The Color of Heaven (15 page)

I waited for Peter to respond.

“Regrets,” he repeated. “Did he actual y say that?”

“Yes. He said he knew Doug Jones and his buddy were idiots… And like I said, he’s patched things up with his dad.”

I heard Peter sigh deeply into the phone. “Why didn’t he come back here to Camden? What was he doing at Wel esley?”

“He’s visiting his brother in Boston,” I told him again.

After a long pause, Peter said, “Wel , I guess it’s okay for you to go. Tel him I said hi, wil you?”

I hadn’t real y been asking for Peter’s permission, and the fact that he had just given it to me made the muscles in my shoulders clench. I rubbed my neck to try and work out some of the tension.

“And tel him to come home this winter when the lake’s frozen,” Peter added. “We could take our sticks out and shoot the puck around.”

I tried to smile but couldn’t seem to muster it. “I’l tel him, and maybe he wil .”

We talked for another few minutes about unrelated things, then said goodbye.

I hung up the phone with a tremendous sense of relief, because I’d done the correct and responsible thing. I’d told Peter my plans, and I’d also

stood my ground and hadn’t let him talk me out of doing what I wanted.

Why then, I wondered as I returned to my room and shut the door behind me, did I feel as if I were about to step off the edge of a very steep cliff?

When Matt arrived to pick me up at ten o’clock the fol owing Tuesday, I had no way of knowing that I would later look back on that day as the great

divider of my life, for it was the day I would final y begin to believe in heaven.

That treasured morning dawned like a blue topaz – clear, pure, and dazzling. I woke to piercing rays of sunshine streaming in through the window.

Birds chirped in the treetops; dew gleamed on the grass. It was exactly the sort of day that promised excitement and new discoveries.

Matt arrived perfectly on time, and I got into his car with a curious smile. “So what are we doing today?” I set my bag on the floor at my feet. “You told me to wear trousers and bring a warm jacket. Let me guess. Are we going sailing?”

He squinted in my direction, taking his eyes off the road only briefly. “You guessed it.”

“On your brother’s boat?”

“Right again.”

I felt a jolt of excitement. “Is he coming, too?”

“No, he’s at work today. It’l just be the two of us.”

I looked out at the trees passing by the open window, the branches blowing in the wind. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out on the water. I hope I don’t sink us.”

“Do you remember how to tie a bowline knot?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“A reef knot?”

“Uh huh.”

“And port is
which
side?”

“The left.” I began to laugh.

He picked up speed once we were on the main road. “And what wil you do if I yel
ready to tack
?”

“I’l duck out of the way of the boom.”

He smiled. “I think we’l do just fine.”

It was an unseasonably warm autumn morning, and for the first few miles outside of Wel esley, we drove with the windows down. We talked about

our families, in particular Matt’s brother, Gordon, who was a stockbroker, and his wife,
Rita
, a schoolteacher. I had heard that Gordon married a girl from Boston the previous year, but as far as I knew, he had never brought Rita home to Camden. Matt told me they were expecting their first child in

January.

Feeling free and relaxed, I stuck my hand out the window and felt the force of the wind pushing against my open palm. I looked forward to feeling the wind on my face when we reached Marblehead and got under way.

The trip passed quickly. Soon we were driving through the historic town, past Our Lady Star of the Sea Church, and turning right toward the Boston

Yacht Club on the harbor.

We took a launch out to the sloop,
Rita
, named for Gordon’s better half, which was tied to its mooring. Matt climbed aboard, then offered his hand to me. I stepped over the weather rails onto the gleaming wooden deck.

“She’s beautiful.” I looked around the cockpit at the shiny brass steering wheel and al the freshly varnished maple. My gaze traveled up the tal

wooden mast. Seagul s circled overhead against the blue sky, coasting on the wind, cal ing out to each other. A ship’s bel rang somewhere nearby.

“Yeah, I wish she were mine,” Matt replied, as he moved behind me toward the cabin hatch.

