by David Manuel
He smiled at her, shaking his head. “You suppose we could talk about something else?”
She nodded and smiled brightly; yes, there were more layers to this one than met the eye. But she couldn’t think of anything to say.
Nor was he helping. He just sat there, studying her, a half-smile on his face. And that smirk, if that’s what it was, was beginning to annoy her.
Finally, eyes twinkling, he observed, “You’re in a bit of a bind, aren’t you?”
She frowned but said nothing.
“I mean, you came all this way to check me out, and now you feel a bit foolish because you don’t know exactly how to go about doing that.”
“Do you always speak what’s on your mind?” she snapped at him.
“Why not?”
She had no answer.
“Amy,” he said gently, using her name for the first time since she’d arrived, “either it was a good idea for you to come or it wasn’t. I happen to think it was.”
She was not ready to agree.
“Look,” he said, catching her eyes with his, “we can go on playing games if you want to. But honestly—why waste the time?”
Now he was infuriating! Coming here was not a good idea! It was the worst idea she’d ever had! She could be in Roma right now, on the Via Veneto sipping a Belini with Pam at Harry’s American Bar.
She glared at him, and he impassively returned her gaze. Neither turned away.
Oh, he was really making her angry! So sure of himself—well, we’ll see.
She decided to take him on. Straight on. Mano a womano.
“All right!” she declared. “From now on, we play by Bermuda rules. We say exactly what we think. No more, no less. No game-playing. And we say it, no matter how romantically incorrect it might be, even if it sends me back on the next plane. Because you’re right: I didn’t come here to play games! I came to see if,” she hesitated and then played by the new rules, “I wanted to make any emotional investment in a–gypsy of the sea.”
In that instant, Lands’ End vanished. Colin did the sort of split-second re-evaluation that women would never understand. But men understood perfectly. If she’s the one, and you know it, then you go after her—and move heaven and hell to get her.
“Deal.” It was a done deal, as far as Colin Bennett was concerned.
It took Amy a little longer. But once she admitted to herself that he might be the one, things did seem to come together rather quickly. They ate breakfast together, lunch together, supper together, talking all the time, finding new subjects they mostly agreed on.
After a few days, the talking subsided. They knew they felt the same way about the sunset, or the two Long-tails cavorting over the cliffs at Horseshoe Beach, or the young boys playing soccer (he called it football) in the late afternoon at a school in Somerset Parish, the sun limning their lithe forms and creating halos around them.
They said nothing, because there was no reason to speak.
When she asked about going out on Care Away, he put her off. Too cloudy or too windy. He wanted her first experience with the other lady in his life to be just right.
She believed him, but she wondered if it might also be–that he was afraid it wouldn’t work out. Because she was afraid of the same thing. According to Bermuda Rules, she should say what she was thinking.
But there was one subject that by mutual unspoken assent neither of them had mentioned. Them.
And somehow Care Away was in the midst of them.
Inevitably the day came, when conditions were ideal. “We’re going,” he announced at breakfast.
“When?”
“Soon as you can get your kit together.”
“My kit?”
“Whatever you’re going to need–windbreaker, deck shoes, sun-screen.” He looked at her red knees. “Long-sleeved shirt and pants. You don’t want to fry out there. The sun reflects off the water–”
She cut him off. “I have been on boats before, you know.”
She was ready in fifteen minutes.
11 two ladies
It had been calm at breakfast, scarcely a breeze. But the wind had picked up, and now there was distinct chop in St. George’s Harbour as he rowed them out to Care Away, in the Convict Bay anchorage.
Amy eyed her rival and had to admit she was—stunning. Her hull was royal blue, with a thin red line of trim at the waterline, matching the red Bermuda ensign at her stern. Her deck was teak, her bright work polished stainless steel. Her rolled mainsheet was covered with a tight canvas sheath, also royal blue.
Amy’s heart sank. How could she possibly compete against this—nautical gleama?
