by Jane Heller
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “My husband left me for his first wife. My house was about to go into foreclosure. I couldn’t pay my bills. I couldn’t make enough money writing articles for the Community Times and I couldn’t get a writing job anywhere else. So I answered an ad in the paper and took a job as Melanie Moloney’s housekeeper.” There, I said it.
Cullie stared at me for a few seconds and shook his head. “Are you giving me another cha cha cha?” he asked finally.
“Another what?”
“Another cha cha cha. You know, handing me a line of bull. Trying to make me believe you’re something you’re not. That’s what my dad called it—giving someone the old cha cha cha.”
“I’m telling you the truth. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself. Nobody in town knows I’m scrubbing toilets for a living.”
“I’m sorry but I don’t believe a word you’re saying, Mrs. Koff. Alison.” Cullie laughed and turned to leave. “The woman who ordered me around Maplebarf Manor would never be caught scrubbing toilets for a living.”
“I wasn’t caught—until today,” I said to Cullie’s back as he walked down Melanie’s front steps.
He stopped, turned to face me, shot me a long, questioning look, then shook his head again. “I don’t buy it,” he said. “You’re no housekeeper. Not my Mrs. Koff. You’re giving me the old cha cha cha, just like I said.”
I watched Cullie climb into his black Jeep and drive away. My Mrs. Koff, he’d said. That had a nice ring to it. Too bad he didn’t give two shits about me. Too bad he had such an attitude. Too bad I had finally revealed my big secret to someone and the someone didn’t even believe me.
Thoroughly dejected, I trudged down the hall to the laundry room and found the rug cleaner Melanie insisted I use. Then I went to her office and set about removing all traces of Todd’s spilled coffee. As I got down on all fours to scrub the carpet, I began to replay the conversation with Cullie. If only I’d said this. If only he’d said that. If only Todd hadn’t walked in on us. If only Melanie had been home to answer the door herself. Suddenly, I wondered why the security guard at the gatehouse hadn’t called to announce Cullie’s arrival the way he always did when a Bluefish Cove resident had a visitor. I’d just have to ask Layton’s answer to Ansel Adams the next time I ran into him, which, to my absolute amazement, turned out to be the next evening—at his initiation.
I had just gotten home from work when my phone rang. Assuming the caller was either my mother or a loan officer from Layton Bank & Trust, I let the answering machine in my office pick up. As I screened the call, I heard a vaguely familiar male voice speak after the beep.
“Hey, Mrs. Koff. Alison. I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow night. Waterside table. Good food. Good company. Whaddayasay? Call me. 555-9080. Oh—this is Cullie Harrington. Bye.”
Cullie asking me out on a date? I nearly fainted. I didn’t believe it until I had replayed his message ten times. He had called to ask me out! I couldn’t get over it! It had been so long since I’d been out with a man that the very idea of it both thrilled and terrified me. But what about that Hadley person Cullie’d been with at McGavin’s that night? And what about his derisive attitude toward me?
Oh, call him back already, I reprimanded myself. So what if he spends the entire evening goofing on you. You’ll get a free meal out of the deal.
At seven-thirty, I dialed Cullie’s number.
“Hello?” he answered.
“This is Alison,” I said matter-of-factly, trying to sound as if I called Cullie Harrington on a regular basis.
“Good, you got my message. Are we on for tomorrow night? Or do you work for Melanie on Saturday nights?”
“I thought you didn’t believe I was Melanie’s housekeeper,” I tested him.
“Yeah, and I’m sorry about that. I believe you now.”
“How come?”
“I called Janet Claiborne at Prestige Properties this afternoon.”
“You told her I was Melanie’s maid?” Telling Janet Claiborne was like telling “A Current Affair.”
“Relax. She doesn’t know a thing. I called her to check out the rest of your story—about your husband leaving you for his first wife and your problems with your house. She confirmed all that, so I figured you must be telling the truth about the maid part, too.”
“Gee. Cullie Harrington thinks I’m telling the truth. I can finally sleep at night,” I muttered.
“Hey, let’s call a truce. I called you because I wanted to apologize for not believing you. How about letting me take you to dinner?”
