by Jodi LaPalm
Snuggling closer, we silently watched the fire until it dwindled to a mound of glowing ash.
“Ready to go?” he asked, and I nodded fuzzy agreement. The sun and wine made me tired, and I now dreaded my drive home.
We walked our things through chilly water and climbed the flip-down ladder attached to the rear of the boat. Philip revved the engine, taking care to keep the motor high and free from murky sand and shallow depths. And after expertly backing out, he jokingly waved goodbye to our little island as it faded against a glow of boat lights and became engulfed into the blackness of the lake.
We barely covered a short distance before the motor sputtered and then stopped altogether.
“What the hell?” Philip cursed, flipping the boat key to restart it.
Silence.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, veiling my panic. It was too dark, and I couldn’t see a damn thing.
“The motor won’t turn over,” he calmly explained while reconnecting a new tank of gas to the line. He tried again.
Silence.
“Damn!” he yelled, standing in the middle of the boat, scanning the shoreline. There were no houses on this protected stretch of marshy wetland as Philip so proudly pointed out to me earlier in the day.
“What are we gonna do?” I asked.
He stood quietly for another minute, debating our options. After digging into the side storage pocket, he produced a set of oars.
“Here you go!” he cheerfully handed me one.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. But there’s no need to worry because we’re only taking the boat back to the sandbar.”
“What?” I exclaimed.
“Just paddle, Courtney,” he happily instructed, and I had little choice but to do as he said.
Lacking any coordination or strength necessary to properly drag my oar through the black water and effectively make the boat move, my attempts soon had Philip in near hysterics. Every time we tried to get in synch and as one, his fluid movement got crossed-out by my own jerky one.
Instead of aiming toward the sandbar, we went in a circle.
“Okay, okay,” Philip gasped between fits of laughter, holding his stomach. “Why don’t you just pull it gently along the top layer to help keep it steady?”
So for the rest of the way, he’d paddle at one side to get us ahead and then do the same on the other. And though I felt terrible watching him do all the work, I soon became more riveted by the strong movement of his back muscles against the wispy gleam of moonlight. By the time we came safely upon the sandy island, he’d hardly broken a sweat.
Hopping out, he proceeded to pull the boat far upon the sand and toss the anchor from the back.
“Better safe than sorry. The water down these passages shifts drastically during the night; it could drift miles away,” he explained while grabbing things from within the boat and creating a neat pile.
“Okay, Courtney, hand those to me please,” he instructed, again standing in chilly water. I dutifully gave him the items, and he waded them to dry land. Despite my objections, he carried me to the sandbar. I already had goose bumps, and his arms wrapped around me only served to keep them there.
He quickly made another bonfire before spreading out a blanket and handing me a set of small nylon bags. “Put these on,” he said.
“What are they?”
“It’s an emergency suit. Not too fashionable, but they’ll keep you warm.”
“Wh-what are you going to wear?” I shivered, donning the thin metallic pants and immediately appreciating the inner layer of soft cloth as it warmed my dimpled skin.
“I’ll be fine. I used to live in a teepee remember?” he smiled. But after seeing my creased brow, he continued. “Courtney, I’ll be fine. I have a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt from the boat.”
Coming to me, he enveloped my shaking body in his arms. And I pressed my head against his chest while he massaged my lower back.
“We have blankets–thanks to you, I might add–and the fire. We’ll be fine,” he declared in a soothing tone.
“How long will we have to wait?” I worried.
“I expect someone will come down here right before sun-up. It’s a popular fishing spot.”
“So, we’ll have to sleep here?” I hadn’t spent the night with Philip–anywhere–and the idea of being in this bleak, mysterious place alone with him created an entirely new fear.
“Perhaps,” he answered softly. And as flames bounced tiny streaks of light against our faces, I discovered tormented shadows behind his cool gaze.
“So we wait,” I said bravely.
“So we wait,” he repeated with a shy smile.
Side by side and enveloped in blankets, we stayed close to the fire. My fleece-lined sweatshirt gave enough warmth, so Philip wore the matching space-age top. But after a time, the many layers caused him to over-heat. Shedding the jacket, he moved away from the fire, and the absence of his body left me uncomfortable rather than cold. I pretended an exaggerated shiver, and he immediately returned.
Leaning into him, there rested not only a peace within the embrace but a fundamental conflict as well. For the first time ever, I wanted a man to touch me. But not just any man. It had to be Philip.
Yet despite my emerging desire, I couldn’t find the courage to tell–or show–him my needs. And unfortunately, I knew he wouldn’t initiate any such thing. He was well aware of my fears and too gentlemanly to betray them.