Colin tied the dinghy to the mooring buoy, then swung easily aboard her and put down a three-step ship’s ladder for Amy. When she, too, was aboard, he cast off, and they were under way.
At first, she loved it—the wind in her face, the broad white sail on its gaff rig, the sound of the waves thrumming against the bow. Best of all was watching the shoreline recede swiftly behind them, smaller and smaller. They, too, were Longtails, leaving all cares behind.
Once they had cleared St. George’s Channel, he headed her south in the Narrows, running before the wind. As the sun rose higher, the breeze moderated, and he put on all her canvas—mainsail, staysail, jib, topsail, mizzen—showing her off, in all her glory. Under full sail they were soon surfing atop each wave that passed.
It was fun, at first, whooshing along, and then settling a bit, only to be picked up by the next wave. Such fun that she looked around, half-expecting a school of flying fish to adopt them.
But this was not a ride in an amusement park, which was over after a few exhilarating minutes, setting you back on terra firma, laughing about how much fun it had been. This ride kept going. And going.
And after half an hour of whooshing and settling, she began wishing she’d had something sensible for breakfast. She could feel the greasy fried eggs and two shiny sausage links sliding around down there and sloshing up the walls of her stomach.
Think of something else! She concentrated on the knotted end of the mainsheet, dangling from the stainless steel grommet, as it swayed with the motion of the boat, this way and that. Find something else! She turned away, but a little burp brought up the brown taste of sausage.
She closed her eyes, and guessed she’d be able to keep eggs and sausage down for five more minutes, then she would be puking her guts out over the boat’s leeward side. She’d prefer the privacy of the tiny head, but then she’d have to clean up the mess afterward, and—Oh, God! This was a terrible mis–
“Amy,” he said gently but firmly, “open your eyes. Keep them on the horizon.”
She did as she was told, and smiled weakly.
She concentrated on the horizon. Hard. And burped. Sausage again, but this time some orange juice, too.
“It’s not working,” she gasped.
“Then come over here. There’s one thing that always works,” he said cheerily, adding under his breath, “if anything’s going to.”
He hadn’t meant her to hear that, but she had. Nevertheless, she did as he instructed, taking the place he’d just vacated, at the tiller.
“Now keep her headed roughly one-six-five,” and he pointed to the compass floating in the gleaming binnacle.
Once she got used to pushing the tiller in the opposite direction of where she wanted to go, she found that the boat did not respond to the helm as quickly as a car. So she over-corrected. And then overcorrected again. Behind them, their wake, which had receded in a straight line, now resembled the track of an alpine skier.
“Relax!” he called to her, grinning. “Give her time. She’ll come to your heading eventually. Just be patient with her.”
She did relax. And took a deep breath. And relaxed some more. And found that only very minor corrections were needed to keep her on a heading in the general vicinity of 165°.
“Now you’re getting it!” he cried. Turning to Care Away, he asked, “What do you think
?” He listened. “Yup, I agree!” He turned back to Amy, beaming. “Hey, Ames, she likes you!”
She giggled, feeling ridiculously pleased. How did he know her nickname?
He taught her how to tack, come about, and avoid jibing. How to close haul and keep her mainsail taut, reading the telltales. How to take a reef in the mainsail, when the wind reached 15 knots or more and started kicking up whitecaps. And each new thing he taught her, he only had to tell her once.
He really is a wonderful teacher, she thought, breakfast long forgotten. And he makes it fun. No wonder his nephew had such a good time.
After four sun-dazzled hours, he headed them home. “Steady her up on zero-three-zero,” he called.
“Aye-aye, cap’n.”
The waves were now coming at her off the port bow. Following the imaginary line she could see through the swells forming ahead, she guided this magnificent blue sea creature effortlessly through them, like a skier negotiating moguls.
“Ames!” he cried, overjoyed. “You’re a natural! I didn’t even tell you how to do that!”
