by Nan Rossiter
I nodded, and as I looked at him, I remembered how strikingly blue his eyes were—they were the same color as the summer sky—and yet, there was still a measure of sadness in them.
“Do you need a lesson on how to use that thing?” he asked, motioning to the corkscrew.
I looked down. “I . . . I, um . . . yes, I guess I could use a refresher,” I said. “Otherwise, I might hurt myself.”
He smiled. “Do you want to bring the bottle out here . . . or may I come in?”
I suddenly remembered my manners, and throwing caution to the wind, stammered, “Of . . . Of course. Come in.” He followed me into the kitchen and I handed him the corkscrew and gestured to the bottle.
“Well, first you have to take the wrapper off,” he said, grinning and pointing to the pinhole I’d made in the top. “It looks like someone was going to try to get the cork out with the wrapper still on,” he teased, eyeing me.
“I might’ve been thinking of giving that a try.”
“That would’ve been fun to watch,” he said with a grin as he peeled away the heavy foil.
“Not as much fun as actually doing it,” I said, laughing.
He handed the corkscrew back to me. “The best way to learn is by doing.” He told me to start the tip of the screw and then twist it with one hand while holding the neck of the bottle with the other. “Make sure you screw it all the way in.”
“Is that what she said?” I said, laughing and then blushing at my own boldness.
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Hmm, you’re not as innocent as you look.”
As I twisted the corkscrew into the cork, its arms rose and I suddenly remembered how it worked. “Oh, I’ve got this!” I said, setting the bottle on the counter and pushing down on the arms.
“Careful,” he warned, “don’t break the cork.”
I nodded and, biting my lip, continued to slowly work the cork out until, finally triumphant, the entire cork emerged, unbroken.
“Good job!” he said. “Now, you do know white wine is supposed to be served chilled.”
“Of course,” I said, “that’s what they make ice cubes for.”
He shook his head and laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t want to sound like a know-it-all—because I’m definitely not—I’ve just been told that a good white wine isn’t served with ice cubes—it’s chilled ahead of time.”
“Oh,” I said.
“But that’s just for snooty people,” he consoled. “I don’t mind ice.”
I looked up in surprise. “Would you like some?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said with a grin.
I opened Mrs. Cohen’s china cabinet and took out two crystal wineglasses; then I opened the freezer. “One cube or two?”
“Two,” he said, looking around the kitchen. “Is this your place?”
“Oh, no,” I said, clinking the cubes into the glasses. “I’m just the caretaker—the little old lady who owns it didn’t want it to sit empty.”
“Who’s the little old lady?”
“Mrs. Cohen—she’s my best friend’s fiancé’s elderly grandmother.”
“It’s nice.”
“It is,” I nodded. “But it could use some updating. I can’t complain, though—I get to live here for free.”
“Wow! That is nice!”
“It is until she sells it—then I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live.”
“Do you work out here?”
I nodded. “At the bakery.”
He smiled knowingly. “Abe’s?”
“Do you know him?”
“I just met him. My friend Dimitri introduced us.” He paused. “I just moved here too.”
“Where are you from?”
“Boston area—Malden.”
“No!”
“Have you heard of it?” he asked.
“I’m from Medford.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Small world, but I should’ve known.”
“Why?”
“Your accent.”
I laughed and took a sip of my wine. “You know, I don’t even know your name.”
“Coop,” he said, switching his glass to his left hand and extending his right.
I smiled as I shook it. “Is that short for something, or did your parents not like you?”
“It’s short for Cooper—my last name. My friends called me Coop growing up.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
I rolled my eyes. “Ye-es.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I don’t laugh at people.”
“Winston . . . Winston Ellis Cooper the Third.”
“Why would I laugh at that? That’s a handsome name.”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head.
“Are you named after someone?”
“Churchill.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “My dad was in the navy during World War Two—in fact, I was born the same day the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”
“December 7, 1941. Let’s see . . .” I quickly did the math in my head. “That makes you twenty-seven.”
He nodded. “When were you born?”
“March 1, 1947.”
“Why, you’re just a kid.”
I smiled.
He smiled too. “So, I know how old you are and where you’re from, but I still don’t know your name.”
“Sally.”
“Sally what?”
I sighed. “Sally . . . it’s a long story.”
“That’s a funny last name,” he teased.
I rolled my eyes again, and then, my stomach growled.
He laughed. “Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
He glanced at his watch. “Well, don’t let me keep you from having your supper.”
“I was just going to heat up some leftovers.” I hesitated. “Are you hungry?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On what you’re having.”
“Oh . . . well, I’m having brisket and kugel . . . and snowflake rolls.”
He looked skeptical. “I think I’ll pass, but thank you.”
“It’s really good,” I pressed. “And I have more than enough. In fact, if you don’t stay, I’ll be eating it all week.”
He hesitated. “Okay,” he said finally. “It has to be better than scrambled eggs.”
“It definitely is,” I assured him, pulling open the refrigerator door and taking out Mrs. Cohen’s old ceramic Pyrex dishes, which I was sure she’d be happy to know were storing traditional Jewish dishes that her grandson had made.
