Summer Dance

by Nan Rossiter

  “What?! You can’t sell it!” Coop admonished. “It’s a classic.”

  I shrugged. “Well, I really don’t need it and I don’t have a garage to put it in, so it’s just going to get rusty with all the salty air out here—not to mention the snow that’s coming. I really should’ve arranged for my dad’s attorney to sell it along with the house. I don’t know why I went to the trouble of bringing it out here.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be able to buy it because I don’t have the money right now, but I definitely think you should keep it. There’s an empty barn down at the boatyard where you can store it.”

  I looked at the car, considering his offer. I really did want to sell it, but I knew there wasn’t a big market for cars on Nantucket, and I didn’t want to have to haul it back to the Cape. I had enough going on and I still didn’t know how I was going to get all the stuff I’d put in storage, if I ever found a place of my own.

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it. By the way, did I tell you Simon’s grandmother is going to be putting the cottage on the market?”

  Coop looked up in surprise. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to look for a cheap rent.”

  “I’ll rent you a room cheap,” he teased with a grin.

  “Ha! Nice try!”

  “Why don’t you buy the cottage?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure. Why not? When you sell your dad’s house, you could probably buy it outright. You said he didn’t have a mortgage, so you could probably pay cash, and that would make Simon’s grandmother happy because she wouldn’t have to worry about it passing an inspection.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “Because I just went through it. I needed financing, so the bank had to come out and make sure the house was worth the amount I wanted to borrow. They also had to make sure there wasn’t anything structurally wrong with it, and because there were some things—rotting sills and floorboards—I had to prove I could make the repairs.”

  I nodded as I swept off the mat in front of the door. It would be nice to stay where I was. At the same time, it was hard to imagine what the cottage would be like with my things in it and not Mrs. Cohen’s, and there were definitely some things I’d want to change. “I think I’d want to make some renovations too.”

  “I could help you with that.”

  “Don’t you have enough going on? You’re trying to get a business off the ground and you have your own house to work on.”

  “The busier I am the better,” he said. “It keeps my mind off things.”

  I wasn’t sure what Coop meant when he said things, but I guessed he was—like me—trying to forget his memories of the past. I’d recently read an article about how vets who were returning from Vietnam were struggling with memories of the things they’d seen . . . and with the way they were being received when they got home. They certainly weren’t getting a hero’s welcome.

  “We’ll see,” I said, leaning on my broom. “She’s not putting it on the market till spring, so I don’t have to worry just yet.”

  Coop nodded, took a sip of his coffee, and climbed into his truck. “Come down to the boathouse later if you want to see the barn.”

  I nodded and waved, then went back to my sweeping. The summer crowd that lingered through Labor Day had now headed back to school and work, and the usually bustling bakery was already showing signs of slowing down. When I expressed concern about not having enough to do, Abe assured me there would be plenty to do—cleaning and sweeping and other odd jobs, not to mention baking bread to send to the Cape—and now, he wasn’t only baking bread for the soup kitchens on Cape Cod, but he was also selling Nantucket Bread in several stores. He went on to say there’d be a few more busy weeks of catering to a mostly retired crowd—people who didn’t have young kids or jobs—but that would be it. Nantucketers didn’t mind, he added. Everyone knew the cool autumn breeze always brought a measure of peace and quiet to the island, and they all looked forward to it—it was actually the nicest time of the year.

  After I finished sweeping and cleaning the kitchen, I drove down to the boathouse and parked my dad’s car in the sandy parking lot next to the building. I could hear music coming from a radio and when I walked around the corner of the building, Coop looked up. “Hey!” he said, smiling. “Did you come to check out the barn?”

  “I did,” I said, walking over to see what he was working on. He had a wooden sign laid across two saw horses. I looked at the letters he’d neatly traced in pencil: COOPER’S MARINE RAILWAY—BOAT BUILDING AND RESTORATION. “Do you really know how to build a boat?” I asked, wondering how he’d fit that in between high school and Vietnam.

  “I’m learning,” he said, pointing to a pile of books on the workbench. I looked over and saw an open bottle of Jack Daniels and a plastic thermos cap cup next to it.

  “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think?” I teased.

  “It’s never too early,” he said with a grin. “Besides, it helps keep my hands steady.” He walked over and poured some into the cup. “Want some?” He looked around. “I have another glass around here somewhere.”

  I hesitated. “Sure,” I said, throwing caution to the wind. I hadn’t had a drink since the bottle of wine we’d shared a month ago, and after all I’d been through, I figured I deserved it.

  He dumped some nails out of a small mason jar, blew into it, and squinted as some dust flew out. Then he poured some Jack Daniels into it. He held it out to me and I eyed the jar skeptically. “What? It’s clean,” he said, then refilled his own cup and held it up. “Cheers!” he said with the crooked half smile I was growing to love.

  I took a sip and felt the heat of the golden liquid rush right to my belly and my head. “Whew!” I said. “That packs a wallop!”

  “It does if you’re not careful,” he said, smiling. “It is smooth, though.”

  “If you say so,” I said, still feeling the heat in my throat.