“Your message said something about a waterfront restaurant. Which one did you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprise,” Cullie said. “I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow night.”
“What’s the dress?” Most of the really nice restaurants in Layton had a dress code.
“Casual. You do own casual clothes, don’t you?”
“Don’t you ever quit?”
“Sorry. See you tomorrow night.”
“Right.”
“Alison?”
“Yes?”
“Chin up. I promise not to make fun of the name of your house or anything else about you.”
“It’s about time.”
“Pick you up tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Maplebarf Manor.” Click.
Chapter 8
At precisely seven o’clock, Cullie rang my doorbell. “Nice to see you again,” I said, determined to get the evening off to a good start. “Would you like to come in for a drink?” I, for one, could have used a drink. I was so nervous you’d think I was a high school girl instead of a two-time divorcée.
“No, thanks. We’ve got a seven-thirty reservation and I don’t want to be late.”
Boy, this waterfront restaurant must be a popular spot. Which one was it? Chez Pascal was on Layton Harbor, but the dress code there was jacket-and-tie, not casual. Les Fruits de Mer was on the Harbor, too, but it was closed during the winter season. Where could Cullie Harrington be taking me? I wondered as I let him help me on with my jacket. He didn’t strike me as a cognoscente of the hottest places in town. But then, I didn’t know much about him, did I? I only knew that he took terrific pictures, had a major attitude, and looked as appealing in reality as he did in my fantasies. His blue eyes sparkled behind his tortoise-shell glasses, his complexion was ruddy from exposure to the brisk outdoors, and his trim, athletic body was shown off by the same faded jeans and navy-blue-and-white ski sweater he’d worn the first day I’d seen him. The only new wrinkle to his appearance was the hint of lime-scented aftershave that made him smell like a Caribbean sea breeze.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
As he held my elbow to guide me out the front door, I felt a surge of warmth flood my body. Probably a hot flash, I told myself. I was only thirty-nine and had never experienced a single menopausal symptom, but I wasn’t ready to accept my overwhelming desire for Cullie. I had never felt an overwhelming desire for any man, and I didn’t quite know what to make of it.
As we drove through town in Cullie’s black Jeep Cherokee, he pointed out the estates he’d photographed. I asked him how he came to shoot luxury properties for a living.
“I used to shoot boats for brokers and charter companies,” he explained. “Boats are my passion. But when the yachting business started to go down the tubes, one of the brokers suggested I move into corporate jets. So I shot Lears and Gulfstreams for a while, then moved on to houses. Now I do real estate exclusively. That’s where the money is. Not the kind of money you people consider money, but enough to keep me in cheeseburgers.”
“I thought we had a truce,” I scolded him.
“Right. Sorry. So how about you? How did you come to clean luxury properties for a living? It can’t be easy to go from owning an estate to cleaning one.”
“No, it isn’t easy. But it’s not the actual cleaning part that bothers
me. In a weird way, I enjoy housework. Dirt is just about the only thing in life I have some control over. If the floor is dirty, I mop it. If the sink is dirty, I scrub it. My other problems should be so easy to solve.”
“Then what is it about your job at Melanie Moloney’s that’s so tough?”
“Melanie herself. She doesn’t treat me like a person; she treats me like a servant. It’s devastating to be treated like a servant, believe me.”
“Tell me about it. Last December I went to shoot a big house in Layton. It was below zero outside, and this lady made me use the service entrance, which meant that I had to lug my equipment all the way around the property to the back of the house. I almost broke my neck—and froze my ass off. Then she made me work without shoes so I wouldn’t get her floors dirty.”
I was about to commiserate with Cullie when I realized that I was the lady he was complaining about. “I don’t blame you for resenting me.”
“Hey, I don’t resent you. I’m taking you to dinner, remember? I’m just glad you’re getting the picture.”
“I’m beginning to.”
