Hale's Point (21 page)

He spent a great deal of time with his guitar, working on new
songs, and every Friday night he played at Doug’s club, always to a large and
enthusiastic crowd. He always insisted she accompany him, for moral support. He
took her other places, as well; places she had never been, to do things she had
never done. One day he rented a noisy little two-seater airplane and took her
on a bird’s-eye tour of Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs. The next week
they went to a different airstrip and he took them up in a sailplane, which she
found more to her liking; it was so quiet, so smooth, almost as if she herself
had wings. But her favorite new activity was sailing, in Phil’s little Flying
Scot, the
Pacemaker
. She took to it
instantly, and by the end of their first day out, was pulling her weight like a
seasoned veteran, or so Tucker said. She loved it—the water, the wind, the
freedom, even the hard work—and begged him to take her out whenever the weather
permitted. Tucker said it looked like she was born to sail, and she couldn’t
disagree with him. She could easily understand his envy of his father for being
able to spend the entire summer aboard the
Anjelica
in the Caribbean.

They orchestrated their chores around their workout
schedules. Harley continued her daily swim and run, although she abandoned her
original inflexible schedule— Tucker’s influence. He adopted the routine he had
outlined to her the night they shook hands on their deal. Although, like
Harley, he did not adhere to a fixed schedule, every day he managed to work in
about two hours in the gym and at least one in the pool, swimming laps. As time
went on, Harley noted that not only did his form and speed improve
considerably, he no longer swam in pain, or at least, none that showed.

Every once in a while Harley would find herself staring at
Tucker as he crouched at the edge of the pool, stopwatch in hand, and thinking,
Is this the same raggedy, disheveled man
who broke into the house at one in the morning and played the
Moonlight
Sonata
on
R.H.’s
grand piano?
He remained clean-shaven, and although his hair quickly grew
out of its severe cut, it was still very short. It took mere days for the sun
to gild it, and to burnish his skin a golden brown. He credited his father’s
genes for the blond highlights and his mother’s for the overnight tan.

As his conditioning improved, his body looked more and more
like that of an Olympic swimmer—broad-shouldered, well muscled, but sleek. The
wounds on his torso and leg became less noticeable as those muscle groups
bulked up, and, more and more, he was able to do without his cane. It pleased
Harley to see him walk unaided, his limp growing less pronounced as time went
by.

Every evening after supper they met in the pool for their
one-lap challenge. In the beginning, Tucker never came close, but as the weeks
passed and he got faster, it became clear to Harley that it was just a matter
of time before he caught her. By the beginning of August, he was finishing
right on her heels. She would touch the deck at the deep end, and within a
heartbeat he would appear next to her, grab the deck, grin, and haul himself
out of the water. He would win any day now.

R.H.
was not expected back until the first of September.
Would Tucker bolt the morning after claiming his “prize,” or would he wait for
his father to return, and then leave? How would she feel when he left? With
grim amusement she thought back to the time when she first made the deal,
smugly certain that he could never catch her. Now that she knew he would, now
that she eagerly looked forward to that day, to the prospect of sharing a bed
with Tucker, she had to face the heartbreak that was certain to follow. He
would leave—it was the only way he knew—and she would suffer. She tried to keep
such thoughts from her mind, to enjoy her summer with Tucker and not think of
its inevitable end.

As Harley dried the last of the supper dishes and put them
away, Tucker opened up the fridge and withdrew the bottle of champagne that he’d
been keeping cold for over two weeks now.

Harley’s eyes widened. “You mean I’m finally going to find
out what that champagne is for?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’d better put on something warm. I’m taking
you down to the beach for a celebratory toast, and it gets cool down there at
night.”

She frowned. “Wait a minute. You can’t get down to the beach.
You’ve never been down there. I mean, not since you’ve been back.”

He shrugged. I’m going to give it a shot. I think I’m up to
it now.”

“And what about our evening swim? It’s almost time for that.
I’m surprised you’d want to miss that.”

He smiled. “It’s a trade-off, but tonight I’d prefer the
beach.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look, I know you find it hard to be spontaneous—”

“No, I don’t!”

“Prove it.”

“Give me ten minutes to get into some jeans and a sweater.”

***

Ten minutes later they were picking their way down the
boulder stairway to the beach. Harley insisted on carrying the two blankets and
the small knapsack that Tucker had filled. Even empty-handed, he found the
descent challenging, although not as painful as he would have thought. His
physical condition was light-years from what it had been six weeks ago, when he
first came to Hale’s Point. He hadn’t picked up his cane in days, although his
gait was still awkward and stiff-legged. The only real pain he still felt was
when he crouched at the edge of the pool, waiting to spring. Any kind of
kneeling or squatting was also problematic, but usually easy enough to avoid.

He was free of his cane and his cigarettes, he was strong, he
was fast, and he was happy—and he had Harley to thank for all that. Thanking
Harley reminded him of the little bag in the front pocket of his jeans. He
patted it just to make sure—it was still there.

August had always been his favorite month. The beach was at
its best in August; the water warm, and the sunsets, like tonight’s,
spectacular. Tucker and Harley paused at the bottom of the sandy precipice to
admire the streaks of peach and gold and purple that stained the darkening sky
to the west.

Giggles from behind the stand of pines separating the Hales’
beach from the
Tiltons
’ caught their attention, and
they turned to see Brenna, completely nude, run out from behind them, toward
the water. Jamie, also nude, followed her, and, overtaking her, tackled her to
the sand. Their giggles turned to shrieks and then reverted to laughter when
they realized they were being watched, and they jumped up and darted back
behind the pines. Ever since the first night Tucker had played at the club—the
night Harley had kissed Jamie for Brenna’s benefit—the young couple had been
inseparable. Tucker doubted the relationship would last beyond the summer. It
certainly would not survive past Brenna’s one-year au pair’s stint in the
States. A relationship built on lust had its charms, but those charms were
generally short-lived. Such a relationship was not worth salvaging or mourning,
unlike, say, Phil’s relationship with Kitty.

