Exiles in the Garden (33 page)

Alec remained in the doorway listening to the timbers creak and wondering what was next. He felt for the Leica in his pocket but did not take it out even though the striped Norwegian fishing shack was a wonderful flash of color amid the damp black and green, the more mysterious because it was uninhabited and had always been uninhabited. He thought of the interior as crowded with the ghosts of Norwegian fishermen tormented by wasps. Alec had a sudden hunger for his house in Washington, the familiarity of it, his wall of photographs and the rose garden in back, the former Alhambra next door. The garden needed tending. He had a tremendous urge to be in the garden at dusk, a drink in his hand, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood. The hell with Bloomingdale's. Behind him Annalise said something but a fresh gust of wind blew her words away.

Are you coming in?

In a second.

It's cold in here, Alec.

It's wild outside. Come look.

I can see from here, Annalise said.

Your kind of weather, Alec said.

It is not my kind of weather. Key West is my kind of weather.

He turned to look at her, her tousled hair and her face tanned by the Moroccan sun, her frown that threatened to break into smiles.

You've got to come look at this, he said. A schooner motored past the lighthouse and into the thoroughfare. Its sails were furled. Water crashed over the bow and the vessel heeled perilously to starboard. Annalise came to stand beside him, her arm around his waist. They could see the crew in bright yellow oilskins and the skipper at his big wheel in the stern, the skipper looking up to the rigging. By the set of his shoulders, the cock of his head and his raised right arm Alec knew the skipper was irritated, the storm at hand, the port a mile or so distant. The schooner flew behind one of the small islands and was lost to view. By the time Alec had counted to ten it was visible again and entering calm waters.

Alec thought he would give the island one more week, hope the weather improved so he could make one sail in the Herreshoff, a quick boat, responsive and reliable, wonderful to look at, lines as clean as a Matisse sketch. It had been a year or more since he had taken a helm. He would sail out of Baylor's Harbor to the western side of the island for a picnic with Annalise. And then he would return home to Washington to see what came next.

A
NNALISE'S TELEPHONE CALL
was Los Angeles business, as Alec suspected when he heard her voice and the throaty chuckle that went with it. Hellohellohello was a producer who needed her urgently because the movie he was filming had lost one of its featured players to what appeared to be a nervous breakdown, although in these times, who knew? But the actress was out of commission, off the reservation as it were, and shooting was commencing the day after tomorrow in lovely Vancouver, and if Annalise would take his word for it that the part was a very good one and made for her would she please please get on an airplane at once, about three weeks work, top salary, nice bonus at the end. Easier said than done, Annalise said, and told him where she was. There was a one-minute silence while the producer's assistant fiddled with his BlackBerry to locate the island off the Maine coast and verify the ferry schedule and determine the distance to the nearest commercial airport—and, well then, this is a piece of cake. We'll charter a plane to Montreal where you can catch the ten o'clock Air Canada to Vancouver and plan to be on the set at noon for a run-through. Meet the cast. Meet Fred, who's directing. He's on board. Loves your work.

Do you have a fax where you are?

Annalise laughed. Of course not.

I'm faxing the script to the charter company. You can read it en route.

I don't know, Annalise said.

We're in a hole, honey. Just a hell of a hole. Help us out. I won't forget it. Fred won't either.

I'm on vacation, Annalise said.

We'll make it up to you.

All right, Annalise said.

You're a sweetheart, the producer said. You won't be disappointed.

Promise?

Cross my heart and hope to die.

Have you thought about wardrobe?

That won't be a problem, Annalise. This scene we're shooting the day after tomorrow? A negligee is all you need.

Don't forget to call my agent, Annalise said.

Annalise and Alec stood on the dock in the wind and drizzle waiting for the six o'clock ferry to begin boarding.

You should come with me, she said. A change of scene would do you good.

I need a few more days here, Alec said.

The weather's a mess. You won't like it.

Give it a few days. I'm sorry you're leaving, though.

I can never resist last-minute appeals, she said.

I'll bet you didn't count on the negligee.

Listen. At my age that's a compliment.

You are superb in a negligee, Annalise.

A sudden commotion on the ferry dock indicated boarding time. There were only a dozen passengers, all of them in hats and heavy windbreakers. Annalise wore a woolen suit and high heels, a black beret, and an Aquascutum raincoat, a wheeled suitcase at her side. Alec noticed one of the passengers turn to a companion and mouth the words That's Annalise Amiral, the actress.

