Water Lessons (31 page)

"Always. I had a great time down there. Made some life-long friends, those guys in the shop. And I got to better know a friend I already had. He's truly a fascinating, amazing man: Maureen's father, Walter. Or the Commodore, as I call him. I'm not ashamed to say I'm a little crestfallen to leave him. He's like my father away from home."

A memory appeared in Jim's mind: his father taking him to eat his first raw oysters, then to hear Mark Knopfler perform at the Saenger Theater one May night five years back. Afterwards, his father took him to the Roosevelt Hotel's Sazerac Bar, once the favorite haunt of the legendary Governor Huey "Kingfish" Long. There they talked and joked and Jim enjoyed his first Sazerac. If only Jim could forge a great friendship with him as he had with Walter…

"Walter sounds great," Cara said.

"You'll see him again, Jim," Maureen said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Jim pushed his pint of beer a few inches forward. "It's just… well, the Commodore, in other news, had decided to sit out the Figawi race this year."

"The sailboat race from Hyannis to Nantucket?" Bryce said. "Every Memorial Day weekend?"

"Maureen's dad has won that race several times, and he's been saying he wouldn't be competing this year. Last night, a crowd at a party in Chatham couldn't believe the news. Just this morning, Walter tells me Senator Ryland Spaulding's offer proved too tempting. Walter can use the Senator's boat and well-trained crew. Spaulding didn't feel much like racing anyway."

"Maybe Daddy had all this orchestrated as a publicity stunt," Maureen said, raising an eyebrow. "Just joking. He has been feeling his age lately."

"Walter claims this is his last competitive race," Jim said. "So I feel bad he's taking us afterwards on that trip up the coast from the Cape to Boston."

"That's the one you guys are taking with all the at-risk kids, right?" Bryce said.

"Yep. But that trip won't be as hard on his joints. We won't be racing, just cruising. We'll have a few days to get from Hyannis to Boston Harbor. Then all the men from Melville and I will help him sail the boat back down to the Cape. It's a tri-masted vessel, over one hundred feet long, after all."

"Whose idea was it to do this trip with the kids?" Patrick said.

"My father's," Maureen said. "He's involved in all sorts of charities. He knew those two churches, a Catholic one in Southie, and a Baptist one in Dorchester. Their youth leaders were into sailing. Their kids still needed help and a new direction. Dad sensed Jim was the man for the job, the one who could help him lead the kids' sailing lessons and the last trip."

"And then he asked you for your opinion." Jim placed his arm again on Maureen's shoulder. "And you lobbied for me."

Maureen shrugged, uncomfortable with his hand on her in such a public place. He let his hand fall to his side.

Jim sighed and excused himself from the table and headed for the bathroom. A woman walking past him into the dining room bumped shoulders with him, though Jim at the last minute veered slightly away from her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Jim said by instinct and grimaced.

The woman paid no notice, too busy calling someone's name. Jim chuckled and walked into the corridor.

When he returned to the table, Cara said, "You sure weren't down on the Cape very long."

"It just flew by in a flash," Jim said. "Maybe a month and a half."

"So Maureen, your dad paid for the move down there and back?" Bryce said, an impressed look playing in his eyes.

"Moving him down was part of the original terms of Daddy's offer, then he added the move back."

"That
is
pretty impressive," Cara said.

"On my drive up today," Jim said, "I called one of my broker friends. He needs a roommate in the only surviving clapboard carriage house in Back Bay, between Beacon and Storrow Drive. I might take him up on it."

"I know just the place. Light blue clapboards. Sweet spot." Bryce rested his chin on his index finger. "You'll have a great view across the Charles and Harvard Bridge toward Memorial Drive, that domed building at MIT, and Cambridge. I've hit a few wild parties in those carriage houses. Barely escaped alive!"

"Nice," Jim said, half-lost in thought as he sipped his beer.

"And you'll be right around the corner from us," Cara said with a sunny inflection.

"We'll all have to catch up, hit the town like old times," Jim said. "And Bryce, we can go grab lobsters and ten cent wings after work at Whiskey's. And trivia at Crossroads Pub on Beacon."

"Roger that," Bryce said.

"So you guys are off tomorrow morning to Maine?" Patrick said.

"First I have to check out the carriage house. Then we're blasting off up ninety-five toward Portland and Yarmouth. We probably will stop in New Hampshire."

