by ANN HYMES
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
“Hi, Theresa, it’s Rick. I’ve been wanting to call you and not call you at the same time.” He paused. “I’m really embarrassed by what happened. I have to admit I’m glad it did happen, but I really had no business …. I should never …”
He stopped, but Theresa finished the sentence for him.
“Should never have showed honest feeling? Never given in to passion?”
“No, should never have felt desire for another man’s wife. And yet I keep wondering if I’ll run into you somewhere or how soon the grass will need cutting again. I’ve been hoping for a little rain to speed up the growing!”
He laughed, and Theresa could picture his smile and the way his blue eyes watched her. She wanted to see him.
“It is looking a little long,” she teased. “Why not come by this morning? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
Rick hesitated. He probably did not trust himself, but they had stirred up something that excited Theresa, and she was anxious to be with him. Perhaps he could be pulled from the magnet of his past and entertain new possibilities. She was not sharing his guilt and tingled with anticipation. She felt bold, beautiful, and unwilling to let one intimate encounter be enough.
“I could stop by between deliveries this morning,” he said.
“I’ll be here,” she answered. “Coffee or tea?”
“I’m maxed out on coffee. Tea sounds nice. And Theresa, I found the answer to my question.”
She waited, wondering what he was talking about, what question was hanging out there unanswered.
“It’s a gerund. Remember? ‘A verbal noun ending in -ing’? I got thrown off track when I got the letter ‘n’ and assumed the word itself ended in ‘ing.’ These puzzles are really a tease, just like somebody I know. I can’t quite leave them alone.”
“I think I’ll take that as a compliment.” She laughed, relieved that the answered question did not conjure up a barrier between them. “I’ll see you soon.”
An hour later Rick was at the door. Theresa greeted him in her terry bathrobe. Her hair was still tousled from sleep, but she had taken a long, hot bath after spending the night in her clothes. She smelled of sweet jasmine powder. He held out a brown bag of fresh cinnamon rolls, and the delicious scents combined as she reached for him and they held each other.
There was no waiting, no polite conversation. He did not resist. She led him to the Oriental carpet and slipped off her robe as he lay on her, anxious and ready. The wool nap of the carpet rubbed hard against his knees. She arched to meet him, reaching for the pleasure. They rolled across the clusters of ivory birds and blue patterned vases, and the painted clouds above began to move and swirl with them. Angels nodded, and someone whispered, “yes … yes.”
Their clothes were strewn about the floor, but the two lovers showed no interest in retrieving them. Theresa leaned up on her elbow, “Tea time?”
Rick pulled her toward him, their warm, moist skin melting together as one. “You’re a bad influence on me, Theresa. But tea sounds great.”
She stood up to go to the stove, aware of the eyes following her.
“See,” she said, “you should have stuck around at the beach that day I was swimming. You would have gotten the preview.”
“Are you kidding?” He laughed, reaching out to touch her. “I was so scared! But you can’t imagine how much I wanted to. And then I wondered and fantasized. Theresa, you are so beautiful, but what in the world are we doing?”
“We’re having a naked tea party,” she answered, handing him a cup of orange herbal tea. “What happened to the cinnamon rolls?”
He reached over and found the bakery bag, handing her a sticky, twisted roll as she sat down on the carpet.
“Sorry these aren’t still hot.”
“They’re perfect,” came the reply.
Chapter Fifteen
THE PROSPECT OF MEETING with Stormy had Theresa’s head spinning. She was filled with questions. How did he meet her grandmother? What was her mother like? Did Grandmother ever go back to South Carolina? And who was Claude?
The Lobster Pot was an easy restaurant to find. A tired sign lighted by one bare bulb hung out over the sidewalk on the main street, and a steady stream of customers headed through the narrow door, not even stopping to look at the menu in the window.
Theresa found Stormy at a table in the back. She liked the low lights and relaxed atmosphere. It was a perfect place to sit and talk.