  He frowned. “Have you ever had any hard stuff before?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Lizzy and I stole a bottle of her mom’s

  vodka one time before we went to the movies.” I shook my head, suddenly recalling how hard it had been to focus on the movie screen. I’d squinted my eyes as we watched The Graduate, but no matter how hard I tried, I kept seeing three Dustin Hoffmans and three Anne Bancrofts; then we didn’t even get to see the end of the movie because we were both in the ladies’ room. It was definitely one of those cringe-worthy memories.

  “Well, you better go easy on it—it doesn’t take much.”

  “I will,” I said, taking another sip and feeling the warmth spiral right to my head.

  He chuckled as he rinsed his paintbrush in another mason jar.

  “Is that paint thinner?” I asked, eyeing the clear liquid now swirled with red.

  “It is,” he said, looking up. “Why?”

  I held up my jar. “How do you know this jar never held paint thinner?”

  “Because it had nails in it.”

  “And your point is . . .?”

  “I would never put nails in a jar that had held paint thinner,” he said with a grin.

  I eyed him skeptically.

  “Promise,” he said innocently as he dried his brush. “Want to see the barn?”

  “That’s why I came,” I said, suddenly feeling very light-headed.

  “C’mon,” he said, motioning for me to follow.

  I took another long sip, enjoying the warm sensation that trickled down my throat, set my mason jar on the workbench, and followed him out into the late-day sunlight, almost tripping on a cable that was running along the ground.

  “Careful,” he warned, reaching out to steady me.

  I looked down, puzzling at the rail tracks running from inside the boathouse down into the water. In my mind, I immediately conjured up a shiny black train wit puffing steam and ringing bells. “Is that the underwater train tr
ack to Cape Cod?” I asked with a chuckle, picturing the words NANTUCKET EXPRESS painted on the side. “They could definitely use one if it’s faster than the ferry.”

  “They could use one under the Cape Cod Canal too,” he said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s only for moving boats in and out of the water. There’s a railcar under the water attached to the cable, and I can line a boat up above it and then push a button in the boathouse and the railcar will slowly come out of the water, lift the boat, and bring it into the boathouse to be worked on.”

  I nodded and watched as he unlocked the rusty padlock and slid open the doors. Just as he did, two swallows flew out. “Hmm,” he said, looking up toward the rafters where sunlight was streaming through a broken window. “That can be fixed.”

  I looked around at the empty space—it was certainly big enough for my dad’s car, but it seemed like it would be forgotten in here, so what was the point?

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Why should I keep it if I’m never going to use it?”

  “You might use it someday.”

  “You sound like my dad,” I said. “That’s why he left behind a house full of stuff—because he thought he might use it someday.”

  Coop chuckled. “Well, it’s true. I don’t know how many times I’ve thrown something away and a week later I’ve found a use for it.”

  “That must be a guy thing.”

  “I still think you should keep the car.”

  “And you don’t mind storing it?”

  “Nope, I don’t need this space.”

  “Okay, well, I should probably leave it here right now since, after having three sips of Jack Daniels, I have a buzz.”

  “That’s fine. I can give you a ride home.”

  “Do you want me to move it in now?”

  “No,” he said, sliding the doors closed and leaving the lock hanging. “I think I’ll sweep it out and fix the broken window first. If you leave the keys, I’ll move it.”

  “Okay,” I said, reaching into my pocket and realizing it was empty. “I must’ve left them in it.”

  We walked back to the boathouse and after Coop splashed more whiskey into his cup, he held the bottle over my mason jar and eyed me questioningly.

  “No, no,” I said. “I’ll just finish what I have.”

  He handed it to me and screwed the top back on the bottle and reached up to turn off the radio, but just as he did, Bob Dylan’s haunting voice drifted from the speakers.

  “Wait,” I said. “Do you remember this song?”

  “I remember,” he said. “You asked me to dance with you on the beach to it.”

  “I think it was you who asked me to dance.”

  “Maybe you’re better at it . . . now that you’ve been drinking.”

  “Isn’t everyone better at dancing when they’ve been drinking?”

  “In their own mind,” he teased, holding out his hand. “But let’s see if it’s true for you.”

  I took his hand and he pulled me close. We swayed slowly back and forth, staying in the same spot—just like we had at the beach. “I don’t think it helped,” I said.

  “What do you mean? I’ve never had a better dance partner,” he said softly.

  I leaned back and searched his eyes. “Have you ever danced with anyone else?”

  “Maybe,” he said softly. “Have you?”

  “Maybe,” I whispered, feeling my heart fill with sadness. When I moved here, I never expected to meet someone new, so I hadn’t worried about being married, but now, not even a year later, I’d already met someone I was interested in getting to know better. How foolish and shortsighted I’d been, I thought sadly.

  I pushed my memories of Drew away and laid my head on Coop’s chest. I certainly hadn’t expected to feel so safe, but with Coop’s arms around me and his slender body against mine, I felt as if nothing in the world could ever hurt me. I breathed in and smelled soap and autumn leaves. “You smell good,” I murmured.

  “So do you,” he said, pressing his nose against the top of my head. “You smell like shampoo and warm bread.”