"In Exeter? At Liam's?" Case said.

"He wants to show me his friend's house that he moved into last year," Maureen sneered. "Jim slept in his attic, you know."

"The same attic where Liam found a lithograph of Lincoln in a closet?" Bryce said. "Where the closet door had been nailed shut?"

Jim nodded. "I slept in that attic until autumn turned too cold. Then I stayed in a room in the parish house across town from the rectory and church, where I had gotten a job doing maintenance."

"They tried to make a priest out of you up there, if I remember," Bryce said.

"The priests, staff, and much of the congregation wanted me to enroll at Saint John's Seminary in Brighton," Jim stared down into his beer. "I actually considered it, attended a retreat there. But it's just not for me."

"He found something he fancied a bit more." Maureen smiled and waited for Jim to agree.

Jim studied what was left of his ale.

"So how about we kill our drinks and scoot over to Vox?" Patrick said. "Over on Boylston?"

"Then maybe we can go to Saint and let Cara dance!" Bryce said.

Jim's eyes rose slowly from his glass. He turned his head and allowed his gaze to sweep the breadth of the restaurant. Spread out before him was a panorama of vanity, ambition, and egotism, of empty chatter and cold glances Jim recognized all too well. How weary he had grown of that emptiness! How very different from the soulfulness and laissez-faire of the New Orleans of his memories.

But still he longed to further explore the variety and excitement of Boston. And as Jim downed the dregs of his beer, he thought how he loved the slower pace of southern Maine, with its seaside lobster pounds, its craggy shores with their dark, frothy waters and mysterious coves, its Portland pubs and chowder houses. He recalled Exeter, New Hampshire, with its plenitude of colonial houses and quiet lanes, and his mood somewhat lifted.

"Sounds excellent, podnuh," Jim said.

"Let's go, sure," Maureen said as Cara cheered.

They rose slowly, and navigated through the crowded tables beside the vast open window. A thirty-something man dressed in a suit, walking the opposite way, stepped on Jim's foot.

"Ow!" Jim winced and shot the man a hard, puzzled look. The man made brief eye contact with an odd, faintly hostile look, and stepped quickly away in silence. Jim shook his head and walked on. They passed the doorman and emerged onto Newbury, with its flickering gas lamps and its two streetside rivers of pedestrians.

Jim thought of the man's face, and the disturbing look he had detected in the eyes…

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Jim snickered as they drove past the throngs of twenty-somethings and thirty-somethings coursing up and down the sidewalks through the light fog. After an evening rain, the mist now rose from the wet concrete and cobblestones and the fog blew steadily in from the ocean.

"Maureen, almost every time I come up here to Portland, it rains. But I still really love visiting. Interesting architecture, too. All these gray and brown nineteenth century buildings. They're not as old as what's in Beantown, though. Reason being this city burned the first Fourth of July after the Civil War. The fire ignited in one of the boathouses over there. Spread across the city."

Jim stared at the crowds. Their attire was not as conservative and professional as in Boston, but instead generally somewhat relaxed, even at times bohemian and grungy. Their pace seemed slower.

"There's one place I must take you next time, here on Commercial Street. The one and only J's Oyster. The jewel of the Old Port! The oysters are better across the street though. At J's they only serve Chesapeakes. But the atmosphere's what I like most. Laid back, unpretentious. The barmaids have a lot of spunk, too. Pretty entertaining lot, if you ask me."

Maureen remained silent. Why had she fallen into another strange mood? She probably didn't feel like stopping at Liam's house.

"So Maur, I wonder how the old warrior's faring at the race."

"Right now the Figawi's still underway for some, over for others, no doubt. Mom's in Nantucket by now at some fête, awaiting the outcome."

Jim slapped a hand on the dashboard. "I say the old man wins it all."

"You might have spoken too soon. He's older, slower. And it's not his boat. He doesn't know most of the senator's crew."

"Ah, Maur, sweetie," Jim said. "Where's your faith in the Commodore?"

"I'll go with realism."

"So, excited about my new digs? In Back Bay, no less?"

"Your new place could use some work. The carpet needs replacing. The walls need spackling and a few coats of paint. And it's just crazy how those floors aren't level. I guess a ton of settling can happen in an 1880s garage. But your roomie seems just fine. And the view is really something to write home about."

