by Nan Rossiter
I closed my eyes and felt him softly kissing my cheek and my eyelashes, and slowly working his way down my neck and then barely brushing my lips. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered, but I was hungry for him and I teased him with my tongue. “Ah,” he murmured, “now you’re asking for trouble.”
“I am,” I whispered, tasting his sweet whiskey-flavored tongue as it lightly touched mine.
He pulled back, searching my eyes. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, and I nodded. He kissed me again and then led me down the hall. We stood in the doorway of his bedroom and I leaned against the frame and lifted my arms as he pulled off my sweatshirt. Then he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. “I want you so much,” he murmured, his eyes glistening with tears.
“I want you too,” I said, touching his cheek. He sat on the edge of his bed and I stood in front of him and watched as he slowly unbuttoned my jeans. Then, casting aside the sheets of his bed, he pulled me down next to him.
That night, Coop and I found each other again and again, our bodies intertwining until we were exhausted, and I realized that although I’d had sex before, I’d never truly made love. Afterward, I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heart beating steadily, deliberately, and I thought about how that same heart had raced with fear and throbbed with courage in Vietnam; the same heart had continued beating, even when the hearts of his buddies—his brothers, as he called them—had stopped. Who was this man I was falling in love with? Who was this man I was willing to turn my back on the church for . . . and my chance for eternal life? What had his eyes seen that made him so solemn and sad? And what was it that made me want him so much? I listened to his soft breathing and fell asleep.
Moments later, I was startled awake by shouting. “Where are you?” he cried out. “Mikey, answer me! Oh God, Mikey!”
“Coop, wake up,” I said, shaking him.
He turned and looked at me, his eyes wild—as if they didn’t see me.
“Who is Mikey?”
Coop sat up, leaned forward, buried his face in his hands, and didn’t answer. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I woke you. You must think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t,” I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I would never think that.”
I paused. “Who was he? Was he a friend in Vietnam?”
“He was more than that—he was my platoon mate—we went through training together.”
“What happened to him?”
Coop shook his head and pushed his hands through his hair in anguish. He sat on the edge of the bed and then pulled on his jeans and got up. I lay in bed and listened to him open the cabinet and reach for a glass.
Chapter 21
I truly believe that living in Mrs. Cohen’s cottage full of books—and spending so much of my time reading—had renewed my interest in writing. Every time I finished a book, I thought: I could’ve written that. I am perfectly capable of stringing words together into sentences that will eventually become paragraphs. I can create feelings, experiences, and eventually, a story. It may never get published; it may not even be good; but it’s perfectly doable. How hard can it be?
I also believed that writers lived lives of luxury—setting their own schedules, working in their pajamas, going for long walks or out for leisurely lunches whenever they wanted, drinking copious amounts of coffee and tea during the day, and wine—or something stronger—at night . . . and answering to no one. At least that’s what I thought until I sat down and actually tried to write something. Yikes! Where to begin? How to start? There are so many words to choose from . . . or should it be from which to choose? The latter sounded archaic, but the former was a grammatical sin—Sister Agnes had pounded this into our heads: Never end a sentence with a preposition. Was this just a myth? I wondered, or was it grammatical suicide? I’d read a lot of books that seemed to ignore this rule, but since it had been pounded into my head, I always cringed when I heard someone do it.
For years, I dabbled, but the stories I made up didn’t ring true, and the only story I could truly tell—based on what I “knew,” as Sister Agnes suggested—involved reliving my past and dredging up memories that filled me with shame. Would telling my story help other people somehow? Would that make it worth the heartache?
I wrote in fits and starts, keeping a notebook in a drawer next to my bed, but I never got very far and I often tore out pages and threw them away—I was afraid someone might actually read them!
When I wasn’t reading or trying to write, I was working at the bakery. Abe had been right, of course—the bakery never really slowed down—people always needed bread. On a couple of occasions, I went with him to the Cape to check on the stores now selling his bread. We brought big Nantucket-style baskets with Nantucket Bread engraved on copper plates, and I even set up displays at a couple of the stores with free samples of cubed bread that customers dipped in bowls of olive oil.
On Thanksgiving, Coop and I went to the Cape with Abe to help serve a turkey dinner with all the fixings at one of the shelters. We were put to work as soon as we got there—Abe carving turkeys, me scooping mashed potatoes, and Coop ladling gravy. When dinner and dessert—apple or pumpkin pie with whipped cream—were served, we joined the other volunteers for a dinner of our own and it was the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner I’d ever eaten. Abe—who’d been serving at the shelter for years—had promised it would be fun, but he hadn’t said how delicious it would be, and although it was sad to recall all the quiet Thanksgivings I’d shared with my dad, serving at the shelter cheered me up—I couldn’t imagine a better way to give thanks.
