Raney heard only the bones of his story on the ride back to Quentin, where she stopped the car and got out half a mile from her house so she could remain anonymous and lost to him. His hands had been conscientiously folded on his lap the whole way, like weapons laid down for truce. They didn’t look like weapons, she had to admit before they’d even reached the cutoff back toward 113. More like Buddha hands. Calm and intentional. On a surreptitious closer glance she saw the wear of his work across the fingertips and palms, as if they were aging ahead of him, and was surprised to catch herself wondering how they would look in twenty years, stained with wood polish, nicked with scars but just as calm, she thought. Just as calm.
Grandpa wrangled a buddy from the machine shop to rescue the truck, and a week or so later Raney found herself poking through woodworking galleries in Port Townsend. In the third one along, not on Water Street but only a block off, she stopped in front of a simple table just large enough for a lamp and a book, a simple cove along the edge, the wood rubbed so silky you wanted to lay your cheek upon it like a pillow. How could anything so smooth be solid enough to stand on its own? The facing panel had a small bird carved in relief, a heron crouched in sinewy angles like some Asian dancer. Raney asked the clerk for the price and he gave her a quote, adding, “I can discount that some. It’s been here a while and we have a new shipment due.” He wrote a figure on the back of a card that read “Heron Designs, Cleet Flores.” There was a PO box and phone number in one corner. She tucked the card into the back pocket of her blue jeans. She bought a cup of clam chowder and carried it out to the pier, where she sat down and ate, watching freighters skim the line of horizon bellowing smoke like spouting gray whales, and she felt Cleet’s card burning through her jeans so hot she wondered if she might discover the mirrored letters of his name branded onto her bottom.
—
It still took her more than five months to call him, “just to say thanks, you know, for helping me out.” She turned him down when he asked her if she’d like to go for coffee or a beer. A month later she found a job in an art gallery down the street from where she’d seen Cleet’s table—it hardly paid for the gas it took to drive there and back every day, but it was worth it to be working with other painters, to talk to customers about color and shadow and stroke instead of French dressing versus ranch, baked potato or fries. She was crating a show one evening, alone in the rear of the shop, when the bell rang and she walked out to the desk with her white cotton gloves still on. There he was. Different than she’d remembered but better too. Shanks of black hair angling this way and that, a curl of sawdust caught near his left temple. Nice teeth, still; they looked all the creamier in his soft brown face. She felt herself blush and hated herself for it, which made her face go even hotter. “The door was supposed to be locked—we close at six. What can I do for you?”
“I saw the truck out front. You got it back. That’s good.”
“Course we got it back.” Why had she called him that day, months ago? It was a foolish business all around. The product of loneliness, living in a falling-down house with an old man in a town all her friends had long escaped. He had a cut on his hand, small but still bright with blood, a fresh line in the map of his scars. She took off one white glove and wrapped it about his hand. He stared at the glove for a long moment and she saw him tilt his head, puzzling something out. “Except it cost more to tow it home than we could sell it for. Did you come in here to buy a painting or just to hassle me about my truck?” she said.
“I came in to ask you to go to dinner with me.”
“Well, you are just the consummate rescuer, aren’t you?”
“I’d hardly say buying you dinner is rescuing. Unless you’re starving, which you don’t look to be.”
—
For the next year it was a stutter of walks and lunches, chance meetings when Raney was arriving or leaving the gallery, too frequently to be anything but carefully planned. She let it be that way, evasive about commitments, never calling anything a date but more and more often shifting her schedule so that it was predictable enough to intercept.
She locked up late one evening shortly before Christmas and found him waiting beside the truck, wondering if she wanted to go out for some fresh crab. She offered to drive, but he said the restaurant wasn’t far. A cold snap had cleared the air and Water Street was crowded with Christmas shoppers, the sidewalks noisy and the bars full and already smelling of stale beer. Cleet pulled Raney close against him when a group blocked the path from curb to storefront, so enraptured by their own conversation they moved as a single, oblivious herd. She kept waiting for him to choose a restaurant, asked where he wanted to eat, and he said just another few blocks down. Finally he cut between two buildings and took a narrow stairway to the beach.
It was another town altogether here, the voices of shoppers and partiers blocked by the buildings, the sound of low surf washing in true and endless. Her feet slipped and dug into the rocky sand, and they had to carve their way around ghost-pale drift logs dropped by higher tides like the toothpicks of giants. Raney saw a point of yellow light ahead and soon they got to a campfire, a cooler filled with cooked crabs, rice, salad . . . Cleet unzipped a duffel hidden behind a log and handed Raney a heavy men’s sea coat, then he built up the fire and spread a blanket over the log and nearby sand. He melted butter in a small pot and served the meal on real glass plates.