I felt the moist heat of his breath in my ear as he spoke, and my skin erupted in gooseflesh. Somewhat flustered, I watched him unlock and open the

hatch.

“You can put your things down here.” He climbed down the companionway to the darker confines below. “I brought sandwiches for later.”

I fol owed him down and set my bag on the leather seat cushion along the port side of the cozy cabin, which was paneled in maple and smel ed of

lemon oil. There was a sturdy table and gal ey stove, and a private forward berth built for two.

“It’s a beautiful boat. Have you sailed her much?”

“We took her to Virginia last year,” he replied. “Just Gordon and me, the month before his wedding.”

“His last hurrah?”

“I guess you could cal it that, though I think he’s happier now than he’s ever been. Rita was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

He stood before me, so dark and handsome in the dim cabin light, and I grew painful y aware of my heart beating like a drum. Then suddenly

Peter’s face flashed through my mind, and I felt a tremor of guilt.

“Ready to set sail?” Matt asked.

The boat moved upon the waves slapping against the dock. “
Rita
seems eager.”

I steadied myself and tried not to complicate things by thinking of Peter. I had told him about this. I was doing nothing wrong.

“Let’s get up on deck then,” Matt said. “The wind is just right. We shouldn’t waste it.”

I fol owed him up the companionway ladder, and together we set about rigging the boat – unfurling the mainsail, inserting the battens, attaching the

halyard. Matt raised the heavy mainsail himself, using al his strength to pul on the rope, hand over hand, the muscles in his arms and shoulders

straining with every movement. The wind snapped the canvas like a flag as it lifted.

I stood by to tie it off, then together we prepared and raised the jib sheet.

At last, Matt took the helm. I untied the mooring line and we began to move.

“Where are we headed today, skipper?” I asked, hopping down into the cockpit to stand beside him.

He pointed toward open water. “That way, in the general direction of bliss.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “Is that just west of Contentment Island?”

“So you’ve been there.” He smiled back at me.

“No, but I’ve heard of it.”

I laid a hand on his shoulder to keep my balance as the boat heeled to windward. We picked up speed. The sheets were tight, perfectly trimmed for

the edge of the wind. The prow sliced through the frothy blue water, which swished past the hul .

Oh, how I gloried in the sensation of the wind and spray on my cheeks. I breathed in the salty, fresh fragrance of the sea, listened to the sound of the seabirds screeching overhead, fol owing us out of the harbor. I felt exhilarated, euphoric.

“You’re right,” I shouted over the wind. “
This is bliss
!”

We were on a starboard tack, close-hauled, then Matt suggested a faster reach. I hopped up onto the foredeck and re-trimmed the sails. He turned

the wheel for a beam reach, and we cruised faster, thundering and thrashing over the whitecaps, sharing in the excitement of our speed until it was

time to turn.

“Ready to tack?” Matt cal ed out. “You remember what to do?”

The wind whipped my hair wildly about my face. “Yes! Anytime you’re ready!”

He nodded at me, then turned the wheel hard over and ducked. The boom swung across. I released the jib sheet for the new direction.

Switching sides, I checked the sail and cleated the lines.

“Want to take the helm?” Matt asked.

I hopped back down into the cockpit. “I’d love to.”

Taking hold of the brass wheel and holding it steady, I watched Matt move to the bench and sit down.

He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, lowered his head.

“Are you al right?” I asked.

He lifted his head. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep too wel last night.”

We continued to sail into the blue.

“You’re quite a yachtswoman,” he said. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

“It’s like riding a bike I guess.”

The rest of the world hardly existed for me in those moments as we coasted over the choppy waters. I was able to forget about my studies, my

future, and even my name or where I came from. Al that mattered was the speed and direction of the wind, and the pul of the boat’s wheel in my

hands.

And the fact that Matt was sitting beside me.

“This is amazing,” I said.

I shaded my eyes to look out at the horizon, which rose and fel in the distance with the heaving motion of the boat. “She’s an incredible vessel. She responds like a dream.”

Matt was stil sitting on the bench with his back to the transom, a knee raised, his arm resting over it. He was watching the horizon, too.