Alec said, You've been spotted.

Annalise said, It's about time.

They're going to ask for your autograph.

Not this bunch, she said. They're much too laid-back.

I'll miss you, he said.

Miss you, too.

We had fun, didn't we?

I'm sorry about the crack I made this morning.

Which one?

You distracted in bed.

You were right.

Never, Annalise said. You're the best, Alec.

I'll bet you say that to all the boys.

I certainly do. But I mean it when I say it to you.

The chain went down at last and the little group of passengers shuffled forward, a line of six pickup trucks behind them. Engine exhaust was thick in the damp air. Alec and Annalise took their time.

I'm awfully sorry to see you go.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Not a mistake. When there's a call, you take the call. But I'm going to miss you.

Me, too, she said.

Call me when you get there.

If it's not too late.

Call anyway.

You'll be asleep.

I'll wake up.

Take care of yourself while I'm away.

You, too. There's mischief in Vancouver.

Stay out of that damned boat.

Did you hear what I said about Vancouver?

She said, I'll be three weeks only and then we can see each other again. Of course you could come to Vancouver. You've never been. You might like it precisely because you've never been. Vancouver's a beautiful city, good food. The art galleries are good. The natives are harmless. The British Columbia coastline is a lot like this one except it's inhabited. Plenty of boats, though. And then there's the tremendous excitement of the set, four hours of gin rummy preparing for thirty seconds on camera. The romance of the making of a major motion picture and so forth and so on.

Maybe later, Alec said. Maybe next week.

She shook her head. It'll never happen, she said.

No, he said. I'll meet you in Vancouver.

I was having a fine time with you. And then they called because they were in a jam and I said all right, when do you need me. I do that all the time. I've done it my entire life.

Shucks, he said, and laughed.

Is Andre still in your head?

He was, Alec said. But he went away.

I don't mind, you know. I'm happier with my life when you're in it.

Don't worry about Andre.

Andre makes it a crowd, she said.

Annalise kissed him before stepping onto the ferry. People were watching them. Alec stood with his hands in his pockets as the pickup trucks eased onto the ramp. They were only a few feet apart but such distances were always deceptive. The last truck boarded, the chain went up, and the crew set about casting off. Annalise and Alec continued to look wordlessly at each other until she said 'bye in a small voice. He put out his hand and she took it, Annalise looking as sad as he had ever seen her, and he knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the same. He gave her hand a squeeze as the boat slipped its moorings, advancing dead slow into the harbor. Annalise did not move from her place in the stern and at last gave a little forlorn wave, an insincere theatrical gesture that dismayed him—until he heard her low laugh as she turned and walked between the trucks to the passenger cabin. She was imitating a hundred third-reel farewells, on railway platforms and in airport waiting rooms, at bus stops and army bases, bedrooms and city streets and ocean liners and dance floors, a Hollywood convention that went back at least to D. W. Griffith.

Alec watched the ferry motor slowly into the channel, its running lights dancing on the surface of the water. Two sudden blasts from the horn that in other circumstances could be mistaken for an orchestra's fanfare. Dusk was coming on and the wind softened. The drizzle ceased. Alec remained alone on the dock watching the ferry's lights recede. He raised his hand for a final wave even though there was no one on deck to receive it.

Annalise called that night, safe in Montreal; and the night after that, safe in Vancouver. The negligee fit nicely. The part wasn't bad, not bad at all. She had stolen one scene and if she was lucky might steal another. The screenplay had some weight to it and that was probably because the writer was even older than she was. The director knew his business. If you get out here quick there's a bit part for you, a barroom piano player with a heart of gold and a bad right eye. And you get to wear a tuxedo whereas I have to make do with the negligee. It's only a made-for-TV movie but it has some punch to it and the director is a peach, an old pro just like me.

