A Cape Cod Love Affair
by
T. J. Robertson
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2007 T. J. Robertson
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I saw her for the first time down on Cape Cod on one of those lazy, hazy days of summer from which tourists and locals alike seek relief by heading to the nearest beach. In my case it happened to be the one at Paine’s Creek in Brewster, one of those rare gems on the Cape that the hoards of summer visitors have yet to overrun. I had just come back up to the parking lot from taking a swim and was toweling myself off when I happened to glance up.
She was sitting on a lounge chair, gazing down at the beach below. Long black hair cascaded over the back of her chair and the pink ribbon on her broad-brimmed straw hat and the hem on her light summer dress fluttered seductively in the gentle summer breeze. Even though I didn’t know what she looked like--aviator sunglasses and the brim of the hat hid her face--there was something about her that drew me irresistibly to her. Suddenly, as if sensing my scrutiny, she turned and, for a fleeting moment, our eyes met before hers broke away and resumed their watch upon the beach below.
Since that July was warmer and drier than usual, I would bicycle down there every day between one and three as much as to catch another glimpse of her as to take a swim. Because she, like me, had fallen in love with the place--even if it was, as I was later to learn, for different reasons--she could be found sitting on the same chair at the same spot during the same hours.
While I was trying to find a way to wangle an introduction--without, of course, making a fool of myself--Mother Nature gave me the opportunity that I was looking for. It came in the form of a gust of wind which picked up her straw hat and carried it down to the beach below. Instinctively I was on my feet and racing down to retrieve it. When I got back and, breathlessly, handed it to her, she pushed aside an errant strand of hair and looked up at me over the top of her sunglasses. “Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” she said in a soft, sincere voice.
“Oh, no problem,” I replied with a pretense of nonchalance. After that I don’t know how long I stood there, tongue-tied, before I broke the awkward silence. “My name’s Jack Roberts,” I said, extending my hand which she took like a present she didn’t know what to do with. “I’m down here for the summer.”
The pregnant pause that followed made it obvious she had no intention of giving me her name. “Nice to meet you,” she replied and, with those words, got up, folded her chair, and turned to leave.
I took a step toward her and, then, thought better of it, saying feebly, “Perhaps we’ll see one another again.”
“Perhaps,” she replied with a fleeting backward glance.
The lack of enthusiasm in her response didn’t go unnoticed but I shrugged it off. I don’t know how long I stood, rooted there, and watched resignedly as she wended her way down a well-worn path and disappeared among the sand dunes. When at last I climbed onto my bicycle for the return trip home, I found myself taking one last look at the dunes but she was nowhere to be seen. “At least I got an introduction,” I murmured, pedaling slowly away, “and one thing’s for sure: she’s staying in one of the summer homes nearby.”
The following day all I got from her was a nod. The next one wasn’t much better; for, I had to settle for a terse “Hi.”
When it comes to looks, I’m neither a Brad Pitt nor a Danny DeVito. I’m somewhere in between the two. If I have a crooked nose--thanks to an errant hockey puck--and big ears, I’ve also got curly blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a humorous, kindly mouth all of which rest upon a trim, muscular frame that I’ve always meticulously maintained by jogging, bicycling, and swimming.
At the risk of appearing to brag I can honestly say that, whenever it came to social events like dances or proms, more often than not, I was the hunted, not the hunter. So it goes without saying that if her rejection of me didn’t shatter my ego, it certainly damaged it. All the more so because intuitively I felt that she was someone special--perhaps even the one I had been waiting for forever.
If I wasn’t exactly a disbeliever in the role that fate or destiny plays in our lives, I was at least a skeptic. However, several days after she had given me the cold-shoulder--or at least what I perceived to be such--an incident occurred which would forever turn me into an ardent believer. That afternoon--another in a string of July scorchers--I had gone into the water for my daily swim. Since I was an accomplished swimmer, it wasn’t unusual for me to end up fifty feet off shore. On this occasion I am sure I was beyond even that when suddenly I heard a voice off to the right of me, hollering, “Help me; somebody, please help me!”
I turned and saw the head of a sandy-haired, freckle-faced teenager bobbing up and down as he whizzed past me. Realizing the seriousness of his plight--he was caught in a rip tide--I quickly swam over to it and soon found myself also within its grip and being swept out behind him. “Swim sideways and you’ll get free of it!” I yelled.
Either he didn’t hear me or, in a panic, was too busy trying, in vain, to get back to shore, his arms all the while flailing away like a windmill gone amok. I knew only too well that all this effort would soon exhaust him.
