Blue Moon (15 page)

“Sex outside of marriage. I’ve only been with one woman my whole life, Nora—my ex-wife. I can’t explain this to you; it’s how I was raised.” His eyes looked troubled; he touched his temple.

Nora had been rejected before. She had come on too strong with guys who were married, guys who didn’t want her; it had always hurt her to the quick when a man said no. But this was different. Willis looked so unhappy about what he was saying, Nora cared only about comforting him. She took his head in her hands, kissed his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

“It’s not okay,” he said. “I want you so much. I’d give anything if I didn’t have this problem with my conscience.”

“Don’t worry, Willis,” Nora said.

“Nora, I care about you very much.”

“But why?” Nora asked the question she’d been wondering about all summer, when Willis had first appeared at Lobsterville.

Willis gave a little laugh, held her hands between his. “Who can explain chemistry? I felt it the first time I laid eyes on you. There you were, marching back and forth through the restaurant with a cross little frown on your face, and I said to myself, ‘I would like to cheer that girl up.’”

Nora laughed nervously. Was that it? He wanted to cheer her up? She straightened her caftan.

“I’ve been lonely, Nora, and I’ll bet you have, too. I can see it in your eyes. You act like a tough lady running a famous restaurant, but you’re just a little girl. You’ve been lonely inside. Am I right?”

Two tears squeezed out of Nora’s eyes. She wiped them away, but more followed. To finally be understood!

“There, there,” Willis whispered, pressing her head against his shoulder. “What silky hair you have. And the color … it’s the exact shade of a very rare azalea, the Savannah Russet, that used to bloom in a square outside my grandmother’s house.”

“I’ve always wanted this,” Nora said, thinking of all the time she’d lost with men who didn’t like her.

“So have I,” Willis said. “We both have, but we’ve found each other, Nora. It doesn’t matter how long it took.”

“Your business up here can’t last forever,” Nora said. “After a while you’ll go back to Georgia.”

“Once you’ve found someone you love, it doesn’t matter if events force you apart for a little while.”

Had he really said “love”? Nora had to remind herself to breathe.

“I’m an entrepreneur, Nora,” Willis said. “I have an office in Savannah, but I don’t see why I couldn’t open one up here. There’s plenty of opportunity for development in the Northeast. I’ve been looking at parcels of land in Seekonk, Pawcatuck, Warwick. I put together a condo project just up Narragansett Bay from here. This condo complex you’re living in? Nora, I’ve been involved with ten just like it, from Atlantic City clear down to Key West. No reason I couldn’t open up a northern office.”

“You’re really thinking of it?” Nora asked.

“Why do you think I rented an apartment instead of staying in that hotel room? I’m thinking long-term. I thought you might have figured that out on your own.” His tone was teasing, fond, and he continued to touch her hair.

“I guess it occurred to me, but …” Honesty didn’t come naturally to Nora. Not that she would lie, but she found it excruciating to tell a man her deepest, truest feelings. “I didn’t dare to hope. I thought we’d get … close. And then you’d leave.”

“You mean you thought I’d go to bed with you, then dump you.”

“Yes.”

“That could never happen,” Willis said. He touched, then kissed the rim of her left ear. She saw by the lighted dial of his gold watch that it was 2:55 A.M. on August 15. At 2:57 he proposed to her. “I want to marry you. I want to take you as my wife, Nora. Please say yes.”

“Yes,” Nora said.

S
heila Keating stood ankle-deep in sea mud, feeling around with her toes for clams. When she felt one, she’d flip it up with her foot and wash the sand off it. Eddie said she had a gift for clamming the way some people could play the piano or tell fortunes. He had no sensitivity in his feet, so he had to make do with a wood-handled fork with long, curved tines. The sun baked down. The clam basket, kept afloat by an inner tube, bobbed between them. Pretty soon the basket would be full, and they could go home to their cottage and lie down for a nap.

Someone came in the front door, awakening Sheila. She hugged herself, savoring the dream. “That was a good one,” she said, nodding with satisfaction. Pretty soon she’d be able to fall asleep again and pick up the dream where she’d left off. She was getting better and better at it. Sheila couldn’t wait to get rid of this visitor so she could dream about taking a nap with Eddie after clamming, cuddling under their white cotton sheet on a hot summer day.

