by Nan Rossiter
I swallowed, gathering my courage. “I like you, too, Coop—that’s why this is so hard. I never expected to like someone again. I never expected to want to be with someone again.”
I felt tears filling my eyes and Coop sat up and reached for my hand. “What is it, Sally? What is making you sad?”
I shook my head. “I can’t be with you, Cooper—ever—be-cause I’m . . . I’m married.”
“Oh,” he said, leaning back in his chair but still holding my hand. “I’m sorry I pressured you—I had no idea.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “And it’s not like that. I’m married, but we’re not together—we never will be. Drew and I were married in the Catholic Church, so we can’t get a divorce—I mean, we can, but if we do, we won’t be allowed to be part of the church. We won’t be able to receive Communion or anything. We would basically be excommunicated. I know it sounds crazy, but that’s how it is.”
“It’s okay, Sal,” he said, smiling and leaning forward. “Don’t be sad.” He gently wiped away my tears.
“That’s just it. I am sad because I totally screwed up my life and now I can never fall in love again. I’m stuck.”
He smiled. “I don’t think the church can stop you from falling in love,” he said softly. “They may frown on it, but they can’t stop it.”
I nodded.
“If you’re never going to be together, why’d you get married?”
“Because I got pregnant.”
“Boy, you really were a rebel,” he teased, and in spite of my tears, I laughed. Then it dawned on him that I didn’t have a child. “What happened to the baby?”
“I had a miscarriage.”
“Oh,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “I’m really sorry.”
“I was young and foolish and I thought I was in love, and I thought he loved me, too, but when all this happened, I realized he didn’t love me, and after I lost the baby, he just wanted his freedom. For a long time, I thought God was punishing me for everything I’d done.”
“Do you still?”
I shrugged. “Not as much. I think living out here and finding a place to live for free is a blessing, so God must still love me a little.”
Coop nodded and took a sip of his wine. “Well, it’s just my luck to finally find a girl I like—and can talk to—and then find out she’s already taken.”
“I’m not taken . . . except in the eyes of the church,” I said. “I’m sorry I led you on. I should’ve explained it all to you before.”
“No,” he said. “You told me right from the beginning that you couldn’t go out with me. It’s my stubborn fault for not listening. The reasons were none of my business.”
“I know, but you came to my dad’s service and I could tell you were interested.”
“You could tell?!” he teased.
I laughed. “A little. Anyway, I should’ve told you before things got out of hand.”
“Things haven’t gotten out of hand, Sal—it was just a dance and a kiss, and although it won’t be easy, I’ll survive. I’ve been through a few things worse than being turned down by a pretty girl.” He smiled. “We can still be friends, though, right?”
“Of course,” I said. “Although that won’t be easy either.”
“Nor should it be,” he said with a grin. “Now, how ’bout some of those mean scrambled eggs you said you can make?”
Chapter 20
I loved “being friends” with Coop, but as expected, it wasn’t easy, and the more time we spent together, the harder it became. We were always teasing each other, and our constant banter made Dimitri and Abe wonder why we weren’t together, but whenever they pressed Coop for a reason, he just shrugged.
The peaceful blue-sky September days drifted by. I looked forward to seeing Coop when he stopped by the bakery for a cup of coffee and a muffin, and if he didn’t come in, I worried. Abe had a knack for reading my mind—and my mood. “What’s the matter, Sal?” he’d teased. “No secret admirer today?”
“I didn’t even notice,” I’d reply, laughing and trying to hide my disappointment.
Before we met, Coop had begun restoring an old wooden catboat he’d found in a shed next to the boathouse, and when he finally had her far enough along, he invited me to come out on her maiden voyage to see how she fared on the water.
We pushed off and Coop hopped in and pulled the rope of a two-stroke Evinrude until it sputtered to life. Then we motored out into the bay, cut the engine, and as we bobbed up and down I watched him work to untangle the line. When he finally had it free, he raised the patched sail and the jib swung around and almost knocked him overboard. He quickly regained his balance—and his composure—and fully released the sail. It billowed out, harnessing the wind; then the boat skipped across the waves like a cloud across the sky. I hung on, enjoying the cool, salty spray on my face. I knew how the little sailboat felt after being cooped up in a dark, dusty shed for so long—it felt free!
Coop motioned for me to sit next to him and I shook my head, but he insisted, and when I did, he closed my hand around the tiller and showed me how to steer. His light touch and the nearness of his body sent a wave of electricity through me, but when I looked to see if he felt it, too, he looked away. Everything Coop did—from pouring a glass of wine to handling the boat—mesmerized me. His movements were so casual and easy and eloquent, and every time his hand or body brushed against mine, a white-hot flame shot through me—a flame no amount of ice water could cool.
One week later, when Coop stopped by the bakery, I surprised him with a gift—a brand-new Crock-Pot—and when he saw the recipe for brisket taped to it, he laughed. “Are you going to come over for dinner?”
“Of course,” I said—not expecting it to be anytime soon.
