love on a sailboat, only more slippery. Ebony lathers herself from her feet to her neck then lathers herself all over me, groaning, sighing, humming, water spilling over the edge onto the linoleum. She washes my hair while grinding on me, and I can contain myself no longer, thrusting madly up into her.
“Can we do this every day?” I ask as she digs her nails into my back.
“We’ll be the cleanest couple who ever lived,” she moans.
When we’re through, we step out of the tub and look back. Most of the water is on the floor.
“Less water next time,” she says, and she hands me a towel. And since I have no clean clothes, Ebony hands me an oversized, faded, ratty Hofstra sweatshirt and matching pants that were in the bathroom closet.
When we enter Ebony’s room, I freeze. Not much has changed. There are clothes on the floor, books everywhere, even a pair of green underwear wrapped around the bedpost of her king-sized bed. Beautiful wood. Looks almost like olive wood. Candles of all shapes, colors, and sizes crowd the headboard, and crimson pillows rest below, a soft gold and silver comforter on top. She throws on a white robe and begins applying eyeliner in front of a mirrored vanity near a bay window.
“Don’t mind the mess,” she says, concentrating and drawing. “I’m trying to hide my wrinkles.”
