Chapter Two
The swelling strings of a Puccini aria were spilling out of his stereo speakers when Sam heard the scratching at his back door. No doubt the dog had finally realized he’d taken off this morning without getting his breakfast first.
Sam finished wiping the windowsill where he’d spilled his coffee and glanced outside once more as if the woman might still be there.
Strange things happened all the time once the summer people came to the cape, but he had to say he’d never seen a woman riding naked through town on a bicycle before. In his opinion, it was an improvement over the typical tourist problems of drunkenness, litter, noise, illegal parking, and a formidable line outside The Lighthouse for breakfast.
Wadding up the paper towel in his hand, he headed for the back of the house and pushed open the screen door. The large white dog trotted in manfully, for all the world as if a fanfare of trumpets heralded his arrival.
“Good morning, Duke. Up to no good?” Sam asked conversationally.
One of Duke’s ears flicked in Sam’s direction, the only sign that he’d heard.
Sam had found the dog a year ago on the beach up near Truro. He’d been wearing no collar and sported neither a tattoo nor, as the shelter discovered, a microchip. Sam posted signs all over the cape and checked in with animal shelters from Hyannis to Provincetown, but nobody ever claimed him, so Sam decided to keep him. Or the dog had decided to keep Sam. One way or the other, they’d stayed together.
The name Duke had come easily. For some reason it was the first one that sprang to Sam’s mind, and the dog responded to it immediately. Ever since then, however, Duke had acted as if Sam were born to serve him. With his thick white coat, pricked ears, and high, curling tail, the dog had an attitude of authority that one found oneself obeying before giving it any thought.
Duke, indeed, Sam had thought on many occasions. Still, he was a gentle animal, who rarely caused trouble. He just went where he wanted, when he wanted, and nobody could stop him.
Sam studied the dog’s coat for evidence he’d been rolling in dead things, but aside from a shower of sand from his feet and a few bits of seaweed clinging to his fur, he appeared as white as when he’d left.
Grabbing the broom, which was always at the ready, Sam swept the offending grit out the door. Then he stepped onto the porch to sweep the sand into the grass behind the house. The yard was small, only about fifteen feet deep, but it was enough to buffer the house from the marsh beyond. He stood for a moment, looking at the morning sun on the water, the fresh smell of salt water mixing with the warmth of the soil making him take a deep, lung-expanding breath.
Between the view and the Puccini, he felt like the day promised something special. Something the bizarre spectacle of the morning had only portended. He smiled, surveying the yard. He was proud of the new bronze sculpture he’d bought that spring, an abstract that stood near the edge of the marsh, echoing the feel of the cattails and grasses. He planned to add more art pieces when he had the funds, maybe some iron and stonework, too.
As he turned to go inside, something on the grass near the short gravel drive caught his eye. For a moment Sam thought the white heap was a plastic shopping bag, but it looked too big for that. He stepped off the porch and strode toward it, thinking, Sure enough, litter hits the town the same time as the tourists. It was like clockwork.
But when he reached the mass he saw that it wasn’t white, but pale yellow. And it wasn’t a plastic bag but an article of clothing. He plucked it from the ground with two fingers and held it aloft. Covered with sand and sporting bits of kelp, he saw that it was a dress. A woman’s sundress, to be precise.
He looked from the dress in his hand toward the back door of his house, putting two and two and two together. And getting a mess.
Low laughter started in the back of his throat. A runaway dog, a naked bicyclist, and the sudden appearance of a dress all pointed to one thing: somehow Duke had stolen that poor woman’s clothes. No wonder she’d been pedaling so fast. She wasn’t an exhibitionist; she’d been robbed.
He took the thing up in both hands and shook it. Much of the seaweed and a lot of sand showered onto the ground at his feet. It was a flimsy little affair, made of some knit material with spaghetti straps and a three-button vee at the front. Pale yellow. Like the woman’s hair.
