The Widows of Sea Trail-Tessa of Crooked Gulley

by Jacqueline DeGroot

  Jeez! Was that the harbor pilot? His uniform was the nautical type—long, creased white pants, man, he was tall, and a short sleeved white shirt with what appeared to have been epaulets on the shoulders, both separated by a white canvas belt.That was my impression anyway. It had all happened so fast that my brain had only registered, Officer and a Gentleman without the hat. An older version for sure, from the shock of white hair mingled with the black.

  Itookonefinalpose,stretchingmyarmshighovermy headbeforereachingbackandgrabbingmyinstep.Sometimes even I was amazed at how limber I had become. I leaned over the rail to see if I could get one more glimpse of that amazing man who had climbed up the side of our ship with all the agility of a monkey climbing a palm tree. Nope, no sign of him. But I felt the ship doing strange things and making new noises. I actually quivered to think of that man at the controls guiding this monstrous ship into the port of St. Thomas and the harbor of Charlotte Amalie. I would have always given that type of man a second look, but now I doubted that he’d return the favor. It was deflating getting old.

  I reflected back on this past year and all the changes it had wrought. Watching Cat and Matt fall madly in love had brought me out of my own mourning and then ultimately forced me to take a good, assessing look at myself. During the years spent grieving for Tom, my body had secretly slid past middle age and began the downhill decline toward the senior generation waiting for me at the bottom. Things had shifted, faint crinkles had blossomed and my joints no longer allowed even a modicum of abuse. The use-it-or-lose-it age was clearly upon me and I was being reminded of that on a daily basis. And as there were certain things I definitely did not want to put to pasture yet, I had to face it, it was time to get out and circulate.

  After much thought, and enough hemming and hawing to drive Tessa and Cat crazy, I finally decided to augment my hair color to keep my youthful blonde halo. I ended up having reverse highlights put in to give it more life and definition and to hide the gray that was steadily creeping in. Due to breast cancer I was no novice to plastic surgery, I’d seen the wonders it could do, so I’d been vain enough to have some skin brought up and the scars tucked behind my ears. No hint of jowls for me, just smooth firm skin. Then Cat talked me into having my lips plumped and permanently colored by Johnnie McCarty at Permanent Makeup in Calabash for that voluptuous, pouty look men seem to be going ga ga for. Yoga kept me limber and toned, and at five foot eight, I was fortunate that I carried my weight well. I had never had to diet. I knew what looked good on me so I was able to maximize my looks with the right kind of clothing—it was a knack I’d had from the cradle. Aspray tan finished everything off, giving me a subtle glow and erasing the imperfections of age spots and freckles. I was a fifty-four-year-old who often couldn’t convince anyone to give me the over-fifty senior discount. I counted myself lucky, except for the fact that I’d lost my husband years before I should have.

  I grabbed my water bottle off the little lounge table and went into my stateroom to shower for my day in St. Thomas. I could hardly wait for the ship to dock. But first, I would enjoy a scrumptious and bountiful breakfast. I turned on the shower to warm the water, thinking about a waffle, each tiny hole filled with butter and syrup, and a huge pile of strawberries to go with it. It wasn’t my usual fare, but I was on vacation, and I was sure to walk it off traipsing all over the island of St. Thomas.

  The tiny room was steamy as I stripped off my yoga togs. I like how a blurred mirror improves my looks. Thanks to my mother’s great genes, I am still quite attractive, but I do have some quirky things going on. One of them is breasts like a twenty year-old—ironic, now that I didn’t have anyone to appreciate them.

  My husband Tom died just over four years ago. He drowned rescuing a shipmate when their sailboat capsized in Winyah Bay. Just a few days earlier I’d finally had my breast reconstruction surgery done and I was home recuperating. We were planning on having the “unveiling” on our anniversary. Instead, I attended the funeral with a chest so sore that I thought my broken heart would shatter inside me and I’d bleed from all the fresh wounds. I loved him so much. I still wear his surgical scrubs as pajamas, disgustingly grubby because I refuse to wash them. His scent is all I have left. I can’t remember his smile or hear his voice anymore and that bothers me more than I can say.