Phil had abandoned his pursuit of Harley the moment he saw
his wife again, at the club. If only he would swallow his pride and throw
himself at Kitty’s feet. But he refused to give his wife the opportunity to
forgive him, and as a result, a vital marriage was going down the tubes.

Tucker led Harley some distance to the east, past the jetty
and well into the undeveloped, wooded part of the Hale property, to the piece
of shore that had been his favorite as a boy—a patch of beach surrounded on
three sides by a semicircle of large boulders opening toward the Sound, which
afforded almost-complete privacy. They would only be visible to someone walking
along the water’s edge, and given the hour and their remote location, Tucker
thought that unlikely. Privacy was important to him tonight. He wanted to be
alone with Harley, just the two of them in his favorite place—a place he had
not seen for over twenty years. One of the disadvantages of his estrangement
from his father was the possibility that he might not inherit this property. He
cared nothing for its monetary value, immense though that must be. He cared
about his favorite spot.

He spread one of the blankets, built a fire next to it from
fallen logs, and lit it with the matches he had brought. Then, to Harley’s
obvious and very gratifying delight, he withdrew from the knapsack several
pieces of antique cut crystal—a bowl, a vase, and two champagne flutes, each
wrapped in dish towels to prevent breakage—and arranged them in the middle of
the blanket. The bowl he filled with cherries and peaches, and the vase with
lavender from the border by the stone wall. After opening the champagne, he
filled the two glasses and, sitting close to Harley, handed her one. The
firelight glittered on the crystal and danced in her eyes.

“Don’t you think it’s time you told me what we’re
celebrating?” she asked. He loved her smile. On a very serious person, a smile
was especially precious and especially beautiful. “It must be something
important. I mean, you climbed all the way down here, and that couldn’t have
been easy.”

He said, “We’re celebrating the fact that I was able to climb
all the way down here, even though it wasn’t easy. Cheers.” He raised his
glass. Harley, grinning incredulously, touched her glass to his; they rang like
bells.

She took a sip. “Let me get this straight. You came down here
so you could celebrate coming down here?”

He tilted the glass to his lips. The bubbles tickled his
nose; the champagne was dry and delicious. “Yes.” He looked around at the
little protected stretch of sand and said, “This is a special place for me. I
spent a lot of time in this one spot when I was a boy. Built a lot of bonfires
here, spent a lot of nights sleeping out here under the stars, thinking about
things, wondering what the future held. I wanted to bring you here. I wanted to
share this place with you.”

The leaping flames shimmered in her eyes. She swallowed. “Thank
you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking you. If it weren’t for
you, I wouldn’t have seen this place again. If it weren’t for you… God, if it
weren’t for you, I’d be back up in Alaska wishing I was here, choking on
cigarettes and stumbling around with my cane. I’ve been through a lot of
changes lately, good changes, and they’re your doing. So, thanks.”

He took her by the chin and gently tilted her face up toward
his. The kiss was careful, soft. He had promised her a long time ago that he
would not allow himself to get carried away, and he intended to keep that
promise. Setting his glass down in the sand next to the blanket, he reached
into his front pocket and pulled out the little black velvet bag. He took her
free hand and placed the bag in it. “I want you to have this.”

She set her glass down also. Her eyes were unblinking, her
voice, when she spoke, was high and childlike. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Tentatively she loosened the gold, tasseled drawstring and
spilled the contents of the bag into the palm of her hand. When she realized
what she held, she sat up straight with a startled intake of breath. “Tucker!
Your mother’s earrings!”

“I wanted you to have them.”

She held one up. It dangled heavily from her fingers, ornate
gold filigree surrounding a cluster of rubies. “These— these are four hundred
years old!”

“Probably more like five.” He picked up his glass and
swallowed some more champagne.

“I can’t accept them,” she said, with conviction, returning
them to the bag.

He said, “I’m not taking them back. Try them on. I want to
see you with gold and rubies next to your skin. You were never meant to wear
silver.”

She looked at him. “Who owns these?”

He reclined next to her, enjoying her reaction. “You do.”

“No, no, I mean—”

“I own all of my mother’s jewelry. She left it to me in her
will. It’s spent the last three decades in a safe-deposit box in the bank in
the village.”

“You never wanted it?”

“What would I do with it?”

“Sell it to a museum. It must be worth a fortune.”

“I’d never sell my mother’s jewelry. Chet tried to talk me
into it when I first left home. The idea made me sick.”

“Donate it, then. Or lend it, for exhibits. I’ll bet the
folks at the Met would love to get their hands on that collection.”

He thought that one over. “It never occurred to me. Maybe I
will lend them out someday.” He took the little bag from her hand and slipped
it into the front pocket of her jeans. “Except for these. They’re yours,
whether you want them or not.” He chose his next words carefully, and watched
her closely for her reaction. “But maybe I’ll take the rest with me…when I leave.”

Her eyes darted to his and then quickly away. She studied the
fire. “That seems wise. Keep them close at hand. There are safe-deposit boxes
in Alaska, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure there are, but I don’t necessarily plan on going
back there. I moved to Alaska because it was the farthest away from Florida I
could get without leaving the country. I may be ready for a middle ground, now.”

“Such as?”

He drank some more champagne and watched her over the top of
the glass. “Long Island’s nice.”