Fortunately, just as I was getting close to him, both of us were thrown free of it. “Okay,” I said, trying to reassure him, “now let’s start swimming toward shore.”
He took a few strokes and, then, glassy-eyed and dazed, muttered, “I--I can’t go on.”
The sound of resignation in his voice alarmed me. “Of course, you can," I urged. With those words I reached across with my right arm and seized him by the neck, all the while holding his chin above water, and with the other one struggled to propel both of us shoreward.
After what seemed an eternity, a lifeguard along with some swimmers reached us and, pulling his limp body from my grasp, managed to get him onto a floating sled and drag him back to shore. When at last my feet touched bottom, I staggered onto the beach and dropped down onto my knees, exhausted and gasping for breath.
Meanwhile a bunch of good Samaritans had crowded around the teenager who was lying down, motionless, on the sand across from me. Foremost among them was the pretty brunette, who, in an uncharacteristic way, had cast aside both her hat and glasses and hurried over to take matters into her own hands. On her knees, leaning over him, she was administering mouth to mouth resuscitation and, at that moment, I think I would’ve willingly changed places with him if only to feel the caress of her hair upon my chest.
When, at last, I saw him moving, I breathed a sigh of relief. Not long afterwards an ambulance arrived, took him aboard, and raced off toward the Cape Cod Hospital. Still weary, I lay down on the beach and closed my eyes. When at last I opened them again, she--her sunglasses and hat back in place--was hovering above me. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’ll live.” As I struggled to my feet, I could feel her hand on my arm and, as if touched by a magic wand, I immediately felt better. “How’s he doing?” I asked, gesturing to the spot where he had lain.
“He’ll live, too,” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “thanks to you.”
“From what I just saw, you’re the one who deserves the thanks,” I replied, returning her compliment.
Unfortunately our conversation came to an abrupt end as a roly-poly man with bulbous eyes and a scimitar-like nose--the latter made to order for sticking into other people’s business--came waddling over. “What you two did today was wonderful,” he gushed, trying in vain to loosen the string on the bathing suit that was much too small for him. “I’m going to see that you get the recognition you deserve in the Cape Cod Times.” Brandishing a small notebook and pencil, he turned to her and said, “Now what’s your name?”
She froze but quickly recovered, replying, “There’s no need to make a fuss, I only did what anyone else would’ve done in a similar situation. The important thing is that the boy’s going to be all right.”
With those words she turned and walked briskly back to her lounge chair, leaving him bewildered and disappointed. “What’s her name?” he asked, turning his attention to me.
“Beats me,” I said, throwing up my hands, “I wish I knew.”
“She’s either a nurse or a doctor.”
“Oh?” My ears suddenly perked up. “What makes you say that?”
“She sure as heck knew what she was doing over there,” he said, successfully loosening the string on his bathing suit and giving his stomach more breathing room.
“Yes, it appears she did,” I murmured, glancing up and catching sight of her stealing away once again, chair in hand.
“She was so camera shy, she ran off and left her towel there,” he said gesturing with his hand. As I moved off to retrieve it, he demanded, “Where are you going?” When I didn’t answer, he hollered after me, “Hey, you haven’t given me your name, either.”
“Just call me Sir Galahad,” I replied, picking up the towel and glancing back at him in one motion, “I’m on my way to do a good deed."
“But you’ve already done one."
“Ah, but this one involves a fair damsel.” With a mock bow, I, too beat a hasty retreat.
Up in the parking lot I searched the dunes for another glimpse of her--all in vain. Once again she had vanished as quickly as she had appeared. As I climbed onto my bike and began to pedal away, holding on to the towel for dear life, I couldn't help but chuckle at the roly-poly one, who remained back on the beach, shaking his head and brandishing the pencil. “Cinderella and Cinderfella--a plague on both your houses,” he fumed.
That night I washed and folded the towel and, on a whim, neatly wrapped a pink ribbon--identical to the one on her straw hat--around it. Since I had been unsuccessful so far in gaining her favor, when I returned it to her the next day, I would try to do so once again. Only this time with a touch of humor.
The next morning, however, because of a faulty circulator and heavy carbon buildup, what I had thought would be a routine service call to inspect my furnace turned out to be an all-day affair. So, late that afternoon I found myself pedaling furiously down to Paine’s Creek. Arriving there just as she was leaving, I bounded over and handed her the towel. “Your towel, my lady,” I said with a sweeping bow. I should’ve known by the look in her eyes what a terrible blunder I had committed but, instead, made it even more so by going on in a falsetto voice:
“Have no fear, Lady Guinevere,
Sir Galahad’s always near.”