“A little chilly to eat outside. What do you think?” he asked, standing awkwardly to pull out a chair for her.
“This is fine. It smells terrific in here. Seafood heaven!”
He wore an old jacket and red plaid shirt with jeans. His face was brown from seasons of sun and harsh weather. He put on glasses to look at the menu.
“I pretty much know this by heart, but I usually order the special, anyhow,” he said. “And often I’ve brought it in! I catch it; they cook it. It’s a great arrangement, and there are no dishes to wash. We sometimes work on the barter system here, especially until the tourists pile in; it eases the cash flow.”
He laughed, and Theresa gazed at this curious and comfortable man.
“What do you feel like?” he continued, looking down at the menu.
“I feel like sitting here until your voice gives out telling me everything you know about my family.”
Stormy smiled at her. “I don’t think they’d be open late enough for that.”
He ordered two bowls of chowder and two platter specials. Theresa had ventured onto his turf and was very willing to let him guide her through the familiar terrain. He settled back, looking intently at her.
“Where did you meet my grandmother?” she asked. “And when?”
“You’re sittin’ in her chair,” he said simply. “And I’ve seen that smile a hundred times before, on a different face, across this same table.”
Theresa automatically sat upright, startled, suddenly aware that this place was more than a restaurant. It was a fond memory, a shrine to love, a place where two hearts came bare in the shadowy vestibule, away from the light of everyday demands. Like the privacy of her childhood tree house hidden in the high, dense cluster of leaves, this snug table in the back of a busy restaurant provided safety and shelter for an unlikely pair. Theresa waited.
“It was mah-jongg,” he said, laughing. “We met over mah-jongg. Have you heard of it?”
She shook her head slightly, eager for the story that was about to come.
“It’s a game, an ancient Oriental game, the national game of China. When I was workin’ off the coast of Japan as a young man, I bought a mah-jongg set in a local market. The small rectangular pieces are beautiful to see and hold. Mine are made of ivory and bamboo. It’s an old set, even when I bought it, and I just liked the feel of the smooth pieces and the interesting Chinese characters and designs. A few have carvings of elegant birds, like heron or peacocks, and there are slim ivory sticks, several inches long, with groups of dots. I had no idea what it was or how to play. My shipmates spent their wages on less permanent pleasures in the village, but I really wanted this old box and its pieces. I felt the hands of history passing their traditions on.”
Stormy laughed and continued, “I carried that thing around for several years, often lining up the pieces, matchin’ the designs, and wonderin’ what in the world it was all about. I knew it was called mah-jongg, but I figured it would always be a mystery to me. Then a boat I was workin’ came into Provincetown. As I strolled the streets one evening, I passed a bulletin board of local activities and public events. There it was! ‘Mah-jongg Club meets Tuesday at 7:00.’
“With just enough time to clean up and leave the boat in order, I got to the place on the following Tuesday. I lied to my mates that I was meetin’ a beautiful woman from town. Little did I know I was fulf
illin’ my own prophecy.
“With slicked-down hair, clean shirt, and only a couple days’ worth of beard stubble, I nervously stepped into the designated room a few minutes after 7:00. The eyes of a dozen women fixed on me. Seated at tables of four, women of all ages were movin’ mah-jongg tiles around on soft tablecloths. Their fingers continued to organize the pieces, but their eyes stayed with me.
“I froze in the doorway, my hand unable to let go of the knob. Then the most beautiful girl got up and came toward me. I say ‘girl’ because she seemed so young, her eyes full of sparkle and welcome. She had beautiful hair, the color of fresh-varnished teakwood shining in the sun. She smiled, and my heart melted. That was Theodosia. She said to come in, and I would have followed her anywhere. Your grandmother captured me that day, as sure as a ship surrenderin’ its flag.
“She asked if I was lost, maybe because there were no other men around or maybe because I looked so hesitant. ‘Come in,’ she insisted before I could get my words together, and so I did. Clutching my mah-jongg set under my arm, I walked behind her toward the table where she had been seated. I felt the assembled ladies accepting this interruption with reserved grace.