What I wasn’t getting was any sense of where Cullie’s fancy waterfront restaurant was. He seems to be heading out of Layton, I thought, as we passed through the outskirts of town. Then I saw an “Entering Jessup” sign on the side of the road. Jessup? There weren’t any good restaurants in Jessup, waterfront or otherwise. There wasn’t anything in Jessup except a trailer park, a 7-Eleven store, and a Kmart. So what did people in Jessup do for entertainment? Rumor had it, they had fun the old-fashioned way: they got laid. There were no gourmet food shops, no BMW dealers, and no second homes in Jessup, although the recently laid-off Wall Streeters who could no longer afford their high-ticket weekend places in Layton were starting to “discover” Jessup. My guess was that it wouldn’t be long before the town became the scene du jour.
“Still won’t tell me where we’re going?” I asked Cullie.
“Nope. But we’re almost there.”
We were heading toward the water. That much I knew. But what could we…oh, God. I suddenly realized where Cullie was taking me: Arnie’s All Clammed Up at the Jessup Marina. He’d said boats were his passion, but Arnie’s All Clammed Up? Oh, please, no. Not there. People actually died from eating that food. I’d never been there, of course, but everybody said it was absolutely dreadful…a hangout for the county’s seamier element…a beer-soaked dive filled with men who had lots of tattoos but no teeth…a dockside clam bar that smelled more like low tide than haute cuisine.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Cullie pulled his Jeep into the marina parking lot. Just keep your mouth shut, I told myself. If this man’s nice enough to invite you to dinner, the least you can do is act grateful. So you won’t touch the food. You can eat when you get home.
“Here we are,” Cullie said proudly as he came around to my side of the car and opened my door.
“Yes,” I managed.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asked as we climbed onto the dock and walked toward the restaurant, which was a big, dilapidated white clapboard building in desperate need of a paint job, a new roof, and a new neon sign (it currently read: “A nie’s All Clamed Up”).
“No, this is my first time.” I tried to sound enthusiastic.
When we got to the restaurant’s front deck, I started to climb the steps to the entrance, but Cullie grabbed my arm. “Hey, where are you going?” he said. “That’s not the waterfront restaurant I’m taking you to. I’m taking you to my place.” He smiled broadly and his eyes twinkled.
Now I was mystified. There were no other restaurants at the marina, just dozens of boats of all shapes and sizes, tied up along the pier waiting for springtime.
I let Cullie lead me through a maze of docks until we stopped at the end of one of them. “Here we are,” he beamed.
“Here? But this is somebody’s boat.” I was confused. I was standing in front of what appeared to be a forty-foot sailboat, the rear of which bore the name “Marlowe. Jessup, CT.” I knew nothing about boats, but anyone could tell this one was a beauty. It was all wood—hunter green with teak decks and varnished trim—and it glistened on the water under the evening stars.
“Come aboard,” Cullie said, helping me onto Marlowe’s gently rocking deck.
“But this is somebody’s boat,” I said again, hoping we wouldn’t get arrested.
“No kidding, Mrs. Koff. Whatsamatter, you’ve never been on a sailboat?”
“Me?”
“What? No sense of adventure?”
“Are you nuts? My idea of adventure is taking my Porsche to a carwash that isn’t brushless.”
Cullie laughed as he unfastened a hook that resembled a pelican’s beak and motioned for me to step down into the boat’s cockpit. Then he unbolted a pair of teak louvered doors. “I’ll just slide open the hatch and down we’ll go,” he said cheerfully. “Voilà!”
I peeked into the cabin below and was surprised to find a cozy, romantically lit refuge from the outside world. “What’s that?” I said, as the aroma of garlic and herbs drifted languorously into my nostrils. “It smells absolutely divine.”
“Come with me.” Cullie helped me down the narrow steps into the cabin. “There. What do you think?” he said, holding out his hand as he surveyed the interior of the boat. “Welcome to Chez Cullie, my humble abode which, on special occasions, doubles as a waterside restaurant-for-two.”
“Your humble abode? You live here?”
“Every day of the year. I’m what they call a ‘live-aboard.’”
