“If Mr. Violin comes by and plays “Some Enchanted Evening” I’ll turn to putty. I think I’m nervous.”
“You’re lovely.”
“Now I know I’m nervous.”
“This is my way of apologizing for jumping to the wrong conclusions. That was very unfair of me.”
“Agreed. Apology previously accepted.”
“Wine?”
“Most definitely. That is, if you’re going to.”
“By all means. Red or white?”
“When in Rome… red, I think.”
He opened the wine list. It was not something he knew a great deal about. He saw two Cabernets and picked the more expensive.
He heard his father say angrily, “You don’t know what it’s like out there. You ‘ll never make it out there. You belong here with your family. You’re a fisherman.” His mind went blank.
He set down the wine list and opened his menu. Then, trying to sound indifferent and polite, he said, “What are you going to have?”
“Could we split an antipasto?”
“Sure.”
Once the wine had been delivered and poured he asked, “Anything else?”
“It can wait.”
“Agreed.” They chimed glasses.
“I like you better without the hat,” she said, studying his face like an artist inspecting a canvas.
“I only wear it at work.” He blushed under her gaze.
“Not in bed and not in the shower.” She repeated what he had told her.
“Right. Now tell me about you.”
“What about me?”
“Your life….”
“My private life? You want to know if I’m seeing somebody, something like that?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“I’m not.” She paused for another sip of wine and lowered her voice. “I’ve had two major relationships. Both with married men. When you’re young and in New York—no, let me start that again.
“I’m an overachiever. Ever since college I’ve had this incredible need to excel. It’s not altogether healthy. My parents—my mother, actually—arranged my first few jobs,” she said, disappointment coloring her voice. “A couple of phone calls is all it took, I’m sure. I didn’t argue. But I decided I wanted any promotions to come from my own efforts.
“I quickly found out there was no room for a permanent relationship in my life. No time for it. I was younger then, of course, and I saw my close friends get too caught up in it all. I decided married men were the safest.” She was clearly uncomfortable. She repositioned herself in the chair, eyes on the tablecloth. “I established my priorities. Marriage wasn’t in the picture.”
“And?”
“And both times I found out I don’t know much about priorities or devotion. In all, I had two relationships with married men. They both worked out great for a while. I never allowed myself to become too involved emotionally, which is what I wanted. The first affair ended amicably enough. He was devoted to his wife. I met another guy a few months later and liked him a lot. We started seeing each other. He had a family. I accidentally met his wife and kids. It was at a Harvard tea. It really wrecked me. I felt like a real—you get the picture. I called it off. Then he gets all upset, shows up at my place, and tells me he’s moving in; he’s going to leave his family. I tell him no. He falls apart on me. That was a year and a half ago. That was it for married men. In fact that was it, period. How about you?”
“Me? About the only quote relationship I had was in college. That seems like the Stone Age now.” He forced a smile and shrugged. “I don’t know. She broke some promises. It fell apart.”
“What sort of promises?”
“I told her some stuff. She told everyone else.”
“That hurts.”
“Yes, it does.”
“You’re still angry.”
“I’m still angry.”
“So Toby Jacobs has secrets he keeps.”
“We all have secrets.”
“Yes.” She looked down at the tablecloth. Her mood turned somber and she whispered, “My father’s a drunk.” She wondered why she had said it. This was not the stuff of first dates. This was how to wreck a nice dinner. Yet, she continued. “He’s gone from top-notch doctor to drunk in about three months. He blames himself entirely for my mother’s condition and won’t listen to reason. I’ve done my best to cover for him, but it can’t last much longer. He went back to the office this week. I’d kept him away as long as I could. He shouldn’t be practicing medicine. I have no idea what to do.”
Jacobs listened.
“I don’t know what to do,” she repeated. “Things aren’t going particularly well lately.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“I can’t get through.”
“I know what you’re feeling. My grandfather died of alcoholism,” he said. “He owned a tavern in Ireland. I’m afraid it runs in the family. After a big catch, my father and uncle go at it pretty hard.”
“Catch?”
He felt his cheeks flush. He looked at her, unable to speak. What could he say to that? Why had he said that? It had just come tumbling out of his mouth. And now, if he didn’t say something quickly, he’d never hide his obvious embarrassment.
“Did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing.”
“What is it?”
He shook his head again.
The waiter entered. He stood at attention in red jacket and gold vest, hands clasped behind his back. She ordered the calamari and scungilli salad with onions and garlic, for two.
“It’s served with a cold vinaigrette,” the waiter told her.
“Yes. Fine.” She continued. “The Pasta Primavera a la Genovese for my main course, please.”
The waiter nodded and looked to Jacobs.
“Veal?” Jacobs asked.
The waiter cocked his head. “Vitello Tonnato?”
“Please.”
“Anything else at the moment?” The waiter gave them a few seconds. They were staring at each other. He slipped through the curtains and was gone.