The following Saturday, I pulled my old Boston College sweatshirt over my head, slid a bottle of cabernet—I’d been learning more than just how to steer a sailboat from Coop—and a bag of snowflake rolls into my backpack, hitched it over my shoulders, and climbed onto my bike. As I pedaled through town, I wondered how I was going to get home later. It had been a chilly October day, and as winter approached, I’d noticed it was getting dark much earlier. I slowed down in front of a new red mailbox with W. E. COOPER painted on the side and turned into the sandy driveway. I pedaled slowly down the driveway, admiring the beach house. Although it was still under construction, it was beautiful. I kicked down my kickstand and looked around at the overgrown gardens before realizing he was leaning on the railing, watching me. He smiled, and as I walked across the driveway, he cautioned, “Watch your step.” I nodded and gingerly picked my way around the piles of stone and wood.
“This is perfect,” I said as I walked up the two steps to the porch. “It’s so you.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t know about perfect, though. I have a long way to go, and if it’s so me, then it’s anything but perfect.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, pulling out the bottle of wine and handing it to him.
“Because I’m far from perfect, and if you think I am, then you don’t know me very well.”
“I’m trying to get to know you better.”
“I wish you could really know me better,” he said with a smile; then he leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. “Let’s get you caught up,” he said, gesturing to the wine.
I followed him inside, wondering what he meant. “Mmm, it smells good in here.”
“Thanks,” he said, opening the wine and pouring a glass.
“Aren’t you having some?”
“I’m having a horse of a different color,” he said, holding up a short glass of amber liquid. “Cheers!” he said.
“Cheers,” I replied, clinking his glass.
“So,” he said, taking a sip and putting down his glass. “I followed Simon’s recipe to a T, and then I added a little of my own flavoring.” He nodded to a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels that was sitting next to the new Crock-Pot. “I hope it doesn’t ruin it.�
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“Is Jack Daniels kosher?” I asked skeptically.
“It might be,” he said. “Is this recipe kosher?”
“It is,” I said, taking another sip of my wine and watching him take the top off the Crock-Pot and giving the contents a slow stir.
“By the way, do you think you’d be able to give me a ride home tonight?”
“Sure,” he said.
I suddenly noticed that his eyes looked a little glazed and I realized what he’d meant by caught up—it meant he’d already been drinking and I wondered how much whiskey had actually made it into the recipe and how much he’d drunk.
“Soo, when’d you start this party?” I teased.
He looked up. “You told me ‘low and slow,’ so it’s been cooking all day.”
“I meant you,” I said, motioning to his glass.
“Me?” he said innocently. “The party never starts before noon.”
I shook my head and laughed, but in the back of my mind, I pictured Mrs. McAllister swirling her vodka and tonic. It was such a quick flash that it gave me pause. I frowned—Coop was nothing like Mrs. McAllister, so why had I suddenly thought of her? I shook my head and pushed the image away. Alcohol was funny—it latched on to some people and didn’t let go, and on others it took no hold. Coop was the latter, I was sure. If he drank a little too much, then he was just like every other guy I’d known—except my dad, who never drank. And besides, Coop had reason to drink—it helped him forget the war . . . just like it helped me forget Drew. Or does it?
I took another sip and looked around the kitchen. There were no cabinets mounted yet and the countertops were just wood that had been sanded smooth and buttressed up against a new porcelain sink. “Are you going to have Formica tops?” I asked.
“I guess,” he said, nodding. “Maybe you can help me pick out a color—I have a ring of Formica chips around here somewhere.”
“I can do that,” I said.
He looked around. “Did you say you were bringing rolls?”
“I did—they’re in my backpack,” I said, pulling them out.
“Want to put them in some foil and I’ll warm ’em up?”
“I’d love it if you’d warm up my buns,” I teased.
He shook his head as he handed me the box of foil. “Be careful what you say—we are alone, you know.”
“Trust me—I know we’re alone,” I said, grinning and taking a sip of my wine. I tore off a piece of foil, wrapped the rolls in it, and popped them in the warm oven. Then I closed the door, and as I stood up, I noticed a photograph on the counter. “Hey, is this you?” I asked, picking it up.
“It is,” he said, looking over my shoulder.
“Look at you!” I teased, admiring his dress uniform. “You were so young and serious and handsome.”
“I was serious.”
“And who’s the pretty girl with her arms around you?” I asked, thinking she looked vaguely familiar and expecting him to say she was an old girlfriend.
“That’s Lily.”
“Your sister?” I asked, suddenly seeing the family resemblance.
“Yes, I’d just finished boot camp and she came to my graduation.”
“She’s beautiful.”
He nodded as he spooned kugel and brisket onto two plates. “She’s a good kid.”
“Where does she live?”
“Boston.” He handed the plates to me and then gave me a quizzical look. “I told you she just got married, right?”
“Yes—to a fellow you’re not convinced is good enough for her.”
“Oh, he’s okay. They met in college and now they’re both teachers.”
“Where’d they go to college?”
“Same place as you,” he said, taking out the rolls.
I frowned. “Boston College? How do you know I went there?”
“Just a guess,” he said, nodding to my sweatshirt as he poured more wine into my glass.