She burst out laughing and, mistakenly assuming that my humor had been a roaring success, I joined in with her. But so heartily and so long did she do so that I found myself saying self-deprecatingly, “Apparently I’ll never make a living as a poet.”
”It’s got nothing to do with your poetry,” she replied, her laughter reaching a crescendo, “it’s the towel.”
“The towel?" I repeated, almost as if sensing what was to come.
“Yes," she replied with a wag of her head, “it’s not mine.”
Embarrassed and at a loss for words, I now knew firsthand what it felt like to be a laughingstock. Meanwhile she hurried off, taking her mirth along with her.
The following day--a Saturday--it was drizzling. Although I was disappointed not to be able to go to the beach, reluctantly I accepted the rainfall as a necessary evil, the month of July, so far, having been one of the driest on record. So it was I found myself doing what most Cape Codders do on rainy days--shopping.
I have a weakness for Cape Cod potato chips which I consider the most delicious of all the brands--probably because they’re made with a secret ingredient called “salt air.” I was standing in the aisle of the supermarket trying to make one of the most momentous decisions of my life--whether to buy my favorite, the barbecue kind, or try a new flavor. Someone once said--I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson--that a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds and, of course, the last thing I wanted, was to be accused of was having a little mind. As I was reaching across for a bag of dill-pickled ones, suddenly I was struck from behind--so forcefully that the impact sent me sprawling onto the floor.
“Oh, I’m awfully sorry.” With those words I felt an arm on mine, helping me to my feet. I shook it off and got up, breathing fire and brimstone. When I whirled around to confront my assailant, we both recoiled and gasped in unison, “Oh, no.”
Standing before me with a shopping cart between us was none other than the Florence Nightingale from Paine’s Creek Beach. Up close, without the aviator sunglasses and straw hat, she was even more beautiful than I had envisioned. Her long black hair, held in place with a leather thong, steel-rimmed glasses framing dark, intelligent eyes, and a trace of that bewitching smile gave her delicate Asian face a warm and inviting look. Recovering more quickly than she from the shock of our chance encounter, I put on a mask of seriousness. “I know you weren’t thrilled about our first meeting at the Paine’s Creek Beach,” I said, “and that towel thing didn’t help matters any; that’s for sure." A smile crossed her lips at my use of the word, towel. “But never, in my wildest dreams, did I think you try to do me in,” I chided, “and with a shopping cart, no less.”
“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said with a blend of humor and embarrassment.
“Only if you agree to go out to dinner with me,” I replied, trying to keep a straight face.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she replied, wavering and turning more serious again.
“Either you’re going out with me or I’m going to press charges against you for driving a shopping cart so as to endanger,” I persisted. “And I have the bruises to prove it.” I paused and, pointing to my back, said, “Would you like to see them?”
“No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” Again she was smiling--and more brightly so. “I’m afraid you don’t leave me much choice.”
“Good,” I replied, scarcely able to conceal my eagerness, “now that we’ve settled that, where do you want to eat?”
She hesitated, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “How about Kate’s?" she said at last.
“The outdoor restaurant on Paine‘s Creek Road?"
“Yes.” My lack of enthusiasm at her choice didn’t go unnoticed. “You’d rather go someplace else?" she asked.
“No, of course not." Her dark eyes were studying me intently and I found myself confessing, “The truth is I was hoping to impress you by taking you somewhere fit for a queen."
I shall never forget the look of anxiety on her face or the quiver which went coursing through her slender frame that those words wrought, but, just as quickly as the sun bursts forth from behind a passing storm cloud, she recovered and said, “Well, you have nothing to fear; I'm easily impressed."
“Hey," I quipped, “I don’t know quite how to take that."
“A poor choice of words on my part,” she replied, smiling to herself as she spoke. “I should’ve said, `I’m already impressed.’”
“Well, that’s a lot better." “I wiped my brow in a pretense of relief.
“Then, if it’s all right with you,” she said, breaking another one of those awkward silences, “we‘ll eat at Kate‘s?”
“It’s fine with me."
“How’s tomorrow evening at seven o’clock sound?” she asked.
“Great,” I enthused, “where will I pick you up?”
Quickly, she brought my soaring spirits crashing back down to earth. “You won’t,” she said brusquely, “I‘ll meet you there.”