  I enjoy the hot water running down my body and despite concerns for water conservation, I stay many minutes longer than I should. I justify it by calling to mind all the hours I’ve spent volunteering for the lowly oyster recycling campaign back home in Brunswick County. Each one of those suckers can filter fifty gallons a day! Amazing!

  My gel-coated hands slide easily over my body as I have very little body hair. This is by choice as I had it lasered off when it started growing back after the chemo treatments. I had missed the smooth, slick feel of my hairless skin. I told you I had some quirks.

  Stepping out into my room, wrapped in a fluffy towel, I make my way over to the balcony and to the rail while crimping my hair into floppy spirals with tight fists. I step back a foot from the rail when I realize that we have docked and many people are out on their balconies now. The partitions between the balconies shield me from the passengers on either side while allowing me to enjoy the straight-on view. I look down and see him, the tall, virilelooking man with the distinctive head of black hair that seems to have been shocked white in a thick stripe just to the left of a prominent widow’s peak. Ummm, very sexy. He is standing with three other men. I am just about to turn and go back into my room when he looks up and our eyes meet. I stand rooted to the spot peering down from thirty feet up. Even from this height I can feel the intensity of his eyes, they are a searing gray-green and as they travel down my body, I feel as if he can see right through the towel with the big X logo of Celebrity Cruises on the front, either that or up and under it.

  It’s covering me from my boobs to just above my knees but I feel as if it’s not there at all. And his eyes are widening in such a way that I am convinced I have dropped it. I look down to see if my hand is still holding the knot above my breasts and let out a sigh of relief. When I look back at him, he has turned to talk to another man, the Captain, if I’m not mistaken. They shake hands and then the nautical dreamboat in his pristine white uniform turns his broad shoulders away from the ship and makes his way down the cement pier leading into St. Thomas.

  I watch as he is swallowed up by the throng of people leaving the ships. Twice, he turns to look back at the ship. I can’t seem to move from the spot. I drink in every movement he makes as he walks away—the sway of his slender hips in his precisely pressed pants, his thick hair as it lifts in the ocean breeze, the progression of his wide shoulders delineated by the dark line of his epaulets on each as he moves through the crowd. His distinctive hair draws the eye so completely that I am able to pick him out until he turns to the right and takes a side street. I think of Lillian of the old Munsters TV show and her prominent white forelock. I know it’s a phenomena called poliosis because my friend Viv has it, but there’s just something mysterious and commanding about it. I sigh heavily as I turn to go back inside, acknowledging to myself that our harbor pilot has to be just about the sexiest man I have ever seen.

  Chapter Two

  A little trinket to draw the eye Idressed in a loose flowing silk dress, practically a trademark of mine. I like natural fabrics and I prefer an elegant look to a dressed down look. And although I certainly don’t broadcast it, I seldom wear underwear. A bra is totally unnecessary; what I have—and I opted for minimal enhancing—isn’t going anywhere. And I enjoy the gentle slide of a soft, smooth fabric gliding over my nipples. It’s like a centering thing; it reminds me that I am still whole and still womanly, despite all I went through. My nipples aren’t fabricated though; they’re the ones God gave me as I was fortunate enough to be able to take advantage of the “lift” method when having my double mastectomy. The skin with the nipples was lifted, the malignant tissue below removed and a flap was left remaining, ready t
o be put to use when it was time for reconstruction. So although they’ve been moved around a bit, I’ve kept my nipples, along with their sensitivity for the most part. Having had myself styled in the manner of a 34 A, a bra is a waste of time and money. The lacy panties, thongs, and such? Well I just like the freedom there, too. Once you’ve lived in hospital gowns for months on end, modesty just isn’t such a big concern anymore.

