"Don't be mad, Mama. I know I wasn't supposed to," Neil said in a small, shaky voice.
"I'll spank you some other time," Laura said with a choking laugh. "For now let's see about that rope burn. Can you walk, sweetheart?"
He nodded and she began to help him toward the companionway, not all that steady herself. Then she stopped, and turned, and said to Colin, "I ... you must know—"
"I know," he said quietly.
****
"It doesn't hurt. It really doesn't," insisted Neil as Laura wrapped a bandage around his bruised and skinned ankle.
"Oh, no? Then why are you crying?" his mother said with a sympathetic smile, touching her finger to a rivulet that ran down his cheek.
Neil, eyes glistening, looked around the cabin to see that no one was near. "Because I was so scared, Mama," he whispered.
"We were all scared, darling," Laura said, putting one arm around him and kissing his cheek.
"No. Colin wasn't. I could tell."
Laura concentrated on rolling up the leftover gauze. "Colin is a brave man." She looked up and smiled determinedly. "Into bed, now. I think a little rest might be a very good thing." She patted the berth that recently had been designated Colin's but that in ordinary times was used as a sickbay.
Neil was horrified. "Not the sick-bed, Mama! If I stay there everyone will think I'm a sissy. Colin will think I'm still a baby!"
Laura did not want to add to her son's trauma, so it ended with Neil limping back to his own berth in the forecastle. Laura tucked him in, then went back to her own cabin and shut the door behind her. She craved a moment of privacy. For ten minutes she gave herself up to wracking, silent sobs for all the things that might have been. When it was over she still hadn't the heart to go up on deck and face the others, so she took out her neglected diary and made an entry:
"September 20, 1934. Neil was skylarking just now and almost plunged to his death. I do not know which was worse: the thought of having to live without him, or the crushing guilt I would have felt in having to face Sam with the news. Add to those a third, more horrible response: my fury at Sam—which I did not know until now that I felt—for having abandoned his wife, his family, and his livelihood to go off to play at yacht-racing. I see now that I shall never forgive him for it. I have made a foolish decision, yet no more so than he."
Laura closed her diary, turned the little golden key, and reflected. Then she opened the book again to add, "The worst of it all is that the substitution is absolute. Colin has befriended him, educated him, and now he has saved his life."
After that she crept forward for one more peek at her son, who was sleeping soundly. She returned to her cabin and within seconds had fallen asleep herself, fully clothed, in the berth that her little boy would doubtless decline to share now.
****
"20 September, 1934. What did I say! We have won, and are only one down. We came from behind—if only Neil could have seen us! It looked all up for us by the last leg—we was sure the Cup was going back to the Brits—Vanderbilt threw up his hands and gave the helm to Hoyt—and went below to eat—but Hoyt's an old fox—fooled the Brits into thinking the finish line was somewhere else—they got lost in the haze—all they found was a calm patch—but Bliss and Hoyt knew just where we was all the time—we all held our breath—and I will be damned if we did not win! It was a miracle!"
****
The brass ship's clock in Laura's cabin chimed seven times. Laura thought it was three-thirty; opened her eyes; saw darkness. So it was seven-thirty, then, or even eleven-thirty. Impossible. She staggered sleepily to the forecastle, listened for the sound of her son's breathing, and only then—as she reassured herself that Neil was sleeping peacefully—did it occur to her that the Virginia was under sail again. Impossible.
Laura went back aft, automatically steadying herself on grab-rails against the lift and fall of the ship. She looked up out of the companionway at an overcast sky. The cabin lamp threw a few watts' worth of light on the patched and dirty sails of the Virginia. There was a breeze, and the sails were drawing. The schooner was on her way again.
She scrambled up on deck; Billy was at the wheel. "Why didn't you wake me?" she demanded, trying not to sound sleepy. "I've missed my watch. What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty. It was Colin's idea," Billy said in a low but perfectly cheerful voice. "The three of us split up the watches among ourselves. No one even missed you," he added, trying to reassure her.