“I love this!” she called back. “This could be the most fun I’ve ever had!”
A rogue wave, out of pattern with the rest, suddenly loomed to starboard. Deftly she fell away before it, then neatly rounded it, and resumed their heading.
“Amend that!” she shouted, laughing. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!”
He let her have the helm all the way back, taking over only as they approached his mooring. She caught the buoy, first try.
At the end of the day, tired, sun-baked, smiling, they sat drinking Heinekens at the White Horse. He looked at her over the little round table. “Bermuda Rules, right?”
She nodded.
“You’re the best first-time sailor I’ve ever seen! Man or woman.”
“Even better than Eric?” she teased him.
“Well,” he said, not quite willing to go that far, “he was only eight.”
“We’re going tomorrow, right?”
“Of course.”
“No matter what the weather is?”
“No matter what.”
“Okay,” she declared, putting her bottle firmly on the table. “Bermuda Rules. After a day like today, if I had my way, I’d spend the rest of my life sailing.”
Both were stilled by what she had just said.
As she looked at him, studying his steady dark eyes, she was thinking of the one thing they hadn’t shared. They’d kissed briefly, careful to keep it casual. Held hands briefly, parting naturally.
She knew she had never met anyone she enjoyed being with more. Nor had she ever imagined finding anyone she could share silence with. And when she wasn’t with him, she didn’t feel whole. She would wake up in her room at the Coral Beach Club and wish she could drag time forward, till he came to collect her.
“I want to move aboard Care Away,” she announced. “Tonight.”
“You’re sure?” he asked softly.
She reached out and covered his hand with hers. “I’m sure.”
12 to the table down at sandys
Saturday was turnover day in Bermuda’s hotels and guesthouses. Not all guests came or departed on Saturday, but enough did that places like Sandys House held a weekly welcoming party for new guests late Saturday afternoon before dinner. Often they served Planter’s Punch because it was such an excellent icebreaker.
Sandys House was essentially an upscale Bed & Breakfast. But the owner, St. John Cooper-Smith, had an arrangement with a retired chef who didn’t mind cooking on the weekend. This meant that in addition to breakfast, he could offer his guests a modified plan, featuring a sumptuous evening repast at the end and beginning of most stays, Friday and Saturday evenings.
Ron Wallace and Dan Burke arrived back from their orientation trip aboard Goodness, barely in time for a glass of punch before the well-welcomed guests went in to dinner. The dining room had a bay window at the far end, facing west. This meant dinner guests could appreciate some truly spectacular sunsets as they ate at the long cedar dining table, at the head of which, his back to the view, sat their host.
Joining him this evening were seven guests who had elected to take advantage of the modified plan, including “our two fishermen from Cape Cod,” as he welcomed Ron and Dan to the table.
“By the way,” he concluded, when he’d finished the introductions, “do call me by my first name, which, for those of you who are first-timers, is pronounced—Sin Jin.”
Dan chuckled, suspecting that the day manager had related their banter about the English mangling of names. Speaking of names, no sooner had Dan been told everyone’s, than he started forgetting them. Lucky thing that Chief of Police was an appointed, not an elected office, he thought; he’d make a lousy politician. Focusing on the table conversation, he tried to pick them up in context.
On their host’s left was Maud Brown, a retired stockbroker from Anaheim. Dan put her age at “indeterminate seventies,” though nowadays with fitness and exercise so much a part of growing older, it was hard to tell anyone’s age for certain. Fitness was of no particular concern to Maud, though. Before they came in, she’d been smoking a pencil-thin cigar.
In the place of honor at their host’s right (and Dan’s left), was Maud’s distant cousin and frequent traveling companion, Margaret Chalmers from Philadelphia. Unlike her cousin, Margaret (“Oh, call me Mags; everyone does”) helped herself sparingly when they went to the buffet on the gleaming cedar sideboard behind him, avoiding frivolous calories. She had high cheekbones and short-cropped silvery hair, favored tailored slacks, and carried herself with an almost regal self-assurance. Except for the no-nonsense, steel-rimmed glasses, she reminded him of Katherine Hepburn in “The Philadelphia Story.”