  I grab one of my hats from the closet shelf and after scrunching my light blonde hair to twice its volume, I place it just exactly so. I am a hat person, much like the Olsen twins, my pixie looks are enhanced by hats. I tend toward the whimsical ones and take great care centering the straw bowler with the huge feathery palm tree on the front. I look a little like a flapper with my small-brimmed hat, short wispy curls and knee-length dress with the beaded fringe. But I look cute, almost adorable. I know I do. Since grade school, I always have. I am not letting the fact that I am now most definitely past middle age sour my perception of myself. For fifty-four, I am a knockout; just ask any of my friends.

  I take one minute more to apply a second coat of mascara to the lashes that fringe my violet-blue eyes and I’m out the door to that waffle. After exiting the elevator, I sashay down the promenade deck and smile as women pull their husbands close as if they are infringing on my side of the ship. A single woman on a ship, who has absolutely anything going for her at all, is suspect. For some reason it never occurs to wives, who collectively are mostly miserable with their mates, that I could be happy to be on my own— unchaperoned, and unfettered. Why can’t they see me as what I am, an older Holly Golightly who doesn’t need a man on her arm to have fun, most especially, their paunchy, balding one. I purposefully smile and bat my lashes at a short Teutonic-looking woman who is digging her nails into her man’s meaty, sunburned arm as I walk by. As if he would appeal to me. “He’s all yours, Brunhilda,” I mutter as I take a sharp right into the main dining hall.

  The waffles are superb (yes, I had two), and of course the service is impeccable. A scant twenty minutes later I am on my way down the elevator to disembark, my lips still coated with a buttery maple stickiness that I don’t dare wipe off. I smile as my papers are checked and handed back to me and then I step out into the bright sunshine. What a glorious day!

  I have been in shop, after shop, when finally I spot the exact kind of anklet I have been looking for in a store window. Anklets, as a fashion, are fairly well done with, no one really wears them much anymore, but I like them and I’ve always wanted one with a very fine gold chain. I stop to admire it, and tilt my head this way and that trying to get a glimpse of the tiny price tag that is tucked under it. With a devil-may-care smile on my lips, I walk inside the cool shop to inquire. $125, I’m told by a very British sounding young clerk.

  I am holding it in my hand, hefting it and asking the salesman if it’s 18K gold when I sense a presence behind me. I am holding someone up and I truly hate it when I’m an imposition to anyone, so I grab my wallet from my straw bag and open it to the section where the bills are. “I’ll take—”

  “It for $85,” a husky burr of a voice says over my head, which is quite a feat as I am rather tall. Then lips graze my ear, as sotto voce, a man murmurs, “Always negotiate, lassie.”

  I turn to see who is stepping in to assure me a favorable price and see a white shirt with rows of military bars on it at eye level. I follow it up to meet eyes so gray I think of steely glints bouncing off a mirror, they are rimmed with a soft, faded green, the kind of green you see when you look inside a tin of ground savory. Striking black hair accented with a vivid streak of white draws my eye upward. My harbor pilot. I can’t keep myself from smiling.

  We are both drinking each other in when the clerk calls out, “$92 with tax, best offer.”

  My pilot winks at me and my knees almost buckle under me. “Done,” I whisper as I turn back and count out the money.

  An arm snakes around me and takes the gold anklet from the clerk. I turn and watch as he kneels at my feet, and with surprisingly nimble fingers, puts the tiny circle on my left ankle. I am so glad I had a pedicure yesterday and that I chose my best Chloe sandals.

  When he’s done, his thumb moves the clasp around to the inside, lightly grazing my skin. I have to put my hand on his shoulder to steady myself as he’s melting me from the inside out. I feel his muscles tense from my sudden grip and I thank God he can’t hear my heart pounding in my chest from down there. As he stands, his hand caresses my calf. It is the merest touch and I’m not exactly sure whether it was intentional but it sends heat everywhere and I know that I am now blushing. I am so fair that a blush stands out like cherries on whipped cream. I am the queen of sunscreen because of it. He has to know exactly how I am responding to his most forward approach. Yes, his hint of a smile tells me that he’s very much aware of what he’s doing to me and to my equilibrium.