The next morning Alec ate breakfast early and set off through the overgrown field to reach Baylor's Harbor. En route he looked in at the Norwegian fishing shack but the windows were so dusty he could see nothing definite. Wasps' nests hung from the eaves and he noticed a dry woodsy odor: the Norwegian planking and the paint that continued to fade and peel, a children's playhouse from the brothers Grimm. Alec continued to stroll in the direction of the harbor and the pier where a dinghy was stowed. It took him a minute to find it and another few minutes to upend it. Oars were underneath. The day was bright with a ten-knot wind from the southeast. Fair-weather clouds drifted by. Alec rowed through the chop to the Herreshoff, shackled the dinghy to the stern, and awkwardly climbed aboard. He had trouble with his balance. He banged his knee and then his elbow, drawing blood each time. He looked up to see the high-bowed ferry in the distance, the nine o'clock run to the mainland. The half-mile of water between the Herreshoff and the ferry was crowded with lobster pots, all the colors of the rainbow spread in a great fan like the glittering lights of a Christmas tree. He took the Leica from his pocket and focused on the pots, then remembered the film was black and white. He made a shot anyhow and returned the camera to his pocket.

The Herreshoff looked to be shipshape. Alec spent some time sorting out the mainsail and some more time getting it into position. He worked slowly, realizing he was out of shape and out of practice. The jib had been carelessly stowed and that took twenty minutes to unravel. Alec moved with economy in the small space, the boat tipsy in the light chop. When he finished, Alec poured coffee from the canteen strapped to his waist. Sunshine on the water was so bright it hurt his eyes, so he turned his back and drank coffee while looking at the Norwegian shack and High House beyond it. There were other houses along the shore but none of them looked occupied. Alec took his time about everything, no need to rush. The day was a masterpiece and could only improve. He finished his coffee and set about the sails, mainsail first, then jib. He untied the dinghy and walked it to the bow and shackled it to the mooring. Then he released the Herreshoff and was away, heeling gently. Alec had a chart but he would not need it except for marking shoals. There were plenty of those, even at high tide. He intended to sail southwest from the harbor, then north to the beach. He would decide when he got there whether to land or to come about and head for home.

Thirty minutes out, a lobsterman crossed Alec's bow, giving a casual salute. Alec returned it, happily remembering a conversation years before with one of the old island salts who had been describing the treachery of the Gulf of Maine, its changeable moods, now blithe, now sullen. The islander's accent was so thick Alec had trouble understanding. He said people from away had strange ideas. One of the summer people had a name for the gulf—Mare Nostrum. Our Sea. The old salt cackled when he said it and Alec laughed along with him. The Gulf of Maine was no one's sea. It was its own sea with its own laws and history. At the moment it was sparkling in the sunshine, benign as any sort of spring day. Alec set a course due west and then north, the sails full. There were few boats about. He dipped his hand in the water, heavy and cold. And then the sail commenced to luff, the wind dying. Alec pointed the boat closer to shore. He was watching the sails, now nearly limp in the sudden calm. When he turned he saw the island slowly disappear in the fog that had come from nowhere. That was one of the things the old salt had told him: the southeast wind often meant fog. A strange, unpredictable wind from the deep ocean. Alec had forgotten that part of the conversation, recalling instead Mare Nostrum, information of no practical value at all.

He moved the tiller in the direction of the island and the boat heeled slightly. All he could hear was the creak of the rigging and an engine's throb far to the west. The sound of the engine tailed away and he was left with the tick-tick of the rigging. He looked at the surface of the water, flat with a gentle heave. Here and there were sprigs of seaweed. Alec tried to remember whether the tide was coming in or going out but could not. The roll of the water told him nothing and his vision was good for ten yards only. There were no shadows in fog nor any sense of perspective, depth of field. Fog was its own closed world, a nation apart, sovereign, featureless, and primitive. Alec knew that high above the opaque surface of the water the sky was a crystalline blue, the sun so bright you had to avert your eyes; the sun at your back, you could see forever. From what seemed a great distance Alec heard the cough of the foghorn. The boat was drifting on its own motion. Alec thought of many things in a rush—the Norwegian shack, Annalise on her sound stage in Vancouver, his father in his Senate office, Andre falling like a tree, his beautiful garden at dusk, the guests-of-many-languages assembled at the Alhambra, the Count and Countess d'An making the introductions, Charles passing champagne. He hoped Mathilde was successful with the Iranians. The boat was overcrowded with so many people in it, but it continued to drift as Alec close-hauled the sails, waiting for the fugitive breeze that was certain to come. The fog made him lightheaded as if he were in thin air. Alec relaxed in the stern of the Herreshoff, his right arm draped over the tiller, and gave himself over to reverie in the spirit of an insomniac counting sheep. He lost track of time. In due course the breeze arrived and Alec made for shore—not an anchorage but a place to wait a little until the weather cleared.