  I laughed and he looked down and smiled. “But what do you taste like?” he asked softly. He lifted my chin and softly kissed my lips. “Mmm,” he murmured. “You taste like sweet Tennessee whiskey.”

  “So do you,” I whispered, letting him kiss me again.

  Chapter 19

  “Hey, did you ever find a bottle of wine on your porch?” Coop asked as he pulled into my driveway.

  “I did,” I said. “Was that you?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. I’d actually forgotten all about the wine after I’d stuck it in the fridge, because the very next day I’d had to rush off to Boston.

  He nodded, eyeing me. “You didn’t know it was me?”

  I tried to look innocent, but I ended up laughing and he realized I was giving him a hard time. He shook his head. “Did you drink it?”

  “Not yet. Your note said to let you know if I needed help opening it.”

  “And do you?”

  The whiskey—combined with Coop’s warm lips—had left my head spinning and my heart pounding. “Do you have time to help me right now?”

  “Right now?” he teased.

  I laughed again. “You know, you should probably just strike while the iron’s hot and not ask so many questions,” I said, opening my door.

  He smiled, turned off the truck, and followed me inside. “I don’t suppose you’ve made that beef dish lately—what’d you call it?”

  “Brisket?” I asked, opening the fridge and reaching into the back for the wine.

  “Yeah, that was really good.”

  “Actually, it was Simon who made it,” I said, bracing for a negative reaction.

  “Well, he’s a good cook.”

  “It’s his grandmother’s recipe.”

  “He and I had a chance to talk at your dad’s service—I think we have a better understanding of each other now.” He shook his head. “I totally get why people are upset about the war. I don’t think we should be there either, but it’s not like I had a choice—I was already in the military when the decision to get involved was made.

  “Ever since I was a boy, my dad had encouraged me to join the service—he didn’t care what branch—although I know he would’ve loved it if I joined the navy. He’d always tell me how his years in the service had been the best years of his life, and how proud he’d felt to serve his country. He told me I’d be proud, too—and I was, in the beginning. I’m not anymore, especially with the way vets coming home are being treated—no one thanks us for our service. In fact, they blame us. I don’t even want anyone to know, although it’s a little tough to hide my tattoos.”

  “Were you in the marines, right?”

  He nodded, gesturing to his tattoos. “Semper Fi is short for Semper Fidelis—which means “always faithful”—it’s the motto of the Marines.” Then he pointed to his other arm. “The bulldog is our mascot.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, feeling foolish. I realized, now, I knew nothing about the military. I’d always been so caught up in my own world and my own problems that I’d never given much thought to the greater world and its problems.

  “I was so proud when I got my tattoos, obviously—otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten them—and I’m proud of the guys I fought with—they’re my brothers. It’s a bond no one can take away, but I saw so many buddies get killed or maimed—it was horrific and I can’t erase the images from my mind. That’s why so many vets are so screwed up—the things we saw. We were just kids.” He looked up. “How’d you get me to talk so much?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, “and I’m sorry it’s been so hard.”

  “Enough,” he said. He gestured to the bottle. “Let’s see what you remember.”

  I nodded and immediately started to point the corkscrew into the top.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, shaking his head. “What are you suppo
sed to do first?”

  “Oh, right!” I said, peeling back the foil from the top of the bottle. A moment later, I managed to get the cork out without breaking it and then poured wine into two of Mrs. Cohen’s crystal wineglasses. I handed him one. “You must be hungry if you were asking about brisket.”

  “I am a little hungry,” he admitted, “but you don’t need to feed me. If you could ask Simon for the recipe sometime, I’d like to make it.”

  “I will. I know he made it in his grandmother’s slow cooker, and it took all day.”

  “Slow cooker?”

  I nodded. “It’s a big pot that you plug in. It cooks at a low temp for a long time—low and slow, Simon said, makes even the toughest meat tender. I’ve never used a slow cooker, but that’s how Simon explained it. You put everything in it in the morning and when you get home, you have a nice, hot meal.”

  I opened the cabinet to show him the Crock-Pot and he looked it over. “I’m going to have to get one of those. I get a little tired of scrambled eggs every night.”

  I laughed. “That’s what I was going to offer you. It’s all I have and I make pretty mean scrambled eggs.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, holding up his glass. “I’m perfectly fine with this.”

  We went out to sit on the porch, and as we watched the last long streaks of sunlight sink below the horizon, Coop took a sip of his wine. “It’s your turn.”

  “My turn?” I asked, feeling my heart start pounding.

  “Yeah, there’s truth in wine,” he said. “And since I told you something about myself, you need to tell me something about yourself.”

  I took a sip of my so-called truth serum, hoping it would give me courage, and bit my lip pensively. “I’m sorry I kissed you,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked, frowning. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a kiss feel so right.”

  “Which means you’ve kissed other girls. . . .” I ventured.

  “Sally, I’m twenty-seven—I’ve more than kissed them.”

  “Me too,” I said quickly, wishing that could be the end of my admission.

  “You’re an adult,” he said, as if whatever I’d done was completely understandable. “I know you’re Catholic, Sal, but this isn’t confession. I just want to get to know you. I like you—in case you haven’t figured it out—and I don’t care who came before me.”