“I’m on cloud nine!” I shouted. “Thank you for taking me out here today. It’s breathtaking. Honestly, it’s like heaven!”

He stood up, sidled next to me and took hold of the wheel. We gripped it together for a moment, sharing the ecstasy of the day.

Then it was my turn to sit down and relax, so I let go of the wheel, plunked myself down on the bench and hugged my knees to my chest.

Matt’s eyes were serene and riveting as he looked down at me. “So do you believe in heaven?” He grinned. “Since you mentioned it.”

A lock of hair blew wildly across my face. I tucked it behind my ear. “I real y don’t know,” I said. “Not that I don’t think about it. I do. Quite a bit, actual y, when I’m alone. The problem is, the rational part of my brain wants proof that it exists, but of course there isn’t any.”

The boat was leaning over, skimming across the clear water like a speed skater.

“But sometimes I think that maybe
this
is heaven,” I continued, feeling Matt’s attention turn curiously to my face, even though I was looking out across the distance.

“How so?”

“That it exists in these moments of pleasure,” I tried to explain, “when a person is feeling completely fulfil ed. You said we were headed for bliss

today, and you were right. That’s how I feel right now – surrounded by water and sky, breathing in the fresh, salty air. It’s as if al my senses are alive.

And isn’t that what heaven is al about? The ultimate fulfil ment? Isn’t it supposed to be paradise?”

He squinted at me. “So you believe in heaven on earth.”

I was not surprised by how easy it was to talk to him about something so profound. No one else in my life ever wanted to talk about these things. No

one ever questioned it, at least not out loud, in conversation.

“Who knows?” I answered. “Maybe this is just a taste of what exists after death. Because al this joy – it’s in our souls, isn’t it? Not in our brains or the flesh of our bodies. Not even in our hearts. When people talk about the joy in a person’s heart, what they real y mean is the soul, don’t you think?

Because the heart is just an organ, and when we’re gone, it stops. It dies with our bodies.”

“But do our souls real y go on?” he asked. “That’s the real question.”

I regarded him intently. “Do
you
think they do?”

The wind blew a part in his hair. He took his eyes off the horizon and continued to stare down at me. “I guess I’m looking for proof, too,” he said, “just like you. Though some would argue that it’s not proof we need, but faith.”

He turned the wheel slightly to adjust to a shift in the wind, and I admired the clear, chiseled lines of his profile.

“Do you have it, Matt? Faith?”

“Sometimes,” he replied, “on certain days. But maybe not enough. At least not yet. I guess I’m waiting for something – a bolt of lightning, a burning bush. I don’t know.”

“Mm,” I agreed, chuckling softly. “Maybe these things become more clear as you get older.”

“Maybe they do.” He looked up at the large, white mainsail, straining against the wind. “But I do believe in everything else you said – that there can be heaven on earth in certain moments of our lives. This is one of those. I don’t think it gets any better than this.”

“Neither do I,” I eagerly replied. “I hope my life wil be ful of moments just like this.”

We smiled at each other, and something inside me trembled with a mixture of fear and yearning.

“Are you hungry?” Matt asked, changing the subject, lightening the mood. “We could head toward calmer waters and drop anchor.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time we cruised into a quiet cove.

With great efficiency, we dropped the sails, lowered the anchor, then Matt went below and brought up a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of chil ed

white wine.

“You must miss this when you’re in Chicago,” I said, leaning back against the transom and watching his expression as he looked up at the sky.

I looked up, too – at a fluffy white cloud, drifting slowly by, over the tip of the mast.

“I go sailing on Lake Michigan sometimes,” he said dropping his gaze and reaching for a sandwich. “But it’s a strange experience.”

“In what way?”

He took a bite and swal owed.

“Because it looks like the ocean and sounds like the ocean. Your eyes are tel ing you that’s what it is, but there’s something missing. Something…”

He paused, as if searching for just the right word. “Something vital.” He sipped his wine. “Al of your senses become frustrated, because nothing