He folded it over an arm and headed back to the house. The chances of his figuring out where she was staying were slim. For one thing, he didn’t have a lot of time this week to be searching out the rental houses along the oceanside. He had three articles to write for various publications on the latest classical music releases.
For another thing, something he’d noted in the woman’s posture told him she’d probably rather be without the dress than know that someone had seen her riding naked through the streets at the crack of dawn.
What the hell, he thought. He’d wash it anyway. She’d probably be gone at the end of the week, and he’d never see her, but just in case he ran into her, he’d have it ready. Why should she care if some stranger had seen her panicked flight this morning? It wasn’t as if she’d ever see him again.
Gray stood looking at the sign for Dunkirk’s Den, the bar where all the locals reputedly hung out. Had she been interested in being herself, she would have gone to Aesop’s Tables in the middle of town. With a lovely front lawn filled with tables, and the cozy lounge upstairs, it was just the type of place Cynthia Gray Gilliam of McLean, Virginia, would have patronized.
But tonight she was just Gray, of Gull Cottage Lane, Wellfleet, and despite her friend’s protests, she was still convinced that trying to be more like Rachel was a good idea.
Look at this morning, she told herself. So what if she’d had to ride home naked on a bicycle? She’d had twenty minutes of exhilaration first.
She briefly put a hand to her forehead to forestall the automatic blush the memory incited. It was only embarrassment, she reminded herself. And embarrassment did not count as something bad happening.
She’d had an incredible, early-morning swim, learned what it felt like to be naked out-of-doors—something she was sure she hadn’t done since she was a toddler, if then—and she had a hilarious story to tell her friends. No harm, no foul, as her ex-boyfriend Lawrence would say.
She shook her head to rid it of Lawrence. It had been over a year since their breakup, and in that time he’d gotten married. It was past time to get him out of her mind.
Still, her stomach somersaulted at the idea of going into the basement bar. It looked dark and seedy. She bet it sold only Budweiser. The bathrooms were probably disgusting. But music blared happily from within, and if she wanted to be different than herself, well, this seemed to be the place. Not to mention that somebody here might be able to tell her the story of the Duke of Dunkirk.
Go with guts, she thought, straightening her shoulders.
She doubted if even Rachel or Robert had ever come here.
In deference to the venue she’d chosen, Gray had dressed down. She wore jeans with her Etienne Aignier flats and carried a small, Coach clutch purse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore only the barest of makeup with her white Ralph Lauren sweatshirt. Simple diamond studs adorned her ears, her only jewelry other than a Cartier watch.
It was as casual as Cynthia Gray Gilliam got. And while she knew it was not what some would consider Dunkirk’s Den material, she had to content herself with the fact that her mother would have tackled her at the front door if she’d been around to know her daughter was actually going out in these clothes and not painting the house.
Not that her mother was here, of course. No, she was home in Virginia, disapproving of Gray telepathically, as usual.
Inhaling deeply—go with guts, go with guts—Gray headed for the door just as a large man in a small tank top pushed out of the bar and belched into the balmy evening air.
“Oh, excuse me,” Gray said automatically, as if she’d interrupted a private moment.
The
man grunted as she took the weight of the door from him. He gave her a look as if he meant to turn around and follow her back in, but she scooted past him into the bar.
“No problem,” he slurred belatedly, as the door shut in his face.
The place was dark and undistinguished. Chrome stools with black vinyl seats surrounded a horseshoe bar, around which tables lined the dark-paneled walls. On the far side was a tiny dance floor with, incongruously, a dartboard on one side. Gray had a moment of imagining the mishaps that could occur if the two activities went on simultaneously, then reminded herself that she was not the Safety Inspector or anyone else who needed to care about such things.
She made her way to the bar and sat gingerly on one of the stools, half-hoping the enormous sumo wrestler behind the bar wouldn’t notice her.
He did.
He sauntered over, pushed a cocktail napkin in front of her, and asked, “What can I get for yah?”