Frustrated over my inability to share this with him, I instead cuddled closer, hoping he’d kinetically understand my message. He didn’t. And eventually the terror inside became too much. What if he rejected me? Or even worse...what if he wanted me back?
Unprepared to deal with either of these outcomes, I slowly moved away from him.
“Warm enough?” he whispered in the dark.
“Tired,” I replied.
“Here.” He eagerly made a cozy sleeping area with all of the blankets.
“But you’ll get cold,” I argued.
“I’ll be fine by the fire,” he promised. “And I have the jacket, just in case.”
I reluctantly laid down, and Philip again sat beside me. Of course, I wasn’t tired. I was anything but tired.
Resting my head on a makeshift pillow of rolled-up blanket, my vision turned askew as I studied the flames. I patiently watched the wind transform burnt yellow to blazing orange and searing red. It amazed me how something destructive and frightening like fire could create such pristine and absolute beauty. And for a brief moment, the idea of life being so much the same flashed into my hypnotized mind.
For while people weren’t at the mercy of a chilly wind, we were often altered forever by unpredictable fates that blew in and out just as quickly. And yet, even when burned beyond recognition, many of us were able to dig out of the ashes and live again.
I was still digging, I grimly determined.
I must have fallen asleep, because I re-opened my eyes to find the fire gone and Philip missing. Far in the distance I heard low voices, and despite my body heat, the goose bumps returned. Unmoving, I considered what to do.
Essentially hyperventilating, I crawled on hands and knees–shredding my pants against rocks and other materials embedded in the sand-until I was partially hidden in some trees. The metallic material crudely hissed with every movement, and my overly-perceptive ears imagined whomever was out there scurrying toward me to discover the sound.
The voices-now distinguishable as male-were getting closer, and I unconsciously cowered deeper into the brush. Some critter ran behind my back, and I stifled a scream, biting my tongue so hard, the pungent taste of blood gushed inside my mouth. Rather than spit and create any noise, I unwillingly swallowed it down my dry throat.
Without the fire, I couldn’t see anything and since Philip searched the trees for kindling, I really had no idea how far back this floating island went. I made preparations to get up and run when I heard a man yell.
***
A toddler’s wailing burst through my reverie. And after watching the little girl run around my table and shriek bloody murder minute upon minute, I finally narrowed my eyes in search of the mother.
I guessed her to be the woman, seated at the farthest end of the shop, calmly watching in silence and chatting with a friend. I immediately felt the fury rush from my rapidly beating chest until it finally flushed my cheeks and neck with pink splotches.
As a parent, I well-understood its trials and often empathized with others in the same predicament. Yet, whenever I witnessed someone intentionally ignoring their role to either calm or discipline a child, I became livid.
Alex always chided me for my impatience when it came to lazy parents. But I believed it part of my duty to keep my misbehaving children from creating chaos for others who might be in our space. For in my opinion, it was one thing for the kids to ruin my social experience, but it was entirely unacceptable for them to ruin a complete stranger’s as well.
Disregarding my inner fury, I solemnly sipped coffee. And by the time I finished, the culprits left, with the mother walking beside the friend while the little girl unhappily lagged behind as an apparent afterthought.
The aggravation remained, however, over the loss of my past. Recalling that time with Philip had been surprisingly wonderful, and I desperately wanted it back.
Forcing myself to erase the present, I instead centered every thought to that sandbar. I readily sought out the putrid smell of dead fish, stinging cuts upon my hands and knees, pitch-black air, and puckering taste of chardonnay in my mouth. But more importantly, I wanted to hear his voice again...
***
“Courtney? Where are you?” his voice concealed worry.
Philip.
“Courtney?” he called again.
Hidden by trees, I fought the natural urge to cry to him.
“Courtney!” he was fraught now. “We’ve got help!”
Registering his words, I exhaled and stole a moment to regain my composure before emerging into view.
“There you are!” Philip said with obvious relief. “What were you doing?”
“Um. Needed to go to the bathroom,” I lied.
“The Lake Patrol is here, and they’re going to give us a tow back to the house,” he explained, waving his hand toward two men.
I suspiciously eyed them up and down before peering over Philip’s shoulder and spying a boat emblazoned with a shining star on its side. “Great. That’s great,” I breathed.
After escorting me into their boat and making sure the tow-rope was secure, the officers drove us back. The ride was mercifully quick, and I blindly walked the unlit path toward the warm house while Philip gave his information and thank yous to the men.
Once inside, I still couldn’t get warm so he expertly lit the fireplace. My elation over being safe rather than stranded on a cold sandbar soon turned to dread, however.