  I put my hand out and smiled. I have to get the upper hand, it’s a matter of survival. “Tessa McMasters, thank you for attaching my anklet.”

  “Roman Byrnes, more than pleased to do so.” His burl is both intimate and down deep sexy, like Grisham reading one of his novels. Only this is definitely not a southern voice. No, this is Irish for sure. I remind myself that I can moan later.

  The salesclerk hands me my receipt and I turn to go. He follows.

  “Mind if I ask you a question?”

  “No, I don’t think so, what’s the question?”

  “Were you on the Galaxy this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your balcony? Wrapped in a towel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sexy. Very, very sexy.”

  I was thinking the same thing about that dimple in his chin. “Mmm, well . . . that wasn’t my aim. I just wanted to see if we had parked.”

  “Docked.”

  “Yeah, docked.”

  “Would you like some lunch? I know a place that has the most amazing conch chowder.”

  “I could be talked into lunch, but not conch chowder.”

  “Name your poison.”

  “Pizza, I have a passion for pizza. I’ve had a yen for some good, Neapolitan style pizza. Is there such a thing on this island, because there sure isn’t on the ship.”

  He laughed and it was deep and throaty and wonderfully melodic. I could easily envision him in an Irish pub, head thrown back and laughing at some bawdy joke. “I’ll be sure to mention that to your Captain, he’s a good friend of mine.” He grabbed my hand and led me down a side street, across a road and down an alley to a little bar set back in an alcove. Him holding my hand felt like the most natural thing. Warm and large, his hand easily encompassed mine, the grip sure, yet gentle. I felt young and free-spirited.

  “Not much to look at, but worthy pizza indeed. I am prone to burning the inside of my mouth here, as I cannot seem to wait for it to cool down before chowing down on it.”

  “Sounds like we might have a winner then.”

  We settled into a tiny booth and when the menus were handed to us I set mine aside. “I’m a vegetarian so just a plain cheese pizza will be fine with me. You could order half with something else if you’d like.”

  “Their sauce is good enough to make a plain pizza work. A vegetarian, huh? Is that why you’re so slim?”

  “I’ve always been slim, so no, I don’t think so.”

  “How long have you been a vegetarian?”

  “About ten years, but I’m not real strict about it. If something is made with say, beef broth, I don’t worry about it. And I do eat seafood, I just haven’t acquired a taste for conch.”

  “Would you like some wine?”

  “No, I don’t think so. How about just a Diet Pepsi?”

  He gave our order to the waitress and leaned back, arching his back and tilting his head so he could look under the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just checking out your new anklet, making sure it’s still there. Don’t see too many of them anymore.”


  “Yeah, I know, they’re really not fashionable anymore, I just like the way they look.”

  “Yeah, me too.” He looked back over at me and smiled. “They do draw the eye to a lovely place.” That brogue, it was enough to make a woman swoon.

  I felt myself blush all over. “What are you smiling about?”

  “Imagining you with that towel, the anklet and that hat!”

  I had to laugh at the thought. I had forgotten I had it on. I took it off, messed with my hair to pouf it some, and put the hat on the seat beside me.

  “So, you’re on your own?” He took my hand, pulled it across the table and rubbed my ring finger. “Unless I miss my guess, there hasn’t been a ring here for some time.”

  “My husband died a little over four years ago. He drowned rescuing some friends while on a sailing trip in South Carolina.” It was something I had said in the exact same way so many times that I could detach myself from the words and their meaning.

  “Noble way to go.”

  “Yes, but gone nonetheless.”

  “So are you with a group then, or on your own?”

  “Both. There’s a group of us from the plantation I live on back in North Carolina; one of my friends is a travel agent and she booked us all on the same cruise. But on this trip, I wanted to be on my own, so I have no roommate.” I saw an eyebrow quirk in interest.

  “Why this trip in particular?”

  “I am celebrating.”

  “Mind if I ask what?”

  “I had breast cancer, now I don’t. It’s been five years since my last treatment.”