She licked her lips. “Um. Could I, uh, get a glass of wine?” Her voice rose at the end as if expecting the man to scoff at anything other than an order of beer, or maybe a piratesized shot of rum.
“Sure. What kind?” He looked at her passively.
She smiled in return. Of course they had wine. She was being ridiculous. Every place had wine. “Oh, let’s see. Maybe a chardonnay—or wait, a Pinot Grigio, I think.” She smiled again. “If you’ve got it?”
He chewed for a second on what she hoped was a piece of gum, studied her, then said, “What kind, white or red?”
Gray flushed from head to foot, wished she could flee, then said in a small voice, “White, please.”
He leaned toward her, music bouncing all around them. “Did you say ‘white’?”
She nodded and glanced around so self-consciously she didn’t actually see anyone as much as hope to make them look away from her.
The man took a glass down from a rack overhead and filled it from a tap with a white handle. Next to it was a tap with a red handle. And below the taps Gray was sure were two large boxes of something labeled WINE.
He deposited the full glass in front of her, and asked, “Want to start a tab?”
Still frozen with embarrassment, Gray could not imagine fishing into her purse for money at that moment. “Uh, sure.”
He nodded and moved to the register.
Gray exhaled a long, slow breath.
Across the bar, Sam Gregory eyed the young woman with great curiosity. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in this bar. Which was saying nothing. But she might also be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in Wellfleet. Or in Massachusetts. Hell, maybe anywhere.
In the light from the neon Budweiser sign over the bar, her skin glowed like a white sand beach in moonlight. Her wide eyes shone like sea glass under elegantly lean brows. Add to that her thick wavy hair and ballerina bearing, and he was turning into a poet trying to justify why he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Then there was that demure little smile with the upraised lashes she’d given Roy. Roy, who’d thought she’d ordered “some Grecian formula” when she’d said “Pinot Grigio.”
He chuckled to himself. She was a fish out of water, all right. Though not as out of water as she had been that morning.
For unless he missed his bet, he was certain this was his Schwinn-riding Lady Godiva. And he’d be a fool not to come to her aid now that he’d been given a second chance.
The question was, how did you go about mentioning to a woman you’d never met that you had her clothes?
Gray sipped her wine fast, eyes darting around the bar, trying to pick out who wouldn’t scare her to death if they came over to talk. Or who, if it came to it, she might consider going to talk to herself. She hadn’t really considered what to do once she’d braved the door, and was wondering if perhaps throwing out one’s entire personality was really the route to take to become someone new.
But really, didn’t she owe it to her commitment to change to give it everything she had? Surely riding naked through town on a bicycle had been the start of something momentous.
Then again, it might have been enough for one day.
A stringy-haired woman in the corner nursed a brown drink in a short glass, but she looked glassy-eyed and despondent, and seemed already to be talking to someone despite the fact that no one was near. It seemed naïve to think she might be wearing a Bluetooth when her shoes didn’t match.
There were two men drinking and watching ESPN on the TV, but neither of them looked particularly friendly. In fact they both looked a little tough, with their thin hard faces and sinewy tattooed arms.
There was a guy playing a pinball game, and another playing video poker, and then there was the sumo-wrestler bartender, who had not indicated any sort of interest in a conversation with her beyond “red or white.”
Finally, there was a tall thin guy in worn khaki shorts and a faded red tee shirt coming around the bar with a beer in his hand. A Budweiser, of course.
Where had he been? she wondered. She hadn’t noticed him before, but then half the bar was so badly lit it was hard to see beyond the glare of the oversized TV hanging in the corner of the well where the liquor bottles were.
He was normal-looking, she thought, eyeing him covertly. Which was a good thing because it looked as if he were coming toward her.
Sure enough he sat down next to her, straddle-legged on the stool, facing her.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?” he asked pleasantly. His voice was low and had a husky quality to it that made the cheesy come-on seem more intimate than it would have otherwise.