"How nice to know." Automatically she checked the compass course; the wind seemed to be pretty much out of the east. "One thing about the wind this trip; when there is any, it's fair," she said, stifling a yawn. "I can't believe I never heard you raise sail. Where's Colin?"
"I 'spect he's curled up on deck somewheres. Stubb's below."
"Oh." She had a choice: relieve Billy at the helm, or check in with her first mate.
"I'll be back."
It was a dark night, damp and penetrating. She made her way forward, scanning the deck in the dimly lit green of the running light, looking for curled-up lumps in the shadows.
When she found Colin he wasn't asleep at all, but propped up against the inside of the starboard bulwark, smoking his pipe.
"Aren't you catching some spray up here?" she asked, sitting down beside him, afraid of waiting to be asked.
"There's not that much wind. Sleep well?"
"Like the dead," she replied, stretching her arms out in front of her. "I can't account for it. Usually I'm up at every sound. I guess ... a lot of things caught up with me."
From the corner of her eye she saw the bowl of his pipe glow brighter. Then he said, "Waiting and watching can take it out of you."
Somehow what he said struck a chilling note in her. "I just remembered that I had the most horrible dream," she said, wincing. "I dreamt of the day I first met my husband—only in the dream he was you. And he was—or you were—loading a keg of oil, the way he was on the day I met him. And the keg fell at my feet and split open, just like on that day. Only instead of oil spilling all over my dress, it was ... blood. There was blood ... all over me." She shivered and wrapped her arms more tightly around her knees. "It was horrible," she repeated. "I remember the sound of the tackle as the keg was raised up and up in my dream; it seemed to go on forever."
"You heard us hoisting the sails, I suppose," he said thoughtfully. "As for the rest of it—you don't have to be a psychologist to know that you were weaving what happened today with other significant events of your life."
Laura thought about it for a moment. "I see ... the keg was really my son, was it?" Her voice had an ironic, rather defiant edge to it. "You seem to know a lot about dream symbolism. Before you sailed off to the Pacific, did you have a clinic in Vienna?"
"I read a lot at sea," he said simply. "Just like you. We don't have to talk about your dreams if it makes you feel uncomfortable."
"No, not at all. It doesn't bother me a bit," she lied. "Since you were in my dream, does that make you 'significant'?"
"You tell me."
"All right, then ... I will. You are significant in my life—just now. I need you to get the boat to the Bahamas. I'll need you to get it back. I needed you—desperately—to save Neil this afternoon. It's reasonable that you should find your way into my dreams." It was the most bald-faced lie she'd ever told.
She watched him lift his pipe over his shoulder and tap it on the bulwark, emptying its ashes into the sea. He took the bowl, still warm, and placed it in the palm of her hand, then took her other hand and wrapped it around the top. "You're cold," he said softly, stroking her hair.
"How can I be?" she asked in a faint voice as he began to kiss her gently on her cheek, her nose, her ear, her neck. "We're at thirty ... degrees ... south ... latitude. Colin, please ... I came to thank you, that's all ... for everything. I won't ever forget it. Neither will Neil ... or Sam ...."
He took a deep breath; his back straightened. "Right," he said, and exhaled. He stood up and held
out a hand to her. "Better dress warmly, skipper. It's your watch."
She smiled bleakly in the darkness, not daring to accept his outstretched hand. No one—not even Sam—had the effect on her that this man did. She wobbled to her feet unaided; and yet, reluctant to leave him, she asked wistfully, "Why did you take this job, really? Was it for the money? For the hundred dollars?"
"That helped. But I suppose it was because I was so drawn to you the first time I saw you."
She was incredulous. "Surely not then! With that idiot man pawing me—"
"That wasn't the first time," he said, surprised that she thought so. "The first time, you wouldn't let my group aboard. You were just closing up your shipboard dance, and you thought we might not get our money's worth."
For a moment she had to think. "But that group wore tuxedos—"
"Most of them. A couple of us were in ordinary blazers. You look surprised," he added wryly.
"I'm dumbfounded," she confessed. "Who are you, Colin? Are you rich or are you poor?"