“Can I do anything?” he asked, adding more ice and wine to our glasses.
“No,” I said as I put a splash of water into two small frying pans and scooped the leftovers into them. I turned the flames to low and lit the oven. “I just need to warm everything up,” I said as I wrapped the rolls in foil and put them in the oven. I was surprised by how relaxed I felt—and I knew it wasn’t just the wine. Coop was just so easy to talk to and I didn’t feel self-conscious or awkward at all.
“Did you go to Malden High?”
“I did,” he confirmed, sitting at the kitchen table.
I sat across from him. “I can’t believe you were just across the river.”
He smiled. “The polluted Mystic River,” he said, shaking his head. “My dad used to fish that river when he was a boy—he said it used to teem with fish.”
“Not anymore,” I said sadly, picturing the gray river and the bridge that crossed over it. “My grandparents and my mom are buried in Malden.”
“Holy Cross?”
I shook my head. “Bell Rock—my mom was Catholic, but my dad isn’t.”
He nodded. “We lived just up the street from Bell Rock.”
“That’s so unbelievable,” I said, shaking my head. “My mom died w
hen I was five . . . so you were probably out playing or riding your bike when we were at the cemetery.”
“It’s possible,” he said. “How’d she die?”
“She had cancer.”
“My mom had cancer too. She died when I was fifteen.”
“I was so little I didn’t understand any of it. My friend Lizzy told me people got cancer as punishment.”
Coop shook his head. “I don’t understand why some people get cancer and others don’t, but I definitely don’t think it’s punishment. My mom didn’t do anything wrong . . . at least that I know of.”
“That’s what I said.” I paused. “Lizzy also told me if I was good I’d get to see my mom again in heaven, so I spent most of my childhood trying to be good. That is . . . until I stopped trying.”
“Does that mean you weren’t always good?” he teased.
I smiled. “Maybe.”
“I don’t believe it.”
I sighed. I didn’t want to think about it. “Enough about me. How about you?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Besides, we just got started on you. Did you go to Medford High?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “St. Clement.”
“Ah,” he said, smiling. “That explains a lot.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, peering over the top of my wineglass.
“Catholic girls are predisposed to feeling guilty.”
“I felt guilty, but it didn’t stop me from getting in trouble.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ah . . . so you were a rebel?”
I laughed. “Maybe. But, rest assured, I’m paying for it now.”
“Hmm . . . a mysterious Catholic girl with a taste for rebellion. Sounds like my kind of woman.” He took a sip of his wine. “Do you go to mass?”
I shook my head. “I need to—I’ve just been so busy.”
“My dad would say, ‘That’s a lame excuse.’ ”
“It is lame,” I agreed, standing up to stir the meat and noodles. “I plan to start going again soon—I have a lot to confess if I’m going to get into heaven.” I turned off the burners and reached for two plates. “Do you have a job here?” I asked as I got out the butter.
“Sort of,” he said. “I’m buying an old boathouse and planning to restore and build wooden boats.”
“You’re a woodworker?”
“I have a little experience,” he said, “but I’m mostly self-taught and still have a lot to learn.”
“Where do you live?”
“I bought a little beach house off Madaket Road—it needs work, but it’s on five beachfront acres.”
“Nice,” I said, scooping our dinner onto the plates.
He stood to help and I handed him the plates and then opened the oven for the rolls. “Hot! Hot!” I exclaimed, tossing them onto the table. He laughed and took the top off the butter. “You should wait,” I warned, but he unwrapped the rolls and didn’t even flinch as he broke them open and spread the butter between the two halves.
“What did you do before you moved here?” I asked, opening the freezer for more ice cubes.
“I was in the Marines,” he said.
I looked up in surprise—somehow, during our whole conversation, I’d forgotten all about Simon’s observation. “Were you in Vietnam?”
“I was.”
“Were you drafted?”
“No, the draft hadn’t started yet. My dad—who, as I said, was in the navy—encouraged me to enlist. He said I’d have a better chance of becoming an officer.”
“And did you? Become an officer?”
He nodded, took a long sip of his wine, and looked out the window. A shadow fell across his face and I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it.
He looked back at me. “Are these friends the ones I saw you with out at the beach the other night?”
I nodded as I took a small bite of the brisket.
“So you were at the tavern with them too?”
“Yes,” I said, surprised he’d made the connection.
“Well, your friend’s fiancé . . . what was his deal?”
“Simon? What do you mean?” I asked, pretending I didn’t understand.
“I don’t know. When Dimitri and I walked out, I nodded to him, but he looked right past me—as if he didn’t even see me.”
“Maybe he didn’t.”
“He saw me,” Coop said, taking another sip of his wine.
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug; then I immediately felt guilty for not being honest. “He and Lizzy are wonderful people. Lizzy and I have been best friends our whole lives. She’s always there for me.” I took a bite of my roll. “They just got engaged. In fact, she asked me to be her maid of honor.”