"Location, location, location is the crux of it," Jim said. "I take a few steps out the door and I'm on Newbury or Charles, or on the Common or Public Gardens."

"We'll ask your roommate and the landlady if we can refurbish the walls, at least?" Maureen turned and her gaze seared into his. "Well, it'll be a bit strange now. I'm just so used to you having a place to yourself."

"But Franco's giving me a month-to-month. That deal in downtown Boston's worth more than gold. We've worked together and he knows I'm good for the rent. And besides, we get along."

"You have had some good luck, if you think about it all," Maureen said, her eyebrows raised in emphasis, "from the time that you first landed in New Hampshire last September."

"I have, haven't I?"

In a few moments Maureen was asleep. Jim drove on in silence. Soon he pulled up in front of Liam's house and parallel parked. Maureen awoke with a start. Even at the front door, she still looked half-asleep.

"Greetings," Liam said in a near whisper, opening the front door. "Come on in. Glad you guys could make it. Good to see you, Maureen."

"Nice to see you again, too, Liam."

She and Jim walked through the door. "Exeter really is beautiful. I like the house."

"Why, thanks. It dates from 1844. There are lots of stories about this place. But many Exeter homes are much older."

"Liam! Good to be back on Court Street!" Jim stood just inside the corridor, holding up the six-pack of Geary's Ale. "A little somethin' for the hospitality."

"Thanks," Liam mumbled, taking the beer with an approving nod. "Come on in, take a seat." Liam shut the door and motioned down the foyer toward the parlor on their left.

Jim followed Maureen down the creaky dark boards into the parlor. Maureen chose the refurbished Victorian couch. Jim sat at her side and threw an arm comfortably across the top of the sofa.

Liam walked to the kitchen to store the beer in the fridge, and returned to a wooden rocking chair. "So how was the trip up?"

"You mean the trip
down
," Maureen said. "Not so bad. Except Jim devoured
eight
pieces of fried chicken at that Popeye's just off the interstate in Kennebunk."

Liam's eyes shone with a familiar twinkle. "I've seen him in action many times with that stuff. In college, in Tennessee. Down in New Orleans for Mardi Gras, and in Kennebunk. I've seen this fool eat a whole box, usually after a long night."

"I know the sight." Maureen smiled and shook her head.

"Should we take a little drive to the market, get some lobbies and some treats?" Liam looked from Maureen to Jim.

"Sure," Jim and Maureen said together.

"Then maybe," Jim said, "you can show Maureen here some of your treasures."

They piled into Liam's old Subaru station wagon parked in the driveway. Inside lurked a faint smell of mildew and some other stench, much like spilled milk.

As Liam zoomed down Court Street, Jim came close to exploding in a fit of laughter when he looked into the backseat. Maureen's face contorted, her lips grimly sucked inward. Her eyes squinted as if she had taken a massive bite of a lemon.

"Maureen, roll down that window," Jim said as he manually cranked down his own. "You look like you could use a li'l fresh air, sweetness."

Maureen shot him her death glare. Jim bit his cheek to keep from roaring with delight.

"See this brick hotel on our left, Maureen?" Liam said. "That's Blake's Inn. The Republican Party, very different in those days, was founded there in 1853. It was converted into an apartment building for a time. My dad stayed there when he was a kid, while my grandfather renovated the house you just saw."

Jim, of course, knew the story. Newly home from the war, Liam's grandfather combined his G.I. Bill money with the savings he had accrued years before as a plumber, and he purchased the home. The old man died several years back. Just last spring his widow passed on to join him.
 

Liam became the caretaker of the old house, something to which he did not entirely object. He fell into a situation where he could restore an old house, while operating his business as an antique and militaria dealer.

The Subaru turned right onto Front Street, continued a few hundred feet down the hill, passed the old white clapboard Congregationalist church and the gazebo on the left, and hooked right onto Water Street.

"This was once the capital of New Hampshire, Maureen," Liam said, "during the Revolution."

"This is one pretty street," Jim said as they passed colonial inns and the nineteenth century brick buildings housing bookshops and delis. They crossed the Swampscott River Bridge and passed a yellow colonial festooned with three Betsy Ross flags. Liam turned left onto Portsmouth Avenue. Soon, Liam stopped in a very familiar parking lot.