“Hi, Granny,” Cass said.

“Cass!” Sheila exclaimed. She’d rather talk with Cass than almost anything—even dream about Eddie.

Cass sat on the edge of the sofa. She looked so lovely, as delicate as a rose. Peering up at her, Sheila tried to tell what was different about her.

“Are you pregnant?” Sheila asked.

Cass shook her head and let out a hard little laugh.

Sheila’s feelings were hurt. “I don’t know what’s so funny,” Sheila said. “Babies are wonderful.”

“I can’t have any more babies,” Cass said. “I had an operation.”

Sheila tilted her head. She knew this must have to do with Josie. None of the women in her family had ever had a problem baby before Cass. But Cass didn’t seem like the mother of a problem baby. Generally the experience hardened such mothers. They grew thick skin, like armor, but what they passed on to their children was the opposite: skin so thin you could see through it. Sometimes the children were given away for adoption, but you could always tell. The children who cried in kindergarten, who gave away their lunches, who carved their initials in their desks when no one was watching, who wanted to make friends with every older person they passed on the street: these were the children who had been problem babies.

“Where is Josie?” Sheila asked.

“At speech class. I’m going to send her for three hours a day while Belinda and T.J. are in school. They go back next week.”

“That will help her, dear.”

“I hope so,” Cass said. But she didn’t sound very hopeful. She was looking a little droopy, like a dust mop.

“It will help you, too. To have her off your hands part of the time.”

Cass said nothing.

“Where’s Billy?” Sheila asked.

“Fishing.”

“Always fishing. Well, they have to do it while the weather holds. Pretty soon the winter will be here, and he’ll be home when it storms.”

“Yes.”

Sheila looked at Cass long and hard, a small smile touching her dry lips. Her granddaughter had something big on her mind, and she was afraid to say it. “Spit it out,” Sheila said. “Right now.”

“Billy stayed on his boat instead of coming home.” Cass looked fierce, but like she might cry at any second, too.

“Did you have a fight?”

Cass shook her head. “He said he couldn’t take Josie crying all night. He’d been up thirty-six hours straight, so he fell asleep on the boat.” She paused. “It was only one night.”

“And you’re mad at him?”

“Well, of course I am. He told me last night, like it was no big deal, and he left this morning for two weeks. Out to Georges Bank and back.”

“Fishermen have the life, don’t they? You’re ready for a nice big fight, and he’s out to sea.”

“Lucky for him.”

Sheila was thinking about happiness, about how Cass had laughed and shivered all through her own babyhood, as though she couldn’t wait for the next adventure. But Sheila knew that one place you didn’t want too much adventure was your marriage. Spice was one thing, but you didn’t want to wait and wonder.

“Men can never roll with the punches,” Sheila said. “You have to coddle them every second.”

“I’m not the coddling type,” Cass said. “I don’t have the patience. I’m thinking about bagging this, joining the Peace Corps. Me and Josie. We’ll go to India.”

“That sounds nice. Will you send me a postcard?”

“No, Granny. You’re coming with us.”

“I used to want to be a missionary, you know,” Sheila said.

“I didn’t,” Cass said, her adorable, wicked smile back in place.

“Your hand is so warm,” Sheila said after a while. “I’m
freezing.
Your mother won’t turn on the heat.”

“It’s barely Labor Day!” Cass said. “We’re just in the middle of a cool spell. Can I get you another blanket?”

Sheila stared into Cass’s face. “With all you have to do, why do you waste your time with me?”

“Waste my time? I came because I needed to talk to you.”

“Do you ever count your blessings?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, count them.”

“Okay, I will.”

“I mean right now.”

Cass sat there, a drifty look on her face.

“Come on. Out loud,” Sheila said.

“Well, I have my kids. Billy. You. The family … let’s see …
I love the water, and it’s everywhere I look. The wharf. The business. I like my job,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. She sounded more like she was pacifying Sheila. Sheila patted her hand.

Cass tilted her head questioningly.

“See, dear? You’re really very happy. Don’t think quite so hard all the time. You’ll make yourself old.”

“How about I make us some tea?”

“What a good idea,” Sheila said. While Cass walked into the kitchen, Sheila leaned back and concentrated on sleep. If she hurried, she had time for a quick dream before the kettle whistled.