He must have been cooking and hauling stuff all day, Raney guessed. So this would be the night, then. He would make his move right here on these blankets, probably had a whole other duffel bag packed with pillows and sleeping bags. Her appetite disappeared and she found herself thinking through everything she said before she said it, so the echo of her conversation sounded contrived and pointless. Cleet acted totally relaxed—probably assuming they were both on the same page here. Raney began to shiver inside the coat, not sure what page she was on or even if she and Cleet were inside the same book at all. There was no moon. The cold front had whipped the sky clear as new glass and with the town lights going out, the stars looked like the edge of the universe and close enough to touch. Cleet slid off the log to put more wood on the fire, then stretched out on the blanket with one hand under his head, holding his other straight up to trace out various constellations, some Raney knew—Orion, Cassiopeia, the Dippers—more that she did not know—Hydra, Lynx, Leo. He’d learned them on the boats in Alaska when he’d worked with his dad, he said.
“How often did you go with him?”
“Three or four trips, halibut and sardines. Pay was great—I saved enough in those trips to cover school and set up my shop. Hated every minute of it!” and he laughed. He had a nice laugh. It never sounded forced or polite. Always genuine—a grace note to his general aura of calm coping. Raney got up to pour herself a second glass of wine, but rather than stepping over him to the log, she sat down on the blanket, her crossed leg touching his waist. “Turn out a few more lights in town and we might see some of the Geminid shower, over in the east, near Castor,” Cleet said.
“Ah! Castor,” Raney repeated, exaggerating the word to emphasize that she had no clue where to find it.
“One of the twins. Castor and Pollux.” He tried to direct Raney’s untrained eyes. “Castor is white—there. Pollux is darker. An orange star. The myth says the twins protect shipwrecked sailors.”
“And were you ever shipwrecked?”
He laughed, more to himself this time, took a minute to answer, “No less than most.”
She started pointing to other stars, making up constellations and laughing when he showed her the real ones hidden in her own inventions—she would have made a good shepherd, he said. The fire burned lower; they were both quiet. She knew he would reach for her soon, but she also knew she didn’t want to force the night to a close. She wouldn’t pretend she hadn’t noticed his mouth, its deep, full curves that looked slow and easy. But what would happen after a kiss? She didn’t want to risk losing his company just to find out what his
lips might feel like. She’d just have to tell him. Make it clear but face-saving—she liked him too much to play any games. Cleet’s eyes were closed, and in the firelight his face looked as smooth and proud as one of his polished wood carvings. Her legs were falling asleep and she stretched out; it was warm beside him. She pulled the edge of the blanket up to cover them both, rolling toward him to make it reach fully across. He smelled like cedar. His face was so close . . .
He startled awake, and she saw him recollect where he was. He tried to focus on her, his eyes still lazy with sleep. His full mouth curved into a smile. “Sorry! What time is it?” He held his watch so the firelight illuminated the dial. “We better get going. I have to finish a chair tonight for delivery tomorrow.” He shook out the blankets and packed everything into the cooler and duffel, hid them behind a pile of drift, and said he’d get them tomorrow. Then he walked her back to her truck and waved good night from the curb while she got in and drove herself home, feeling like a total idiot.
—
In May, Cleet took a five-week job in Bremerton, and Raney was startled, annoyed even, to find that she missed him. He dropped by the gallery a few days after he returned to town, and she could tell he recognized that his absence had made a difference to her. It sparked a new confidence in his eyes; for the first time he exuded a masculine purposefulness as subtle as a shift in his scent but there nonetheless, pulling her as invisibly as the moon pulls the tide.
He came by again the next Friday afternoon. “Going for a drive tomorrow—it should be a nice day. I can pick you up—go up the old logging roads back of the park near the ranger station.”
“I have a lot to do.”
“Name the time.”
“Grandpa hasn’t been feeling so good.”
“We can call him. Check in over the day.” He waited only a beat. “Twelve thirty, then. Only you have to tell me your address.”
He did not come until twelve forty-five, time enough to check her hair twice, add a braid, and take it out again. She knew him well enough to know that his tardiness was as well planned as the lunch he had packed for the two of them and the six-pack of beer he brought for her grandfather. He knocked at the back screen door and waited while she called upstairs to Grandpa and put the beer in the refrigerator.
“I hoped I’d finally meet him.”
Raney glanced over her shoulder and waved a hand in the air. “Oh, he’s resting. Better go.”
No more than fifteen minutes out of town, Cleet took a right turn down an asphalt road that dead-ended into a webbed network of logging cuts Raney hadn’t explored since she’d been a ten-year-old on a Stingray. After an hour of jolting weaves and turns he stopped the car and took the food and beer out of the trunk. “Lumpia,” he said, hoisting the cooler.
“Lumpia?”
He laughed—that laugh he had where it was all to himself without shutting her out. “No. No lumpia.” He led Raney down an all-but-invisible trail for half an hour until they stood in front of a cabin. Little more than a lean-to, really, with a plank door and wood-shutter windows.
“What is this?” Raney asked.
“Place my dad used to bring me. Me and my brother.”
“It’s yours?”
“It’s no one’s. Everyone’s. Pretty sure this is park land. My grandfather used to come here too. Way back. Never ran into anyone who wasn’t kin to me or a friend, though. Or at least Filipino. Maybe nobody else knows about it. Maybe all our ghosts and dark skin scared them away. Who knows?”
“Ghosts. What ghost stories do you have?” she asked.