“‘Do you know how to play?’ she asked me, eyeing the box I was carrying. That profound question was the secret of the love I held for her from that day forward. I did not know how to play—not mah-jongg, not cards, not ping-pong, not teasin’ or joking, not lettin’ down my guard for the simple relaxation and joy of someone’s company. She taught me to trust.
“Onboard ship I saw poker games and fights, men losing their valuables over the turn of a card. I was careful and kept separate, buryin’ emotion beneath the crusty surface of necessity. I liked life on fishin’ boats, the changing seas and new countries. The pay was good, the work hard. A young man with a hunger for adventure and no ties to land or love is eager to follow the horizon. But Theodosia changed all that.”
A waitress arrived with bowls of steaming clam chowder and a plastic basket of crackers and hard rolls. Theresa took a crusty roll and broke it open, feeling the soft inside and thinking of Stormy’s allusion.
“So did you make a pass at her?” she asked.
He smiled, dumping oyster crackers into his chowder. “Make a pass? I probably couldn’t have told you my own name! I felt totally at a loss. ‘Man overboard!’’’
They sat quietly for a minute, each picturing the events of the story—one rehearsing the facts, the other trying to imagine.
Stormy stared at his chowder, slowly stirring it, and then said aloud, seemingly oblivious of whether or not anyone was there to hear, “It was her nature. It was her nature to make people feel at ease. It was a gift that sprang from her the way the sun can’t help shining. Who wouldn’t want to bask awhile in that?”
“So did you learn how to play mah-jongg, Stormy? I know you got the girl!”
“Well, I tried. I brought my game along that evening because I didn’t know if each player used his own set or how it was done. Turns out the women were pretty interested in my antique ivory set and wanted to know all about where I got it and why I’d bought somethin’ I didn’t understand. The game pieces they used were made of bone; nowadays they’re made of plastic. My presence was accepted that evening because I was the owner of a mah-jongg set—and a superb one—not because I could join in the game. Besides, the tables were all numbered already with four women each.
“Theodosia asked me lots of questions about my life and travels, and I sat right next to her, observing her closely and revealing more of myself than I would have expected. By the end of the evening I had watched the ladies toss dice, change their seats, move, collect, and discard the various mah-jongg pieces. It was rather confusing to me, though I should have liked it for its navigational aspects. East, west, north, and south seating determined the beginning of play.
“Theodosia was mad for mah-jongg! Later, she got the club to come to Chatham for the monthly meetings. And before long, they were all comin’ for the whole day and enjoyin’ the beach, barbecue dinners at Whimsy Towers, margaritas and mah-jongg late into the night. She liked cultural blending! She taught Emily to play, and sometimes I sat in to complete a foursome, but I’m getting ahead of the tale.
“That first night I was her student. She was a gentle and coaxing mentor, encouraging me to laugh and open up a bit. But I felt coarse and inadequate, uneducated. She seemed not to notice, however—at least she gave no hint of superiority or dissatisfaction with my ways.
“The club met for only two hours, and Theodosia asked if I’d like to go for a coffee afterwards. Nothin’ suggestive or pushy, just friendly. We came here and sat at this very spot. She listened so intently to my stories of the sea and wanted my impressions of everything I had seen. I even confided to her that I liked to draw and had painted a few pictures from my trips.”
“Oh, boy!” interjected Theresa. “Now come some clues about all the paintings in the house.”
Stormy laughed that wonderful laugh that made his wrinkled face glow with joy.
“We did have some fun! We painted all the time. We had contests with color limitations and size restrictions. We painted on the walls, the furniture, canvas, and paper. When we were alone, we filled the big tub and drew through soapsuds on each other’s backs, requirin’ the ‘painted’ one to guess the design.”