Although I was disappointed by her response--I was anxious to find out where she was staying--nevertheless, I was delighted that at least she’d agreed to go out with me. So, for now, I resigned myself to making haste slowly.
“Is that okay with you?” she asked, jolting me out of my reverie.
“Yes," I replied with a nod of approval.
She took hold of her shopping cart and, as she was about to walk away, said, “I’m sorry for running into you like that.”
“Well, I’m not.”
The veiled meaning in my words didn’t go unnoticed and, smiling, she replied, “See you tomorrow.”
“You can bet on it,” I retorted. She started to move off and I found myself reaching for her arm. “Excuse--excuse me," I stammered, “but I just realized I don’t even know your name.”
Slowly she turned and faced me again and, after what seemed an eternity, replied, “Nora-- why don’t you just call me Nora.” While I was wondering what else I would’ve called her, she said, “And you’re Jack. Jack Roberts, isn’t it?
So elated was I that she had remembered my name, I was rendered momentarily speechless. Maybe, I mused, things weren’t as bad as I had initially thought.
With a cursory “Ciao,” she turned and began to push the shopping cart down the aisle.
As I watched her disappear around the corner, I couldn’t help but notice that she looked just as good from the rear as she did from the front. Since potato chips were now the last thing on my mind, I literally danced my way out of the store and, outside in the parking lot, in my jubilation, broke out into song. Several passersby, upon seeing and hearing me, raised an eyebrow or shook a head but I could've cared less; for, at that moment, she was all I was thinking about.
Chapter 2
So in the twilight of a sultry, summer day on which even the ocean breezes refused to stir, we had our first date--if one could call it that. Although the dining room at Kate’s, which consists of some well-worn picnic tables, nestled beneath a canopy of oak and locust trees, isn’t exactly what one would call fit for a queen, the fine quality and generous portions of its meals most certainly are. The way Kate’s serves its customers is simple: they place their orders at one of the windows of its stand and pick them up at another.
When I arrived there, she was sitting at a table far off to the left. At my approach she looked up and, smiling, couldn’t resist needling me about the towel incident. “Ah, I’ll have no fear," she said, “Sir Galahad’s here.”
“Very funny.” Still embarrassed over it, I decided to give as good as I had received. “Now, if you don’t mind, my lady,” I said with a sweeping bow, “your humble servant will now take your order.”
We shared a laugh and, then, I went over and placed our order. Fried clams turned out to be a favorite dish of the both of us and, so, the beginning was an auspicious one. Although we ate in relative silence, I didn’t mind; for, I savored her presence even more than I did the meal. When at last she glanced up from her clam roll and caught me staring at her, she broke the awkwardness of the moment, saying, “I love this place.”
“So do I,” I replied, my eyes still riveted on her.
“You didn’t sound too thrilled about coming here when I suggested it,” she chided.
I shrugged. “As I said before, I wanted to impress you with a more sumptuous meal at a more exclusive place.”
She laughed and, shaking her head, asked, “Such as?”
“How about the Chatham Bars Inn for starters?”
“I’ve long since come to realize that it’s the simple things in life that are the most enjoyable.” She hesitated and, then, with an easy smile toying at the corners of her mouth, said, “Besides, if you hadn’t already impressed me, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?"
“Had I known you were so easy to please, I would’ve suggested we go to eat at a food pantry in Hyannis;" I quipped, “it would’ve been cheaper.” Her smile broadened into a grin and I continued, “Besides, the taste of the food in any restaurant depends on whom you’re sharing the meal with.”
For what seemed an eternity she studied me intently. “How’s it taste tonight?” she asked, peering at me over the rim of her cup.
“Absolutely delicious.” And I meant every word of it.
She blushed but quickly recovered, replying, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying,” I said, gesturing with my hands. Breaking another one of those awkward silences, I asked, “Do you come down to the Cape often?”
“No,” she replied with a wistful sigh, “this is only the second time.”
“You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”
“Yes,” she murmured, “so it would seem.” Just as I was about to probe some more, she turned and asked, “And you? You sound like a native Cape Codder.”
“No,” I replied with a wag of my head. “Unfortunately I’ve had to settle for the next best thing.”
“What’s that?”
“My parents, who lived up in Boston, met and fell in love with the place," I explained.
“As well as each other, obviously” she reminded me.
Now I was the one doing the blushing. “That goes without saying," I replied. “As soon as they had saved enough money, they bought a cottage and ever since I can remember have summered here.”
“And now you’re carrying on the tradition," she offered.
“I guess you could say that," I replied with a nod.