By the time we got back to Nantucket, it was snowing. We said good night to Abe; then Coop drove me home—to his house. Even though we’d been seeing each other for two months, we still hadn’t told anyone. I was determined to keep our relationship secret because I was certain I’d be banished from the church . . . and from Communion, and this would break my heart. Coop seemed okay with the arrangement—as long as he could have me in private. He claimed he didn’t care what the world knew—or didn’t know. Loving me—and being loved by me—was all that mattered.
As soon as we got home that night, Coop poured a glass of whiskey and built a roaring fire in his old stone fireplace. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, visibly relaxed after taking a sip.
“No. No, thanks,” I said, standing in front of the fire. When we’d first started spending time together, I didn’t know how much he drank, but after a couple of weeks, I realized he didn’t just drink occasionally, he had one or two—and maybe more when I wasn’t there—every night. The realization worried me. I knew he was trying to block out his memories, but I began to think it was making things worse—it was as if the alcohol dredged to the surface all the memories he was trying to forget. On more than one occasion, he cried out in his sleep, shouting in alarm and shaking. Other times, he had trouble falling sleeping; then he paced the floor, listening to every sound.
After a while, I suggested he try to go an evening without having a drink, but he became defensive and insisted he didn’t drink too much. For a few nights after, he’d have beer or wine instead, and his mood would be less somber.
“C’mon, Sal,” he pressed. “It’s our first snowy night together on Nantucket—Thanksgiving, no less—with a fire in the fireplace, have a drink with me.”
I pressed my lips together—a glass of wine would be nice. “Okay,” I said, relenting. “A small glass.”
He poured a glass of cabernet, handed it to me, and sat down next to me. “Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, clinking my glass.
“Happy Thanksgiving to you,” I replied, smiling and searching his blue eyes. “I have so much to be thankful for this year.”
“Not nearly as much as I do,” he said, smiling and softly kissing the top of my head.
I snuggled up next to him and we listened to the wind howling around the house.
“The storm’s picking up,” he said.
“I wonder how bad it gets out here.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Hopefully not too bad.”
We sat quietly, watching bright sparks shoot up the chimney into the snowy night, and as the bed of embers began to glow, Coop stoked the fire and then gently pulled me down next to him on the rug. I felt the heat of his body on one side of me and the warmth of the fire on the other, and as the flickering firelight danced in his eyes, he traced his fingers along my hips, and I realized I’d never felt so safe . . . or loved.
“I love you, Winston Ellis Cooper the Third,” I whispered.
“I love you, Sally Adams,” he answered softly.
I smiled sadly—if only my name still was Sally Adams.
Chapter 22
My dad’s attorney called the Monday after Thanksgiving to inform me that my dad’s house had sold and that the closing would be before the end of the year because the buyer, who had two young kids, hoped to be in the house for Christmas. To my relief, he also said I didn’t have to be there and added—somewhat gleefully—that as soon as it took place, the remainder of my dad’s estate would be settled. “Congratulations,” he said. “You’ll receive a sizable check just in time for the holidays.” I thanked him and hung up, wondering if he was happy for me or for himself, because he would be receiving a sizable check in time for the holidays too.
I looked out at the trees, now bare of leaves, and tried to picture little kids running around our old house. I wondered how old they were. Was there a boy and a girl? And who would claim my room? Would they paint it a different color? I tried to imagine a young girl growing up in my old room, and I immediately wondered if she’d notice the crack in the ceiling when she was lying in bed—as I had—and think it looked like a snowy mountain range. I also wondered if she’d notice—when she was sitting at her desk—the beautiful pink blossoms on the ancient dogwood just outside the bedroom window? I suddenly wished I’d asked my dad’s attorney more questions about the family.
I filled the kettle for a cup of tea, and while I waited for it to heat, I thought of my mom, remembering how she’d suffered and cried out in that house before finally succumbing to cancer. The new owners would probably never know, but it’s the type of thing I’d want to know. It’s macabre, but I can’t help it, especially if it’s an old house. Now, I looked around the beach house again—it was so old it was on the historic registry—and I decided the odds were good that someone had died there. I pictured an old man lying in the room where I now slept, taking his last breath. What was his name? What had he done for a living? Had he been a fisherman? Had he been married? Was his wife holding his hand and comforting him when he died . . . or had he died alone?
The kettle started to whistle and I turned to pour hot water over my tea bag. I shook my head and thought: This is why I need to be a writer!
I picked up the book I was reading, settled into the chair in the corner of the living room, and took a sip of my tea. I opened to my bookmark, a tattered business card from the bakery, and picked up where I’d left off. I was captivated by the story of aspiring architect Howard Roark, expelled from school for refusing to conform to conventional teaching, but still designing buildings that incorporated the surrounding landscape into their progressive designs. Howard had no regard for what was commonly accepted and he had no concern for success or how his buildings would be received. He was true to himself, and this was a lesson I needed to learn. I needed to stop worrying about what other people thought of me and just be true to myself.
Unfortunately, it would be years before I found the courage.
