A New Lu (9 page)

Funny thing is, he doesn't release my hand. I don't let go, either.

We continue to talk of nothing special until we are at the far end of the deserted beach, nearly to where the land curves away to the north, forming the crescent shape that makes this a natural harbor. My feet are sandy. Each time I smile my cheeks wrinkle with a thin crust of sea salt carried by the breeze. I smile a lot, happy as a kid.

“Want to rest for a while?” William points out one of the large boulders protruding through the sand of an otherwise flat expanse.

With his assistance, I happily haul myself up onto one. He lounges on an elbow beside me. “There's going to be a great sunset. You'll enjoy it,” he says, as if it's a performance we've come here for.

I glance at my watch. It's later than I thought. But I have nowhere to be or anyone to report to.

I sit back and glance up. An
ah
of delight escapes me. William only nods. Like me, he doesn't want to draw his gaze from the spectacle of the setting sun on this May evening.

The ever-changing light is impossible to capture in words. But because I am a writer, I try to recompose images as thoughts that might later be transferred to the pages of the journal I keep. Sometimes…when I remember. I will remember today.

We are part of a Monet waterscape, repainted again and again as the minutes pass. On the western horizon the sun
does a fan dance behind a blaze of cerise and molten gold. Overhead oyster-shell chalkiness thickens the clouds while rosy moon-shell and whelk coral tint the undersides. Shades of sea glass and pearl, tumbled amethyst and frosted rose quartz emerge. Everywhere there are blues: aqua, turquoise, lapis, azure, indigo and smoke, at the harbor's mouth drawn from and reflected onto water so still that the sky slips into sea without a ripple. Time pauses; only the sinking sun moves. To the Northeast, the seam of open water and sky, the occasional white sail passes in the distance.

Even I, a landlubber, sense that such moments are rare. The sky goes on forever, yet pools at one's feet where it can be dipped into by a toe. The day's anxieties desert me. I am as reluctant to let go of this contentment as a child after a day at the beach, even as darkness edges across us and into the water, now beginning to curl with the rising tide.

Finally the rich magenta and egg yolk of the final blaze ignites the western fingertips of now umber-darkened clouds.

Finally I realize that William is not looking at the sky but at me. How long has he watched me? A bit embarrassed to be caught gaping in wonder like a beached flounder, I dig my palms in and lever myself down from the rock. As I do, I hear a faint hum growing louder with every moment.

All at once a hectic dark cloud envelops us, full of tiny high-pitched drills that bite into our faces and necks and arms. Beach gnats.

William reaches for my arm as I flail wildly. “Come on!”

He hauls me by the upper arm up the beach, instead of back toward town.

“Where are we going?” I ask between clenched teeth, because I hate gagging on gnats.

“My place.”

11

Of course he has a place nearby. I just didn't know it was so close to Aunt Marvelle. Does she know about this?

“It's a rental,” William informs me as we trudge up a trail between the dunes. “Last month of off-season availability. Wanted to see if I like beach life well enough to drop an obscene wad on this property, or one like it.”

“Obscene. I see.” Elder care is a growth industry.

The moment he points it out I see why he'd consider the place. It's right on the beach, but up a steep slope meant to keep even hurricane-driven seawater at bay. From the beachside, it looks enormous. But as we climb wooden steps across the sea-grape vines up to where a grassy lawn begins, the perception changes. It's still a big house, two stories, plus a ground-level garage, but not ostentatious. In fact, the gray siding that looks like wood weathered by the sea and the slate-colored roofing make it seem historic.

The interior contradicts that assumption. The main floor is open-room modern, not tiny bungalow rooms like Aunt Marvelle's half-century cottage. The living room
and dining room flow together, the kitchen separated only by a floating bar. Wide-planked flooring is smoothed to satiny perfection.

“Are you hungry?” William moves to open the blinds at the line of windows extending across the back of the house, which allows the bay to be on full display.

“Sure.” Maybe I should not sound so enthusiastic. “My treat.”

He hesitates. “I'd planned to have dinner in, if you don't mind. It's nothing fancy.”

“Even better.” A man who cooks. Lucky me.

He shucks off his coat and slings it casually across a chair. Not anal-retentive about his clothing. “I just need to make a few phone calls first.”

Right. He had other plans. The lucky lady was to be someone else.

I pop up from where I just sat on the sofa. “Listen, let's do this another time. You've been more than kind, and I really appreciate the company. But I'm sure you had your evening planned.”

He stops moving across the room to listen to my speech. An expression like exasperation crosses his face. “Do you want to go home?”

“No.” I give in. “I'm having a really good time.”

He smiles. “So sit down and let me make my calls.”

He's gone a total of five minutes. I don't even try to overhear who he's talking to. I lucked out, and I'm not going to feel guilty. However, if she's giving him hell, I may pay the price with a burned meal.