Jacobs poured her another glass of wine. They toasted. She said, “To good company.”
He felt as if he had to tell her now. He felt dishonest keeping it to himself. They sipped and he said, “My father is a Portuguese fisherman in New Bedford.”
“You make it sound like a criminal offense.”
“I left home at eighteen. Haven’t been back since. I would appreciate it if you didn’t repeat it.”
“Of course not.”
“I mean it.”
“I understand.” She hesitated. “You’re embarrassed by it?”
“My mother’s Irish.”
“My great-grandmother had an illegitimate child by a slave. So what do I care?”
“I care. You see my father… well, he’s very strong. His life is directed by what has come before. He believes we—our family—is supposed to fish. Forever. His adherence to tradition has always stifled me. He won’t even modernize his equipment. It took him six years to finally break down and buy a sonar device that helps locate schools offish. All the other boats were bringing in twice the catch, and my father remained steadfast in his determination to resist the new technology. That’s him all over. He expected me to live his dreams, not have any of my own. I’ve always resented that—always resisted it. I am embarrassed by him. He’s a stubborn, ignorant old man. It has always embarrassed me that I’m the son of a Portuguese fisherman.” He paused. “It still does,” he added.
“People don’t measure you by where you come from,” she said quietly.
“Don’t they?”
“Do they?”
“Of course they do.”
She thought about this and then nodded. “Yes, I suppose they do. And you think I’d care?”
“I wouldn’t have told you, but I felt dishonest.”
“I’m glad you did. So where’s your New Bedford accent?”
>
“I’m working on it.”
“You must be. So that’s Toby Jacobs’ big secret?”
He nodded. “I made up my mind when I was about fourteen. I hated the boats, the cold, the killing. All of it. I hated it all. I decided to leave, whatever the cost, and that’s just what I did.”
“You learn something new every day.”
After a few minutes of silence he said, “I hope I didn’t wreck our dinner.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I never would have guessed your background.”
“I got out of there as soon as I could. I applied to college without them knowing. And then one day I told them I was going to the store. I never went back. I had to get out or I’d have been on a boat the rest of my life. I can’t explain it to you, but that would have been the end of me. I just couldn’t have done it.”
“No explanation needed. I believe you.”
A large antipasto was delivered along with two chilled plates and forks. The waiter served them both from the platter and retreated silently.
“To good friends,” she toasted. “I don’t know how you figured it, Sherlock, but nothing pushes my button better than a charming man in a candlelit Italian restaurant with waiters who don’t carry pads.”
“Good friends,” he echoed. “And I promise to ask next time before I jump to unjust conclusions. I should have given you a chance to explain this morning, but the thing is, I still carry that college memory with me. You see, I told her about my family. She promised not to tell. A day later, the whole campus knew. Suddenly it was like I was diseased. That’s a year of my life I won’t soon forget.”
“Or forgive.”
He nodded.
“It’s funny what becomes important to us.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He raised his glass again, wondering about the balance of his own priorities. “Now your story.”
The food was delivered. They were well into their entrees before he asked her again.
“Born Susan Anne Lyme,” she obliged.
He studied her. “That much I know.”
She shrugged. “Spoiled rotten most of my life.” She tried to make it humorous; neither of them smiled. “Grew up with a front-page view of the world and the proverbial silver spoon in my mouth.” She paused for a moment and ran her fork through her salad. “I have this thing about being female—a complex, I suppose. I’m convinced all anybody ever wants is a chance to go to bed. Not because I’m so special, nothing like that, but just because I’m female. I’ve been hit on by teachers, professors, a dean, and several editors. I resent it horribly. I’m sure it has to do with my fascination with married men. Married men have already made an emotional commitment. That makes them different. Anyway, I’m changing, you know. Here I am in my late twenties and suddenly I feel like I’m growing up. Maybe it’s my mother being so ill, or maybe it’s seeing my father is human with all sorts of problems; whatever caused it, I’m starting to wake up, I think. The drive to be successful blew a fuse. Success is important, yes. But not as important as good health; not as important as love.
“I haven’t ever allowed myself to really love anyone. I was always suspicious of their motives. I loved my parents, but almost unfairly.” She wound a strand of her sandalwood hair around her index finger. “I’m coming around. It’s just a little late in life.”
“I’m in the same boat—if you’ll pardon the expression—and I must be five years older than you.”
“You said you left at any cost. What did it cost you?”
“My family,” he tried to say casually. “My father is a third-generation fisherman. I was supposed to be number four. He’ll never understand. I’m still in touch with my mother, though he doesn’t know about it. Their lives change very little. There’s something beautiful in that, and there’s something tragic. He fishes. She takes care of his home. Around and around it goes.”
“You miss him.” It was a statement.
“In the last few years, very much. Before that… too much resentment before that. You want to know something?” he asked with a faint accent.
“What’s that?”
“It feels good to talk.” He toyed with his wineglass. “I’ve been so caught up in that damn Yankee Green.” He hesitated. “Until the explosion I felt good about it. I have a weird feeling inside. One of these days I’ll have to move on.”