Make up that line yourself? she wanted to ask, but that would have been rude. And despite the fact that Rachel would have said it, Gray smiled, and said, “Do you think this is a dump?”
His eyes, light-colored and sharp in a face that was otherwise friendly, made a slow loop around their surroundings and lit back on her. “I think it defines ‘dump.’ Don’t you?”
People were awfully blunt here. Must be a northern thing, she guessed, and chalked it up as something else she needed to try. Bluntness.
“I suppose I do,” she said, her tone emerging primly.
She picked up her wineglass. The beverage was more like grape brine than wine, but for Gray it beat cheap beer.
“But it’s fun. You know, kind of.” She looked uncertainly around again. “Is it always so empty? I thought there’d be more people here.”
“It’s early.” He placed his beer on the bar next to him. “This place doesn’t really get going until after ten or so.”
He didn’t have the same hard edges as the rest of the patrons, and from what she could tell from their brief exchange, he seemed educated. She wondered if he was a tourist or a resident.
“So what are you doing here, if you think it’s a dump?”
He grinned, and Gray was struck by the thought that he was nice-looking. Strange thing not to notice right off. The smile did it, though. Deep dimples and appealing crow’s-feet made him distinctly handsome.
“I like dumps.” He tilted his head. “But I don’t think that’s true of you. Which leaves only one conclusion.”
She eyed him while sipping her wine again. “Which is?”
“You’re slumming.”
“Slumming?” Gray tried unsuccessfully to look surprised. It was exactly how she felt. Still, she didn’t need to admit it to this guy. Something told her he’d hold it against her. Heck, everybody in the room would hold it against her, but she got the feeling this guy was testing her. And she’d never failed a test in her life.
He cocked a grin at her. “Aren’t you?”
“Are you judging me, Mr….?” She knew calling him “Mister” anything was ridiculous, but it was the closest she could come to his cheeky banter.
He laughed, and she thought again that he was nice-looking. In a Jekyll-Hyde kind of way. “Sam. My name is Sam. And I am being something of a jackass. I apologize. It’s just
that I’ve never seen a woman who looked like you in this place.”
She looked at her drink, unwilling to be flattered, if that was indeed what he meant. It was hard to tell. “So you were judging me.”
“Aren’t you judging me? Aren’t we all judging each other?” He flagged the bartender.
“Sounds like barroom philosophizing to me.” She took another sip of her wine, which she was pleased to note had become almost palatable. It meant she could finish it and leave. She’d gotten out of her comfort zone, been gutsy for one full drink; maybe she could give herself a break and have a nice dinner at Aesop’s Tables.
“Sometimes that’s the only kind of philosophizing that makes sense,” Sam said.
She picked up her purse to retrieve her wallet when the bartender placed another drink in front of her and one in front of Sam.
“Oh, I didn’t order that,” she protested.
“I know.” The sumo wrestler pointed to Sam. “He did.”
Sam picked up his beer and saluted her. “Cheers,” he said. “Ms….?”
She gave him a brief, undecided look, then picked up the glass. What the heck, she thought. It beat going back to her haunted home. Besides, if she couldn’t be gutsy with this brazen fellow, who could she be gusty with?
“My name is Gray,” she said with a smile.
“Gray?” He started to chuckle.
She shot him a warning look that had no effect on him whatsoever. Oddly, this made her feel better about his teasing.
“I’d’ve pegged you for more of a Saffron. Maybe even a Magenta. But Gray?” He shook his head, smiling. “No way.”
“It’s a family name.”
“The Crayola family?”
“My first name is Cynthia,” she explained, trying to clarify—what? That she was not in fact a crayon? He was joking, for pity’s sake, and she was acting like the schoolmarm she was.
“Ah.” He nodded, picked up his beer, and took a long pull from it.
She was boring him. She was a humorless snob. He was thinking her name suited her perfectly.
Four Dukes and a Devil Page 6