Still smiling, he said, “Theodosia was really ticklish.” He paused. “But now I am an old man, and these are just happy memories. How I loved that woman, even in the last years when she had no idea who I was.” His softened voice trailed off. “I just loved her.”
Theresa didn’t want to interrupt. She was so grateful to hear that this caring man had been with her grandmother during her life and through all the years of her mental decline. Who could wish for better love than what he had felt for Theodosia?
“What happened after day one?” she said, finally. “How did you get from this table to the claw-footed tub?”
“One day at a time. She said she would be comin’ back to Provincetown the next day and would I like to get together. This happened for a number of days in a row, and I began to think she was makin’ up the need for these daily trips. But I didn’t object. Back then, of course, I didn’t have any transportation, so I was unable to offer to drive anywhere to meet her. She had a beautiful Model T Ford, all shiny and black, and was quite a sight behind the wheel, hair blowin’ all directions.
“Well, this went on for three weeks, and she finally admitted that she came only to see me. We just about took over the table that was here and claimed it as our own. We sat and talked until they nearly had to throw us out or sweep the floors around us. She told me all about her marriage and her young daughter at boarding school and how she could not live with a man she did not love.
“At the end of a month, I was scheduled to ship out. Nothing even slightly romantic had passed between us, but I knew I could not leave this woman. I ‘jumped ship,’ so to speak, and decided to try my luck as my own captain. I bought a small fishing boat with my savings and a bank loan and named her ‘Too Late.’ Theodosia didn’t like the name and wanted to rename her ‘Never Too Late,’ but I silently cursed your grandfather and knew the woman I was coming to love could never really be mine.
“The rest is a story of friends becoming lovers, inseparable hearts that beat as one—the beautiful, vivacious, Southern firecracker and the ocean-faring fisherman washed in from the sea. Emily was like a daughter to me when she visited her mother, but when your parents came to live at Whimsy Towers, I mostly stayed at my own apartment in Provincetown. I suspect your grandfather knew of me, but we never spoke of him. We pretended we were a family, and I suppose he pretended the same. Polite masks hid the reality.”
Stormy finished the last bite of his dinner, and Theresa sat wondering why her father had never mentioned the existence of this man. She feared asking Stormy would hurt his feelings. Was a f
amily made of flesh and blood or of endearing relationships? She wanted to draw them all together; she wanted to tell Stormy that she loved him for loving her grandmother.
“Did you stay with Grandmother after my father and I left?”
“Oh, yes. I gave up the apartment that I’d kept for years. We were well beyond appearances at that point, and Theodosia needed me. In many ways those were very happy years for us, quieter years. Fewer parties; less commotion. Ana’s baby came soon after—the ‘mystery baby,’ we called him to ourselves—and we settled in with a different sense of family and routine. I was gone fishin’ during the day and sometimes for several days at a time, but I tried to be home early at night.”
“What do you mean, ‘mystery baby’?”
“Have you met Ana?”
“Not exactly, but I know she still lives nearby and works at the library. I saw her there before I knew who she was.”
“She was wonderful with your grandmother—thoughtful, patient, kind—a shy young thing with dark hair and beautiful skin, barely out of her teens. But not many months after you and Tim left, she announced she was expectin’ a baby. We were stunned. She never gave a hint of who the father was, and we had never even seen her with a man. Theodosia would not consider losing her, however, so Ana stayed and raised her son at Whimsy Towers.
“The house was once again filled with the joy of a baby, and Theodosia doted on that child, transferring the grief of her loss of you into the happiness of watching him grow. As she began to slip from us mentally, she would confuse him with you and then with her own daughter. I guess a mother is always a mother, giving birth to the desire to nurture. She selected the object of her caring from the confused choices in her mind.
“And that little guy loved her, too. They took endless walks on the beach together, and she read to him and taught him to paint, just like the things she had done with you. He’s the one who painted the ceiling in your kitchen. He’s an amazing painter, but his real talent is poetry. He loves to write and has quite a way with words, considering.”