It was far too late to venture home, yet in no way had I remotely imagined our first overnight would occur here in this cottage where she was everywhere. All I saw-from wall to wall-were photos of her kids, books upon her shelves, and curtains on her windows. Philip hadn’t made time to change anything nor did he try because of his children.
My change in expression prompted him to pull me by his side. “I’m sorry our three-hour tour almost turned us into castaways,” he joked, misunderstanding my angst.
“It’s okay. Kind of fun,” I halfheartedly smiled.
“Are you okay staying here?”
“Sure. Just wiped out is all.”
“I’ll make you another bed!” he said with over-enthusiasm and left the room.
I knew he hoped I’d love this place as much as he did. And I did appreciate it: for the unmatched craftsmanship, glorious location, and historical connection to Philip. The land had been in his family for decades. Yet, as a woman, I couldn’t help but see her feminine stamp on everything.
His wife had already been given the privilege of playing house here before I ever possibly could. And her presence would remain-in many ways-forever.
Philip returned carrying a pile of downy comforters, cozy blankets, and goose-down pillows. And after skillfully moving the coffee table and pushing the sofa back a few inches, he handily made a luxuriously soft bed.
“Ta Da!” he proudly displayed his masterpiece.
“Looks great. Thank you!” His efforts to make me happy erased any attempts at self-pity. “Um. Where are you going to sleep?”
“In my room,” he quickly replied.
I excused myself to use the bathroom. Upon closer scrutiny in the mirror, I only now noticed my disheveled hair and sunburned skin. Using a small pump of hand-soap, I washed my face and combed fingertips through knotted strands until satisfied. I changed into the extra tank-top and shorts I’d packed, deciding they’d make better pajamas than my sandy clothes.
When I returned to the living room, Philip wasn’t there. I heard running water, hidden somewhere down the hall, and guessed he was taking a shower. Stealing these rare moments to better explore the house, I peered closely at things I intentionally glazed over before.
I dragged fingertips along the marble kitchen counter-top and peeked into pine cupboards. Surprised to see them organized, I immediately wondered if he kept them that way or just never cooked. In the refrigerator, I found fresh fruit and the traditional condiments. Grabbing an open wine bottle from the side door, I searched upper shelves for stemware. Finding some, I poured a glass to its rim.
Amidst sips, I strolled down a hall toward the sound of the shower. Mustering my courage, I drank most of the glass before entering what appeared to be the master bedroom. It was dark and shapes of furniture blended into shadows cast from a sliver of light beneath the bathroom door. Through it, I heard Philip gleefully whistling some 70s rock song.
I wondered where his joy came from.
Before I could determine its source, however, the water stopped. Fearing I’d be caught snooping, I ran quietly from the room. And when Philip finally joined me, I was perched on the couch, staring into the fire as if I’d been there the entire time.
“Hey! Wine! What a great idea!” He sauntered to the kitchen and poured one.
“I hope you don’t mind I helped myself,” I apologized.
“Not at all. In fact, I’m happy you felt comfortable enough to do so.” He raised his own glass in the air. “To daring rescues! Prost!”
He downed most of his drink in one long thirsty gulp, then settled by my side. As was his custom, he waited for me to move toward him when ready, patiently twisting his fingers into my hair.
“It’s a mess thanks to the lake wind,” I explained.
He buried his nose, inhaling deeply.
“You smell like the water now,” he whispered. “It’s one of my favorite things.” He took my glass and placed it on the table next to his before coming back to me. Stifling a yawn, he tenderly grabbed my hand.
“You’re tired,” I stated, suppressing my own yawn.
“You are, too,” he quietly chuckled. “Why don’t you get comfortable? I’ll stay with you a bit and make sure the fire goes out.”
I looked at the flames, noticing they still raged inside and showed no signs of subsiding.
After I sat upon the downy floor, he joined me. Ever careful not to get too close or cross imaginary boundaries, he propped a pillow against the couch and rested. I laid my head against his shoulder, and with an absence of words or movement, the room became engulfed in unbroken silence and restless bodies. Trying to dissuade what I truly felt, I allowed my mind to stray onto more harmless, yet significant, paths.
Without the agony of life, we could never appreciate the ecstasy. This I knew. However, I mused, what was a person supposed to do when pain tainted everything and essentially hid any potential beauty?
Just then Philip began to snore, softly, and I subtly moved from his embrace. Gazing at his features in the heated glow, I noticed his dark hair was still
wet from the shower, and the tendrils naturally curled in response to the drying warmth of the fire.
Though my skin burned from the sun, his turned a deeper shade of golden brown and now radiated in the flickering light. The grooves forming along his eyes and forehead became smooth with sleep, and I impulsively traced the fine-spun layers.