“Multos—the souls of the dead returning.” Raney didn’t answer, and after a minute he looked over his shoulder at her with a teasing smile, a shank of hair shadowing his face so the clean planes of his cheek and jaw looked more Asian. Exotic. He was handsome from this angle. Maybe from any angle. “Come in and I’ll tell you the story of the White Lady, who only haunts lonely places.” He paused a moment before unlatching the cabin door—there was no lock—and when he pushed the door open, the smell of dry dust leaked out like unrecorded days. “Man, it’s like nobody’s been inside since I came here with my uncle and my father, nine . . . no, eleven years. White Lady must be protecting it, huh?”
It did look untouched. The place had been passed from fathers to sons for three generations or more, but the miracle of it, Cleet told her, the magic, was that it never accumulated more than it absolutely needed. Not even after the forestry roads made it possible to drive so close. The structure was built of logs salvaged from the river; there were four fold-down plywood bunks hinged to the walls by steel chain links. A tub and bucket for collecting water. The only thing resembling a luxury was a small woodstove.
They spent the afternoon retracing trails he’d memorized as a child, imagined passages through the dense forest leading to the hollowed-out trees and boulders that a boy would be drawn to. Every place had a story, some of little more than a snared squirrel, a fallen bird; some of long weeks surviving here like primitives with no commerce, only the food they caught or scoured from the woods. He had lived so much of his life in a world of only men, she realized, and at the same moment admitted she had never heard Cleet mention any serious girlfriends.
She was hungry by the time they wound back to the cabin. And cold. Cleet built a fire and they ate quickly until they were full and then more slowly, for the sensual pleasure of it. Something had settled into place between them. Raney felt it, knew it, fought the idea briefly only because it had not originated in her conscious mind or been under her control. But there it was, part of each of them, new but as comfortable as something that had been long present and waiting only to be recognized. Cleet put his beer on the top of the woodstove and turned his body so their crossed knees touched, a pattern of crisscross lines well matched in length. His hands rested palm up and she laid her own within them.
“You didn’t want me to meet your grandfather,” he said. Raney shook her head. “He wouldn’t like you being with a brown skin, would he?” She shook her head again. He put his hands on her cheeks and pulled her face near, slowly tilted his head, and brought his mouth so close their lips almost touched. “I don’t care if you don’t care.”
When he kissed her she was surprised at the gentle insistence of his mouth, urging without demanding. Strong and mindful. It made her feel safe in a way that ached, only because she had not known she was not safe before. He led her to one of the fold-down bunks and unrolled the mattress, covered it with their coats, the room warm now from the fire and the shutters letting in fine slats of light bristled with dust, so that it was an easy thing to take off their clothes and explore each other. When he came into her, she was surprised to discover how much her body already knew, as if remembering a secret carried in her chemistry, waiting and ready.
—
That part of Raney’s life was a time of losing and a time of finding: losing faith that she had been endowed with any inner artistic gift predestined to shake the world awake to her being. Losing any illusion that some shadowy, unnamed father would step into the light and claim her, endow her with a name and bloodline. She used to imagine that, when she was very young—that a tourist’s Cadillac or Mercedes might pull up to the gas pump at Peninsula Foods and spot her hanging around with her best friend, Sandy, pop the passenger-side door open, and wave Raney into the vacant seat so that he could drive her confidently into adulthood. When had that dream died? she wondered.
Three years after she and Cleet were an official couple, Sandy moved back to Quentin for good, having already disposed of two marriages (the first a starter and the second to confirm that she really wasn’t much cut out for marriage, she observed). Her second husband had essentially paid his way out of a scandal and left Sandy a tidy-enough sum that when the art gallery in Port Townsend was put up for sale, she could buy it. With Cleet and Sandy and the loose acquaintances they together gathered, at twenty-six Raney finally made a comfortable space for herself in the town she’d gro
wn up in. It was not the home she would have predicted or chosen, but it held room for her painting, and for the woods and mountains that gave her courage to look at the world hard enough to paint it. And more than any other anchor here, caring for her grandfather gave Raney a purpose—something she had never felt before. Though neither would admit it to the other, she was necessary in his life well beyond blood or love.
—
One jarringly bright afternoon Raney walked into the back office of the gallery, took a quick drag off Sandy’s cigarette, and said to her, “He did it. We did it. I think.”
“You think? Looks to me like you two been doin’ it for more than a few years now.”
“No. I mean he asked me to marry him. I said yes, I think.”
Sandy did not jump on this right away; instead she returned to methodically sorting plastic sandwich bags of earrings and pendants with her back to Raney. “So what’s the ‘thinking’ part? You said yes or didn’t you?”
“I kissed him. Then I got in my truck and drove off. Is that a yes?”
“I have known you since you were eight years old, Renee Remington, and this is the first time I have ever heard you question your own mind.”
“It seems like the logical next step, doesn’t it?”
“I never found marriage to be a very logical step.” She infused the words with all the detritus left by her two husbands. “Your grandfather pulled it off. Him and Joy. Ask him.”
“Don’t joke about this, Sandy.”
Gemini Page 16