Dropping off a season’s worth of
Pennysavers
at the recycling bin, Bonnie found a stack of French magazines. She’d taken French in high school; out of curiosity, she opened the journal on top,
Les Femmes d’amour.
Instead of text, she found sharp-focus pictures of two naked couples playing on a bed together. Bonnie instantly shoved the magazine into her purse.

The women in the picture were older, heavier, realer-looking than the women in
Playboy
or
Penthouse.
The photos did not appear staged—everything set up and retouched like a bland teenage fantasy. The foursome might have been caught in the act, unaware of the photographer. Both women had stretch marks, just like Bonnie.

At home, she hid the magazine in her bedside cabinet, right under
The Joy of Sex.

When Gavin got home from scallopping four days later, Bonnie decided to show him the French pictures. The kids were at the beach; it seemed like a perfect time. But she couldn’t find the magazine. It had disappeared.

After a long trip to the scallop beds, Gavin liked nothing more than to stand in the shower until the hot water ran out. Bonnie had been ransacking the room for fifteen minutes and still couldn’t find it.

She threw her terrycloth robe over her new lavender teddy and walked barefoot into Sean’s room. Clothes he’d worn days ago were strewn across the floor. Absently, Bonnie gathered up dirty socks and underwear, jammed them into his hamper. She got to her knees,
peered under his unmade bed, pulled out more clothes. She found an assortment of earrings. Ten minutes ago she’d had thoughts only of sex with Gavin, and here she was cleaning her son’s room.

Bonnie hated the thought of invading this place, but something told her to keep looking. The place was awash with hormones, and Sean wasn’t even in the house. Posters of
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit models hung over his bed. He’d left the radio on, and some singer was rapping about “the pleasing curves and jiggles of a teenage girl.”

“Jesus,” Bonnie said, snapping off the radio. Staring at Sean’s desk, she hesitated for one instant, until she heard the shower stop. She yanked open the drawer. A small notebook, covered with slogans, lay inside. Bonnie leaned over to read her son’s writing: “Satan Rules, Pentangle Controls.” “If Someone Goes Against You, You Must Kill: The Seventeenth Commandment.” “666.” “Lucifer is Lord.”

Bonnie felt the blood drain out of her face. She carried the notebook back to her and Gavin’s room. Gavin lay naked on the bed, his hands folded behind his head, with a devilish grin on his face and an enormous purple erection. “What a nice outfit,” he said, nodding at her teddy. “How about taking it off?”

Sitting beside him on the bed, she handed him the notebook.

“This is Sean’s?” he asked, reading.

“It’s his handwriting.”

Gavin let out a big sigh. “Satan worship. Well, that explains the earrings.”

Bonnie stared at him. Usually she felt wildly attracted to her husband: to his bearded face, his curly brown hair, his taut arms, his not-so-taut belly. But right now she saw his redneck side showing through, and she didn’t like it.

“What do earrings have to do with Satan worship?” she asked.

“Seven earrings in one ear, all daggers and skulls and pistols? That’s what.”

Bonnie now felt obliged to defend her son. “That’s the style,” she said. “All the kids have their ears pierced now, not just the girls. And Emma wears just as many daggers as Sean.”

“Maybe I don’t get it.”

“He just wants to be popular. It’s natural,” she said doubtfully. Bonnie understood that chubby Sean needed to fit in. She glanced at the notebook and shivered.

“Didn’t you tell me you used to pretend you were a witch?” he asked.

“Yeah, but trying to get eggs to stand up on the summer solstice seems less, I don’t know, sinister than this.”

“Get over here, you beautiful bombshell. You’re making me crazy.” Gavin opened his arms. “Ask the kid about it when he gets home.”

“I will,” Bonnie said. She could practically predict what would happen. Her son would look her in the eye, all sweet and dopey, and she would have to believe every word he said. He had such an open face. Like last month, when he had denied stealing the meat. If he and his friends wanted to throw a barbecue, all they had to do was ask. He dressed like a Hell’s Angel. But just last week he’d stood in the kitchen after Bonnie had confronted him, gulping back tears as he told her how he’d been mean to Josie, and how bad those other kids had made him feel.

Gavin pulled Bonnie into his arms, giving her a deep kiss. “Enough about the kid, okay?” he said.