“When would that be?”
“Soon, I think. The really fun part was figuring out how to make the Green safe. Implementing the changes. I’d like to do it again somewhere else, on my own terms.”
“Is that what you’ll go after?”
“Something like that. My own security company, maybe. Testing established security systems. Who knows? Get people to pay me to break into their places. That would be something. I love the challenge of getting into someplace people think I can’t.”
She wasn’t about to point out the sexual connotations to that, but inside she was thinking how she had spent the last several years keeping people out. It was just another sign to her of how they were complete opposites. He had a blue-collar background he had fought long and hard to hide; she had been born into opulence, with her biggest challenge which car to buy, something sporty or something practical. She started to reach out, to take his hand, but stopped at the salt shaker and spun it around.
He had obviously sensed her approach, for once she picked up the shaker, he shoved his hands into his lap. “Can I tell you something?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Please,” she said softly.
“You’re very lovely.”
She blushed. “I’m flattered. Thank you.”
“I mean it. You look radiant.”
“I feel radiant. I feel wonderful.”
“Dessert?”
“No. I don’t think so. Go ahead, though.”
“Can’t. Filled up to the brim.”
She was silent. She toyed with the salt shaker.
After a moment he said, “I like to walk after a big meal. Do you?”
“Sounds delightful.”
“You know Redman Park?”
“Not really.”
“It’s near my place. We could walk the park, maybe have a cup of coffee afterward…. I mean, if you want.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Only if you want.”
“I want,” she said, reaching out and taking his hand in hers.
They didn’t say much on the walk. They held hands and circled the pond twice, lamplight flickering off the ripples caused by an evening breeze.
He led her up the long stairs to the third floor, anticipation beginning to make his heart pound.
***
The door opened and she was overwhelmed by the sweet smell of salt water. The apartment was very different from what she had expected. It had hardwood floors as old and brown as pirates’ teeth. Stark and bare. The furniture was mismatched. It was something of a loft: large multipaned windows with the ropes and pulleys in plain sight. No curtains. He looked out on the mall, way in the distance, a single insignificant speck on the horizon of tiered buildings and rooftops. Stark. Hot. Bare in the way that made her kick off her shoes immediately. She spun in a graceful arc, her hem rising, head back in what seemed almost a trained position, but with the expression of someone intentionally losing herself. She spun once, as if she heard music: jazz, perhaps, with a swaying, lilting rhythm, provocative and secure all at the same time.
She stopped and laughed, embarrassed, wondering if she had made a fool of herself.
She threw her dress back and landed on her knees next to the fish tank. Color blurred past her eyes, focused on the bed beyond. The Four-eyed Butterfly Fish turned lazily in the water. “What beautiful fish,” she said, feeling a bit heady from the wine. Jacobs had smuggled it out of the restaurant and helped her consume it on the drive over.
“A marine aquarium,” he emphasized. It obviously held significance to him.
“Salt water?” she wondered, sudd
enly placing it with the smell. “It’s like being on a wharf,” she told him before he answered.
“My pets,” he said, as if in apology, and moved alongside her to examine them. “That one there has been sick. Could affect all of them.” Seeing her expression, he said, “I’m treating the water for it.”
“And the boat?”
“The boat?”
“The bottle.”
“Oh, yeah. A project. Something to do at night.”
“There are other things,” she said, stretching an arm around his neck and pulling him close to her. The nape of his neck was warm beneath her hand. He took her head in his hands, rocked her gently to the left, and kissed her. He pulled away and swallowed nervously. She touched him carefully, pulling him quietly toward her lips again. They joined. He touched the edge of her neck and pulled away from her.
“You can see the Green from here.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
“Oh.”
“What kind of fish?”
“That one?”
“Yes.”
“Butterfly Fish. Four-eyed Butterfly Fish.”
“Four-eyed?” She giggled. “He must wear thick glasses.”
Toby laughed with her.
“Will he be all right?”
“She. Yes.”
“And the ship?”
He glanced over at the table. “It takes a long time. I never seem to have enough time to make much headway.”
“Any boat in particular?”
“The Angel,” he said, moving toward the table. “I can only guess at her, really. My great-grandfather captained her.”
“You’re kidding.” She pulled herself up and followed him over to the table. The project was laid out in little groups. The carved balsa-wood hull sat next to a small bottle of black paint which had been used to color the decks and draw a waterline on her. The thin-tipped brush rested improperly in a juice glass half filled with turpentine. A group of what looked like small chopsticks with tiny holes drilled in them and string tied all through lay adjacent in their own pile. “What are these?” she wondered.
“Spars and rigging.” He pulled his head down close. She stopped several feet farther away than he did. “Masts, sails, the intricate parts.”
“It’s all so small.”
“That’s the idea”—he smiled privately—“isn’t it?”
Hidden Charges Page 24