I looked down at the sweatshirt I’d forgotten I was wearing and laughed. “What year did they graduate?”
“I think it was a couple of years ago now, so sixty-seven?”
I frowned, trying to remember, and then it hit me. “Oh, my goodness! Your sister was Lily Cooper!”
“Yes,” he said, eyeing me as he refilled his glass. “Don’t tell me you’ve met her.”
“I don’t know her as a friend, but she was definitely in my English class, so I’m sure we said hi to each other.”
Coop shook his head. “That’s crazy.”
“What’s her husband’s name?” I pressed.
“Daniel Tate.”
I sat down across from him, sifting through my memory bank, trying to remember if I’d met someone named Daniel Tate. “He may’ve been in one of my business classes—is that possible?”
Coop shrugged. “I don’t know what he took in college, just that they were both on the teacher track. What was your major?”
“Well, it was supposed to be teaching, but I got a little sidetracked because I really wanted to be a writer.”
“A writer?”
“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “But you know what they say . . . ‘The best-laid plans of mice and men . . .’ ”
“Steinbeck.”
“Burns,” I corrected, and when he frowned skeptically, I explained, “Robert Burns wrote the poem from which John Steinbeck took his famous title.”
“Ah,” he said, buttering a roll and handing it to me. “Have you ever written anything?”
“Not anything worth sharing.”
“Do you think you will?”
“Maybe,” I said, breaking off a piece of my roll and dipping it in my gravy. “I actually think it would make more sense if I got my teaching certificate—then I’d have a steady income and a job I could count on, assuming I don’t stay at the bakery. With writing, I might not have any income at all—at least for a while. Writing would take a tremendous leap of faith because I’d have to invest a lot of time and energy into something that I don’t know will get published.” I tasted the gravy-saturated roll and smiled. “Oh, my goodness!” I said with my mouth full. “This is amazing!”
“Yeah, I think the whiskey really added to it,” he said, taking a bite of the meat.
“Mmm . . . it’s delicious,” I murmured. “Better than sex.”
“Really?!” he said, raising his eyebrows.
I laughed and then quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, there’s no need to worry—I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. I’m staying right here—Nantucket is my safe haven, and besides, I love the bakery.”
“Safe haven?” Coop asked, raising his eyebrows.
I nodded. “I left Medford because I was afraid of Drew.”
“Afraid?”
I nodded and then hesitated, wondering if I should tell him. “I hadn’t seen Drew in a long time—the whole time I was in college—but one night he came into the pub where I’d just started working. It was really awkward—he and his friends got really drunk and stayed until closing.” I paused. “When I left work, he was waiting for me behind the building.” I felt tears welling up in my eyes as I recalled that awful night. “He said his life was ruined and no other girls wanted him . . . and then he said since I was his wife, I should satisfy him.” I shook my head. “I-I tried to stop him.”
Coop’s eyes grew dark. “He raped you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s rape if we’re married.”
“Sally, if you said no or resisted in any way, he has to stop.”
I swallowed. “That’s what Lizzy said, but I don’t know how that can be . . .”
“You’re kidding, right?” Coop said, his voice rising. “You must know.”
“I . . . I honestly think the church wouldn’t view it that—”
“I don’t care how the church would view it. The son of a bitch raped you.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that I wanted you to know the reason—the real reason—I came to Nantucket. I
wasn’t just trying to escape my past. Drew said he was going to keep coming back so I could . . . so I could . . . perform my wifely duties and I was scared.”
Coop leaned back in his chair. “Oh, man,” he said, shaking his head. “I am so sorry, Sal. I can’t even imagine.” He swirled his drink and took a long sip. “Don’t even tell me if he comes out here because I’ll probably kill him.”
He was quiet; then he took another sip of his drink and pressed his lips together. “So often, life isn’t what we expect—or want—it to be. I know this isn’t the most profound statement, but it’s true—shit happens . . . and we just either have to soldier on . . . or not.”
“Or not?”
“Yeah, ya know, end it all. I’ve heard of plenty of guys who couldn’t take it anymore—they couldn’t handle the horrific images that continuously play in their minds or the stress of a simple sound like a branch snapping bringing them to sudden heart-racing attention, so they finally just hold their Marine issues up to their temples. . . .” He held his hand up to his head like a gun and made the motion of pulling the trigger. “No more pain, no more anguish, no more memories, no more anything.”
I frowned. “Have you thought about it?”
“Sometimes—before I came out here—and even after, for a spell, it was pretty bad, but then I met Dimitri.” He paused and looked at me. “And then I met you.”
“Me?” I said, shaking my head. “I’m a train wreck . . . and I’ve even disappointed you.”
“You haven’t disappointed me, Sal,” he said softly, searching my eyes. “You’ve brought light into my life. You have no idea how dark the clouds were before I met you—before you smiled at me that night on the beach when we danced. When I held you, it was like this huge weight lifted off my shoulders. You showed me that I could move on—that there was reason for living. . . and even if you’re married and think we can’t be together, that’s not going to stop me from falling in love with you. I already have.” He gently pulled me up and kissed the top of my head. “And I’m not going to stop because the church wants me to.”