Chapter 23
We’re just friends—that’s what I planned to say if anyone asked when Coop and I went out to dinner for his birthday. It never once occurred to me that my stubborn determination to keep our relationship a secret was hurting Coop. After all, he’d assured me he was fine with it. That’s why I was so surprised—and worried—when we got back to my house after dinner and he shook his head when I asked him if he was going to model his birthday suit for me. “What’s the matter?” I asked, reaching for him, but he held my hands so I couldn’t touch him. I frowned. “Did I say something wrong?”
He shook his head again, ever so slightly, and then let go of my hands and turned to pour himself a drink. He gestured questioningly, but I shook my head, and he walked over to the fireplace, set his glass on the mantel, and opened the damper. Then he struck a match, lit the newspaper and kindling under the pile of logs he’d built before we left, and fanned the flame until the fire was roaring. Then he stepped back, reached for his glass and took a sip, and the way he watched the flames licking the back of the firebox made me think he’d forgotten I was there.
“I’m sorry,” I said uncertainly. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong.” But he just gazed at the flames. It wasn’t the first time Coop had grown inexplicably silent in my presence, and I’d learned it was best to leave him alone. He’d come around eventually, but it didn’t stop me from worrying that it was somehow my fault.
The next day, I realized his somber mood had had nothing to do with me and had everything to do with the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor—which I’d forgotten had happened the same day he was born. Cooper was intensely aware of it, though. He didn’t just share the same month and day with the tragic event—he was born hours before the attack took place—hours before countless young, unsuspecting servicemen were killed—an occurrence that always made him feel less than celebratory on his birthday. He didn’t just hold the men who’d fought beside him close at heart—he held all veterans from all wars close . . . and this made me love him all the more.
Two weeks later, Coop announced that Lily and Daniel were coming for Christmas. It was their first visit to Nantucket and I knew he was looking forward to it. I could also tell he didn’t realize that their visit meant we wouldn’t be spending Christmas together. When I mentioned this, he frowned and pressed me to change my mind. He insisted Lily would never tell anyone about us, but I shook my head. I didn’t want his sister—or anyone else—to think we were more than friends, and if spending Christmas apart was the price we had to pay, so be it. In the end, I agreed to stop by and meet them, but I declined his invitation to stay for dinner.
On Christmas morning, I walked along the snowy narrow streets to St. Mary’s Church—the Catholic church Abe attended. I’d walked past the little church at least a hundred times, but I’d never stepped inside. In fact, now, I hadn’t been to mass in over a year. I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the church as if I was seeing it for the first time. The cedar shake siding blended right in with the classic architecture of Nantucket, and the gentle expression of the statue of Our Lady of the Isle was both welcoming and forgiving, but it also made me feel unworthy. I walked up the wooden steps, held my breath, and went inside—it was beautiful! I found a seat in the back and slipped a small card out of the pew rack that had the history of the little church printed on it. I read in wonder—the historic little church had celebrated its first mass in August of 1897! I looked up and, through teary eyes, gazed at the stained-glass windows, and as I listened to the young soloist sing the hauntingly beautiful “Ave Maria,” I was transported back to the innocence of my childhood. Suddenly overwhelmed with guilt, I pleaded, “Oh, God, forgive me.”
On my way home, I resolved to start attending mass and confession every week and I assigned myself two rosaries, but when I sat in my chair with my beads in my hands, I felt my heart ache . . . as if prayer wasn’t enough. Over and over, I whispered my plea for forgiveness: “ ‘Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen.’ ” But the repetitive prayer didn’t make me feel better and I realized there was only one thing that truly would.
Th
e next day—a beautiful blue-sky winter day—Cooper dropped Lily and Daniel off at the ferry and came straight to my house, and pulled me into his arms. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered.
“I’ve missed you too,” I said, trying not to lose my resolve. He started to kiss me, but I put my hands on his chest and stopped him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I pressed my lips together, gathering my courage. “I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching . . . and . . .” I looked into his eyes—now shadowed with worry—and suddenly doubted my resolve.
“What?” he asked.
“I think we should stop seeing each other,” I blurted, my eyes filling with tears.
“Why?” he asked in disbelief.
“Because it’s wrong. Don’t you see? I’m married, Coop, and it’s a sin and I can only find forgiveness if I’m truly repentant—and that means I must stop sinning.” I felt hot tears spilling down my cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be just friends—it’s too hard. When you’re around, I have no self-control. I just want to be with you.”
Coop looked like I’d stabbed him in the heart—which is what I’d done. He shook his head. “Sally, what we have is not wrong. Don’t you see? What you had before was wrong. What we have is right—so right. I’m sure God doesn’t want you to go through life alone. I’m sure he forgives you.”
I shook my head and turned away—I couldn’t even look at him. I couldn’t stand to see the pain I was inflicting. “I’m sorry, Coop,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I wish I wasn’t married.”
Chapter 24
I struggled to not tell Lizzy—with whom I’d shared every secret since I was five years old—about Coop, but for some reason, my relationship—or non-relationship, as it were—with him was something I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even my best friend. What we had shared—albeit briefly—was too sacred, too special, and words would never do it justice.