Cullie Harrington was full of surprises. His boat was fabulous, from the fully equipped galley on the port side of the main salon featuring a stove/oven, double sink, small refrigerator, and teak louvered cabinets, to the salon itself—a stunning combination den/dining room/bedroom, complete with green-and-white-plaid upholstered berths, teak shelves for books and audiotapes, a propane heater, kerosene lanterns, and a mahogany table that could be folded up and stored on the wall when not in use but was now set with linen mats and napkins, a bud vase filled with yellow mums, and a brass ice bucket in which a bottle of white wine was chilling.
Just as I was about to tell Cullie how wonderful everything looked, his phone rang. I pointed to the mobile phone that hung on a bracket over the navigation station where he kept his charts, radio, and depth sounder, and said, “Aren’t you going to get that?”
“It’s Saturday night,” he smiled. “I’m entertaining.”
I smiled back and continued to explore the cabin.
“How about a drink? Then I’ll give you the tour,” he said.
“What have you got?”
“White wine and Mount Gay Rum.”
“I’ll take the white wine, thanks.” I’d never heard of Mount Gay Rum, but I was sure it was something that would make me lose my inhibitions; I needed them to keep me from jumping Cullie’s bones and making a complete fool of myself.
He brought me an ice-cold glass of Pinot Grigio, made himself a rum-and-tonic, and flipped on the stereo that had been built into a shelf over one of the berths.
“You like the Everly Brothers?” I asked as sounds of “Bye Bye Love” floated through the cabin. The Everlys were my favorite singers when I was a kid.
“They’re the best,” he answered. “I’m a purist, and their harmony is as pure as it gets. So’s this sailboat. It’s a John Alden schooner built in 1932 by the finest wooden boat craftsmen in Maine.”
“Show me,” I said eagerly, utterly fascinated by Cullie’s unusual mode of habitation.
“First, a toast,” he said, raising his glass. “To Marlowe’s new guest.”
“I’ll drink to that. And to Marlowe’s host.” Cullie and I clinked glasses. “How did Marlowe gets its name, anyway?”
“From the Joseph Conrad character,” he explained. “Conrad’s sea stories are favorites of mine.”
“I’m not surprised. But wasn’t Marlowe more of a commentator than an adventurer?”
>
“Maybe that’s why I relate to him. I don’t live the kind of emotionally empty life that a lot of the people in Layton do, but I sure know the horror of it when I see it.”
“I don’t want to shatter the relative calm we’ve established thus far tonight, but why on earth are you so bitter toward people with money?”
“I’ll tell you when we get to be better friends,” Cullie said, dancing around the question. “I’d rather tell you about Marlowe.”
“Fair enough. You said the boat was built in the 1930s. How did you come to be its owner?”
“My ex-wife and I used to spend the month of August sailing the coast of Maine. Preston’s family summered in Northeast Harbor, which wasn’t far from where I found Marlowe.”
“Ex-wife? You’re divorced?”
“Yeah, for nine years. Preston didn’t go for the idea of rebuilding a derelict boat from the keel up and then living on it.”
“Preston? Cullie? Hadley? What ever happened to normal first names?”
“I have a normal first name. It’s Charles. My full name is Charles Cullver Harrington, but I’ve always gone by Cullie. Haven’t you ever had a nickname? Ally, or maybe Sonny?”
“My second husband used to call me Allergy, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. No, I’ve always been just plain Alison.”
Cullie smiled. “There’s nothing ‘just plain’ about you, Mrs. Koff. Would you like me to call you Sonny?”
I nodded. The nickname appealed to me. “So tell me more about the boat. You rebuilt this baby from scratch?”
“You better believe it. It broke up my marriage and cost me every penny I had, but it was worth it, wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded again, although I wasn’t buying that it was Cullie’s passion for his sailboat that had broken up his marriage. I had recently come to understand that when two people marry for love, not money or status or security, the marriage isn’t easily broken up, not by a boat or anything else.
“I saw an ad for the boat in Soundings, a monthly boating newspaper with lots of classifieds. The ad read: ‘43-Foot Alden Schooner 1932. Needs Rebuilding.’ Since John Alden was one of this century’s great designers, I jumped at the chance of owning one of his boats. And since this Alden boat was a schooner, I really jumped.”