"You can be either one and get around nicely in Newport, it turns out. That night I was actually visiting a crew friend of mine on board a yacht at another dock. There was a cocktail party aboard, a little too top-drawer for some of the guests, and they decided to beat it. They left the dock at the same time we did, and it ended with my friend and me being absorbed into their group."
He bent his head over hers and dropped a light, lingering kiss on her lips. "The rest is fate. Good night, love."
Chapter 11
Laura had no illusions about her feelings for Colin. She wanted him the way she had been wanting the wind: with all her heart and soul. She spent her turn at the wheel in a trance, like someone does who drives alone on an empty highway at night. There was time enough and more to relive Colin's kisses; time enough, and more, to turn away desire. But her heart, like the wheel, seemed to be turning from one side to the other: to Sam, and the solid ties of marriage; to Colin, and the wild unknown. She brushed away a windblown strand of her hair with her hand and smelled Kentucky Standard. Sam's tobacco. Colin's tobacco.
When Stubby came up on deck to relieve her he took one look around, braced himself against the boats pitching angle, and said, "Holy cow! This is more wind than I've seen in a while. Shouldn't we take in a reef?"
It was true. While Laura was off on another planet, the wind had been steadily increasing. If she meant to keep her word to Sam to be careful, she would have to turn out all hands to shorten sail. "I suppose we must," she said, reluctant to disturb anyone's precious hours of sleep off-watch. Besides, it was a nerve-wracking, harrowing business, especially at night.
But shorten sail they did. Laura pointed the Virginia's bow up into the wind and held it there, her teeth chattering from the noise and wind, while Colin lowered each wildly slatting sail in turn, and Billy and Stubby bound up the lower part of the sail in reef knots. She held her breath while Billy climbed out along the footrope of the main boom to tie in the last few reefs in the sail; one wrong step and he'd be in the ocean. Billy had reefed the mainsail a hundred times before, in far worse conditions; but Laura's nerves were still a jangled mess from the near-miss with Neil.
At last they had the sails down to a more manageable size. The Virginia moved along on a more comfortable angle of heel, taking only occasional spray over her decks. She seemed less like a runaway horse, more like a slow but steady pack mule. There were no congratulations that a difficult task had been done well; it was part of the routine at sea. With a collective sigh of relief, Billy, Colin, and Laura went below to salvage what sleep they could.
"This is the worst of it, I think," said Laura quietly to Colin as she stood at the door to her cabin. "The awful toll on one's sleep. You let me catch up all day, but who can spare you for so long?"
It was a tremendous compliment, and an acknowledgment that Colin was more valuable to the safe operation of the schooner than she. Laura saw in his face that he was moved by her admission. "I'm good at catnaps," he said, and again he leaned forward, as he had earlier that night, to kiss her.
This time she did not trust herself, but shyly averted her head. "Sleep well, Colin."
"Now that, I doubt," he answered with a rueful smile.
In his resignation he looked handsomer than ever. Mood by mood, minute by minute, he was becoming more irresistible to her. "Is your berth not comfortable, then?" she asked naively, grateful that she had painted it recently.
"Oh, you dear lady!" Colin said, almost in a moan.
She escaped to her own cabin. The lamp inside had run dry but she saw by the light of the saloon that Neil was there, curled up in her berth. "Neil? Are you all right?"
She startled the boy. He bolted up and cried, "Help!"
When he felt his mother's arms around him he whispered, "I got afraid, Mama. The wind was blowing so, and Dad isn't here to tell us what to do."
"No, but Colin is," she found herself saying, a little to her amazement.
"Is Colin any good, do you think?"
Laura said, "Yes," and Neil whispered sleepily, almost sadly, "I knew he would be .... Can I stay here?"
"Yes. Just this once." She cradled him against her breast and wrapped her arm around him reassuringly. "Just this once."
****
By morning it was raining; by afternoon, sunny again. The wind slackened and veered into the south-southwest, the worst direction of all. They had been incredibly lucky so far, avoiding headwinds. Not any more. They shook out the reefs and resigned themselves to a snail's progress. But the next morning the wind shifted a little more to the southwest, letting them creep up closer to their course.