Ron was across the table from him, and next to him were Jane and Buff MacLean from Sewickley, Pennsylvania, who were embarrassed that everyone could tell they were on their honeymoon. Jane was a special-needs teacher, taller and older than her new husband. Normally she was quiet, she assured them, even a bit shy, “but these Planter’s Punches certainly have a way of putting that in the closet.”
Seeing their smiles, she assumed they didn’t believe her. “Seriously! My nickname at Sewickley Country Day was Plain Jane Tremaine.” She paused and giggled. “Oh my goodness! I never thought of that! I guess now I’m—Plain Jane Tremaine MacLean!”
Everyone laughed. So did Jane, who was having a wonderful time, liking all these new friends, adoring her husband. There was nothing plain about her tonight, thought Dan. All the world loved a lover, and tonight she was radiant, happy as a clam at high tide, as they said back home.
Too bad the same could not be said of her bridegroom. Buff MacLean, proprietor of a fitness center known as Buff’s Bods, had long blond hair, blow-dried and sprayed, with sideburns at the length currently dictated by GQ. Dan guessed that the well-defined pecs and abs under the tight Ralph Lauren Polo shirt (white, to show off his tan) required two hours a day of heavy lifting to maintain.
That’s just jealousy, he rebuked himself. He might be getting thinner, but alongside Body Beautiful over there, he felt as shabby as Inspector Colombo’s old raincoat.
What was sad about Buff was that he was trying so hard to be happy—or at least give the appearance of being happy.
The sunset had been a disappointment, obscured by a low layer of approaching clouds. And now, as it grew darker outside, the window on Dan’s left began to act as a mirror. In it, he could see the reflection of the real mirror over the sideboard behind him. Which meant that he could see Buff’s face without the latter realizing that he was being observed.
Buff’s expression, when no one was looking in his direction, became worried, impatient, almost tortured. Whatever was on his mind, it was not the joys of wedded bliss.
The last guest, to Dan’s right, was Laurent Devereux. The Frenchman, sixty-ish, was director of an import-export firm headquartered in Paris. Next week he would lead a seminar at a global communi
cations convention to be held at the Southampton Princess. He had left the City of Lights a week early, he told them, because he was très fatigué. And what better place to rest and mentally prepare for la bataille, than this charmant pied-à-terre, so far from the Princess, where he would be instantly engagé, and rest would be impossible.
To Dan, Monsieur le Directeur did not appear all that tired, but perhaps the French gauged fatigue differently. There was no denying his Gallic charm, and to judge from the sidelong glances that the older ladies present were throwing him—what, jealousy again? No. Well, maybe. Put Brian Dennehy next to Louis Jordan, and who would any woman look at?
Well then, did he harbor an aversion to Les Français? Mais non, pas du tout! He took his wife to every subtitled movie she wanted to see. He liked the old ones; filmsnoirs, Peg called them. Their gritty realism had it all over Hollywood, and their tough guys—Gabin, Montand, Belmondo—seemed a lot tougher than the homegrown variety.
But the last French flick, a Palmes d’Or-winning attempt at bringing Marcel Proust’s life to the screen, had been deliberately obscure, something Dan considered obscene, the height of French hauteur. Watching it, he had tried to imagine anything more painful, like sticking needles in his eyes.
Feeling a twinge of guilt over where his thoughts had gone, Dan turned to Devereux. “Did you, by any chance, see the new Proust movie?”
With an expression of faint distaste—as if he’d just sampled a vintage he would ask the sommelier to return to the kitchen—Devereux shook his head. “I’m afraid,” he said with a charming smile, “I’m really too busy for the cinema.” And he turned back to his plate.