I sit and think, not a bad wind-up to a day with a hellacious beginning. But then I've begun to suspect that any day with William Templeton in it would be a good one.
Don't get any bright ideas, Lu!

When he comes back in he looks happy. “Jolie had gone to bed. She says she's fine. But I'll drop by later to make certain.”

I look up to the second floor. “I thought she'd come to stay with you.”

“She said she wanted to sleep in her old bedroom. And that being alone will give her time to think.”

“Oh.” We're alone. How about that? Or maybe the other woman is fuming at the very idea.

“I've got fresh halibut. Picked it up at the market this morning. Though I was buying for one.” He reaches into the refrigerator, pulls out a package wrapped in butcher paper, and unrolls it. “You think that's enough for two?”

I chuckle. “It's plenty.” Half of his serving sounds much better than all of someone else's. The idea that there was another woman vanishes from my mind.

He makes broiled halibut and serves it with homemade pineapple salsa, a mixed green salad and hot rolls.

“I'm impressed.” I don't lie. I make short shrift of my portion. Sea air gave me an appetite.

“Thank you.” He leans on his forearms and surveys my empty plate with satisfaction. “I'm teaching myself to cook, thanks to the Food Channel.”

I've just consumed the most excellent results. “I hear lots of men—especially those who haven't cooked more than ribs and steaks before—are hooked on the Food Channel. I guess you men like tell-all exposés of a subject so dear to your hearts.”

“Second-best activity on the planet.” He doesn't even bother to leer in my direction. The little smile he's keeping to himself is enough.

I can't fault him for being a man when I'm noticing how much I like his even teeth and how his ears lie close against his head. In fact, everything about the man who's filled up the last few hours of my life is just fine with me. It's the most pleasant evening I can recall in years. I'm not being a wife or a mother or a colleague, or even a friend. We are not friends yet. The road to discovery, if we want to travel that path, is still ahead.

“What are you smiling about?”

“I was just thinking that I'd almost forgotten what it's like to simply be Lu.”

“Nice feeling?”

“Oh, yeah.”

He stands up. “Let's finish our drinks on the deck. It's late enough that the gnats should be gone.”

I pick up the lemonade he served us and follow him out.

The night is now velvet black, with few lights to connect the dots to reality. Yet the merest sound echoes across the harbor. The happy cry of a reveler onboard a cabin cruiser entering the sound is as clear as the noise of the surf curling onto the sand below us. We lean, elbow to elbow, against the railing for a time, looking out at the oily black water.

“So what do you think? Would a child like this?”

For a moment I'm completely thrown. Then I remember, he's going to be a grandfather. Or maybe he's thinking about remarriage. “Absolute bliss.”

He doesn't answer, but I see him nod. The warmth of his arm brushing mine feels good. I fantasize for a second that he will put that arm about my shoulders in a friendly, camaraderie way. That would be nice.

After another minute he turns to me. “I need to check on Jolie. I'll be back in an hour. Will you wait?”

Wait here? For what? For him? What kind of signal would that be? “Okay.”

It doesn't take me five minutes to fall asleep to the jazz from the university radio station in Southampton. They're playing Clark Terry as I drift off. It's Lionel Hampton, and the clock says two hours later, when the crunch of tires on gravel awakens me.

I manage to sit upright on the sofa, but I'm still yawning as he comes through the door. My night-owl days are long behind me.

He comes in in a hurry, as if he expected something—that I'd be gone? He looks relieved when he spots me. “Sorry. Jolie needed another cry. She's fine now.”

He slips off his jacket and rubs his hands together. “Now that that's taken care of, how about some herbal tea?”

“Lovely.” The chill of the night has invaded the room. I head for the bathroom to splash water on my face and rinse my mouth. Some date I make, all gummy-mouthed and bleary-eyed.

When I return he is standing, arms akimbo by a lit fire, like a Boy Scout who's just earned a badge. “Thought this might be fun.”

I hadn't noticed the fireplace before. “This place has everything.”

“So it seems.” He hands me a mug of tea. “Hope raspberry's okay.”

Next thing I know, we're sitting on sofa pillows in front of the fire, while I'm feeling as if I've left my life and stepped into the pages of a very nice romance novel. Except for the fact that… Bloody hell!

“That was some sunset.” Got to talk about something other than my predicament.

He chuckles. “I don't know any other woman who could sit still for half an hour without speaking.”

“There were no words for that sunset.” My journal entry will sound overwrought.

“Exactly.” Offers me a look it's hard not to interpret as sensual. “You were wise enough to understand that.”

He's watching me again, as though he wants to say more but can't make up his mind. Okay, my turn.

“Why did you call me?”

“I wanted to reassure you.”

“Because I'd made such a fool of myself in your examining room?”

“Okay.”