Cooper dipped his roll into his gravy and took a bite. “Mmm, this is really good. Did you make it?”
I nodded. There was no way I was going to tell him Simon made it.
The evening drifted by and we talked easily about everything—from growing up in neighboring towns to our families; then he helped me clean up, and before we said good night, he asked me if I’d go out sometime.
“Thank you,” I said with a sad smile. “I really had fun tonight, but, unfortunately, I can’t go out with you.” I didn’t know what else to say and he just nodded. As he drove away, I realized I wanted nothing more than to see him again.
Chapter 14
I didn’t deserve to love again, and I certainly didn’t deserve to be loved again—but that was only part of the reason I turned Coop down. The other part was I didn’t want to give him false hope or start something I couldn’t finish. He was really nice—just the kind of guy I’d love to spend time with—but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He’d already looked so crestfallen when I said no.
I stood on the porch, watching the taillights of his truck disappear into the summer night, and felt miserable. I went inside and dumped out the rest of the wine bottle. Coop—as I’d quickly learned to call him—had definitely had more to drink than I had, and even though I had a buzz, he seemed unaffected; even so, I worried about him driving and prayed he’d get home safely.
Over dinner, we’d talked about the renovations he’d been making to his house—he was basically gutting it and starting over. And we talked about our families—he didn’t really keep in touch with his dad, but he had a sister, Lily, whom he thought the world of; and she’d just married a fellow named Daniel, who Coop admitted was a good guy, but he wasn’t convinced he was good enough for his little sister. The subject of his military service didn’t come up again; nor did the subject of my last name. The similarity of our lives was remarkable, though. I couldn’t believe we’d grown up in neighboring towns, and it made me wonder how many times we’d passed each other over the years. And now, we’d both moved to Nantucket—which seemed serendipitous, and although our reasons for moving were different, we were both trying to escape our past.
* * *
We all have our stories, I thought as I wiped down the counters and finished tidying up. We all have our skeletons—things we’ve done that make us feel ashamed or embarrassed, but life goes on, and whether we address them or shut them out, they never go away. We trudge on, dragging them around like the clinking old bones they are, until we grow old and become clinking old bones. And then, none of it matters. So, why do we do it? Why do we torture ourselves with unhappy memories? Even when things are going well and we manage to feel happy, a memory can come rushing back, overwhelming us, and we cringe. Did I really do that? What in God’s name was I thinking?
The Bible says if we’re truly repentant, God will forgive us. It’s as simple as that. No ifs, ands, or buts. God wipes our slate clean and doesn’t see our sin again. But we humans can’t seem to do the same. We let our sins haunt us—never letting them go and never forgiving ourselves.
That’s how I continued to feel about everything that had happened with Drew. I could be kneading bread dough or mixing muffin batter on a beautiful summer morning, humming along to
a song on the radio, but then another song would come on the radio that reminded me of high school and I’d suddenly be back in the passenger seat of Drew’s car, letting him do things that filled me with shame.
That’s why I said no to Cooper. I couldn’t forgive myself, and I certainly didn’t want to explain why. Unfortunately, however—or fortunately, as the case may be—saying no to him that first night didn’t stop him from continuing to try. And I can’t say I minded.
He came into the bakery the very next morning. In fact, he was the first in line! He was a little blurry-eyed as he paid for a blueberry muffin and a large black coffee, and he brought Dimitri with him—the salty old lobsterman who’d been at the tavern.
“Oh, yeah, she’s cute,” I heard Dimitri say a little too loudly as he winked at me. I smiled as I worked the register—he was cute himself, for an old guy. Although later on, Abe told me Dimitri was only in his thirties, adding it was hard living and too much sun that was aging him.
Standing together, they reminded me of the comic strip characters Mutt and Jeff. Not because Coop acted like the dim-witted Augustus Mutt; it was just because height and build were so different. Coop was tall and slender and had short blond hair and solemn blue eyes, and Dimitri was short and stocky and had wispy gray hair and Grecian green eyes that sparkled with mischief. They were such an unlikely pair that I couldn’t help but smile as they stood there with their coffee cups, conspiring.
I should’ve known right then and there that Winston Ellis Cooper III was trouble, and I should’ve avoided him, but instead, I felt drawn to him. Why had this handsome, quiet veteran become friends with an old Greek lobsterman? What had drawn them together? I later learned from Abe that they weren’t just friends—they were notoriously unapologetic drinking buddies, and while Coop favored Tennessee whiskey—a.k.a. Old No. 7—Dimitri loved ouzo—a.k.a. nectar of the gods, and that was why Coop was blurry-eyed and rubbing his temples that Monday morning. After he’d left my house, he’d gone looking for Dimitri, and together, they’d painted the town!
I climbed on my bike late that afternoon, and with a bag of apricot scones banging against my knee, bumped slowly along the cobblestone streets. When I reached home, I carried the bike up onto the porch and saw a bottle of chardonnay next to the front door. The note hanging around its neck said: Thanks for dinner. Let me know if you need help opening this! W.C.