Then in the afternoon a cold front pushed through, drenching them with welcome fresh water. They were ready and waiting. As the black, rolling cloud-line approached, they reduced sail, expecting wind. They got little of that, but the torrents of rain that fell straight down were so cool, so clean, that Billy and Stubby grabbed bars of soap, stripped down to the buff and left Laura to look in some other direction while they bathed loudly and happily. Neil followed. And Colin. Laura was left alone in the cockpit, filling up their spare buckets, while her four male crew pranced and hooted in the bow, engaged in some primal rite of bonding whose essence was that she couldn't join them.
Soon the buckets were overflowing. There was a sense of abundance, a feeling of abandonment. Everyone was having a joyful time except Laura. She stole a longing—and curious—look at the merriment. She felt deprived. She felt willing. She felt like taking her clothes off.
And so she did. Quietly, without a lot of fuss, alone in the cockpit, Laura stripped and let her body be bombarded by raindrops. Nature was a big Scandinavian masseuse, pummeling and pounding away days of tension and close calls. Laura turned slowly round and round, relishing the cleanness, soaking up the violence of it. She bent over double and let streams of water run up her spine and through her hair, carrying away two weeks of salt crystals with it. Water ran down her thighs, water ran around her breasts, rivers of it: fresh, clean water. It seemed inconceivable to her that she had ever felt this way by turning on a faucet. Nothing in life ashore could approach the keen satisfaction of that moment.
It could not last; she understood that. They were at the whim of nature, and that gave the moment its magic. Still, when the last of the thunder rolled away and the downpour thinned to a sprinkle, Laura was disappointed. Over? So soon? She sighed, then glanced forward: the others were hanging back, waiting for her to be done. Fifty feet separated them from her, but even from that distance she saw the intensity in Colin's face, the coiled tension in his body. She hurried below.
****
"22 September, 1934. We have been handed the win but at great cost. The Brits will take us to war over this one. I can't blame them. There were two protests. In the first Sopwith was wrong. In the second it was Vanderbilt, if you ask me. In a tight spot he has nerves of steel. But everyone told him to luff to avoid the Endeavour, and he did not. He says there was
90 feet between the boats. The other side says 10 feet. I say 30 feet. Sopwith pulled his Endeavour away—too far—and Vanderbilt shot on by. It is not a game for boys."
****
After the rain the wind went light from the north, which was fine with Laura. It was a comfortable course, a lazy course, and it contributed to the sense of well-being that had come over them all after their romp in the rain. They finished off the last of the oranges during early evening, as the Virginia sailed majestically on, with her sails flung out over either side like great white wings. Laura and Colin took turns reading aloud to the crew from Pitcairn's Island until the sun got low. Then Stubby took over the wheel from Billy, who went below to nap, and Neil bent over his mother's lap and dozed.
"It's a wonderful sunset," Laura said contentedly, marveling at the red-rimmed horizon. "I'd like to put it in a basket and take it below with me."
"I'd like to weave it through your hair and let it keep lighting up your face, the way it's doing now," said Colin, leaning back against the cabin house and watching her languidly.
She should have stopped him—Neil might easily hear—but it was thrilling to listen to him. "Oh, look, dolphins!" she cried softly as a school of them came into view, leaping and gamboling toward the boat. "Did you know, the ancient Greeks believed that the souls of lost sailors abided in dolphins, waiting for rebirth? It's a lovely legend."
"Legend? It's the god's truth."
Neil shifted in her lap as she continued. "The trip is going wonderfully well," she said, not disguising her happiness. Knock wood. I could sail on forever like this." It hit her at precisely that moment: she meant every word she said. She looked away quickly, flushing as crimson as the sun.
"What would it be like, do you think?" he pursued softly. How far would we go? Would we sail on to ... Pitcairn? Would you—could you—leave everything that far behind?"
Slowly she turned back to face him, her look deeper than the ocean on which they sailed. "I think I could," she whispered.
By The Sea, Book Three: Laura Page 11