What kind of answer is that? “I was having an awful day until we ran into each other. Those things you said earlier, about the possibility of me having a normal pregnancy helped. You did some research on my condition, didn't you?”

He smiles but seems more serious than when he left. I remember him saying that Jolie needed another cry. I know how it is when your child's in pain. “I don't like to be caught short when a patient's well-being is at stake.”

“Thank you.”

He looks away first.
Hmm.

I decide to follow his lead. He's not talking; I won't, either. When I start to doze again, I'll leave.

“I don't know what you've heard about me.”

I smile into my cup. Oh, that. “Only that Aunt Marvelle thinks you walk on water.” He shrugs, gaze still on the fire. He knows more than he should about my life. Let's see what he'll say about his. “And that your wife died tragically not long ago.”

“Eleven months ago.”

“I'm sorry.”

He continues to look at the fire. So much for that conversation.

“Linda's death is the only reason I'm not divorced.”

“I see.” I don't, of course, but my own fifteen rounds in the divorce ring have made me cautious of the idea I might understand anyone else's experience.

“I had a general practice for years in New Rochelle. It was a compromise. Linda wanted to be near the city. I wanted to be where I could do the poor the most good. About six years ago, I noticed that my patient profile was aging. I was giving more and more referrals to specialists. I started thinking I should know more about how to adequately care for patients who don't require a specialist, but have chronic problems common with aging. So I took time off, went back for additional training in geriatrics
at New York–Presbyterian.” He glances at me. “Linda thought that it was completely unnecessary. But when I was done, I knew I had found a new calling.”

“One of the lucky ones,” I say.

“I was offered a position at Wake Forest in Winston-Salem, South Carolina. Linda lost it. Said she wouldn't move even to Jersey. She was a New Yorker.”

“Compromise time.”

He nods. “I looked around and found a notice about a Bridgehampton physician who was retiring and selling his practice. I bought it and haven't looked back. That was three years ago.”

“Cushy spot.”

He looks at me, clearly annoyed. “That's what Linda thought. That's why she encouraged me to take it. But even this end of the island has more hard-working poor than vacationing wealthy. They oil the wheels of the cushy life.”

“Touché.”

He puts a hand on my knee. “Sorry. I know you didn't mean it that way. But Linda did. She liked the Hamptons address. She just didn't like the fact that all my patients are elderly, and that I don't cater strictly to the upper end.”

“I've seen your waiting room. Prince and pauper, cheek by jowl. You must be good.”

He grins. “I'm very good at what I do. But I'm in a practice that loses patients. Linda called what I do living at the edge of the grave. That's the point of it, to make the end easier.”

I don't quite know what to say to that. That his attitude is noble or selfless or even rare would be true, but trite. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to expect a comment.

“I thought it would work, but Linda felt betrayed by my new practice.” He removes his hand from my knee. “I knew she was afraid of growing older. In fact, she was obsessed
with staying young. You name the process, she had tried it—before forty.”

“She must have been beautiful.” I'm thinking of Jolie. If I'd ever looked like that, I might be a little more willing to sacrifice to maintain it.

“She was, and always would have been, to me. But she changed.” He pauses to give me a knowing look. “Being a man, I didn't like the changes.”

“And that should teach me to keep my smug mouth shut!”

“There are at least two sides to every issue.” He rubs his brow. “I'm sure, if she were here, Linda could make you see hers. She just couldn't adjust out on the island. The summers were great. Winters in a summer resort can be very lonely.”

“If you don't have a life of your own.”

He nods. “I work a lot of hours, even more now that I'm in an unpredictable field. The elderly, like the very young, get sick quickly and inconveniently.” He looks at me again, the fire reflected in his dark gaze. “Sometimes I attend a funeral a week.”

And that says more about him than anyone could tell me. He sees his patients all the way to the end of the line.

“Within a few months Linda was miserable. By then Jolie went away to college. Finally, I was miserable. A few days before the boating accident she'd told me she was leaving me.”

I think about all those expensive yachts in the harbor, and wonder if the owner or renter of one of them contributed to the alienation of Linda Templeton's affection for her husband. Why I have that disloyal-to-the-sisterhood thought, I don't know. Something in the pain crimping the corners of his eyes is a hint. But I don't ask.

“I regret her death. But to be honest, I was mentally already out the door of the marriage.”

“Then why do you still wear a wedding band?” I'm a woman and I need to know.

He looks down at his hand. “Protection. There are a lot of lonely women in my practice.”

I chuckle. “Lots of wealthy lonely women.”

“Remind me of that in a couple of years, if I'm still sad and lonely.” He slips off his ring and puts it in his pocket, and then he turns to me in a motion I don't recognize until it's complete.

He kisses like he does everything else, with amazing poise and concentration and skill. But there's nothing practiced in it. He kisses as if it's been a long time, too long, and it's something he really enjoys, and has missed. Or maybe that's me.