So engrossed in one another had we become that we were unaware of the chatter and laughter of the bathing-suited, sandal-clad beachgoers lounging at the tables all around us. Dusk had long since given way to evening and, hoping to prolong our time together, I insisted that we have some dessert but, unfortunately, the ice cream, which was our only choice, melted away as quickly as the hours.
A sea breeze had sprung up and some ravenously hungry mosquitoes began annoying us. But it wasn’t the insects that brought our evening together to an abrupt halt. Rather it was a skunk, sauntering out of some nearby bushes in search of scraps of food that forced us and other patrons in its path to beat a hasty retreat. When the distance between it and us was safe, she laughed, saying, “It looks as if somebody’s sending us a message.”
“Yes, a smelly one,” I agreed with a nod.
Glancing at her watch, she said, “It’s getting late.”
“Come on; I’ll drive you home," I replied, taking her by the arm.
“No, it’s such a nice night,” she said, slipping out of my grasp, “I prefer to walk.”
“Well, let me at least walk you there,” I replied, my disappointment showing.
“No, no,” she protested, “that won’t be necessary.”
“Are you sure,” I persisted.
“Yes, I’m a big girl now?” she replied with a nod.
“Will I see you again?” I was begging rather than asking.
“I don’t know why not," she said coyly. “Unless I’m mistaken, Paine’s Creek’s still a public beach.” As she started down the road, she stopped and turned back toward me, saying, “Thanks for the enjoyable meal.”
“Thanks for the good company,” I retorted.
As I stood and watched her disappear into the darkness, the wind picked up and, like a tremor of foreboding, a sudden chill coursed through my body. Turning up the collar of my summer jacket, I climbed into my car and drove back home.
That our evening together had been a success I had no doubt. But, if, as a result, I thought I was on a roll, I was mistaken. Oh, sure, at the beach, from then on, I set my towel down next to her lounge chair and the two of us would chat back and forth. Sometimes, we would even take a swim together. I, however, wasn’t satisfied to be just a friend--a casual one at that. No way. I was anxious to move the relationship up to the next level. Unfortunately, she didn’t share my enthusiasm, throwing up, as it were, a barrier beyond which I was forbidden to go. It was all the more frustrating because I was sure that we had a lot in common and enjoyed each other’s company.
Getting a second date with her turned out to be a chore worthy of Hercules. So, when, in the course of our idle sea-side chatter, she mentioned how much she enjoyed bicycling, I saw an opening and pounced on it. “How about you and I taking a bike ride along the Cape Cod Bicycle Trail?” I enthused.
“No, Jack, not right now,” she replied in a polite but firm way. “Perhaps sometime later on.”
Although she had turned me down, being as stubborn as I am, I kept on asking. All to no avail. Just as I was about to give it up as a lost cause, one afternoon, to my surprise--shock would be a better word--from out of nowhere she said, “That bicycle trip along the Cape Cod Bike trail--"
Those words, of course, were music to my ears and, interrupting her, I blurted out, “What about it?”
“Would you still like to do it?”
Like a drowning man grasping at a piece of flotsam, I exclaimed, “I’d like nothing better.”
So excited was I at the prospect of spending a whole day with her that I slept little that night. I got up early the next morning and looked out the window only to find that a heavy fog had rolled in during the night. Fortunately, as I was taking my bicycle out of the garage, some shafts of sun, fighting their way through its remnants, greeted me.
When I arrived at our usual trysting place--she still refused to tell me where she was staying--she was straddling her bike and staring out over the water. So lost in thought was she that she didn’t even hear me come to a stop behind her. It was just as well; for, the sight of her in a white short-sleeve tee shirt, denim jeans, and a pink polka-dotted sash momentarily took my breath away.
“Hey, whenever you get back from wherever it is you’ve been wandering,” I wisecracked, “let me know so I can go bicycling with you.”
She turned and, with that enchanting smile of hers, replied, “I was off in search of Shangri-La.”
“Did you find it?” I asked, my eyes all the while reveling in her beauty.
“Unfortunately, no,” she replied with a wag of her head.
“Well, if you’ll be so kind as to follow me,” I said, turning around and starting to pedal out of the parking lot, “I’ll show you where it is.”
“I can hardly wait,” she retorted, mounting her bike and following closely on my heels.
As we rode into Nickerson State Park at noon, the sun, which had long since vanquished the early morning fog, was shining brightly down upon us. An hour later, tired and hungry, after exploring its maze of woodland trails, we stumbled upon a picnic table, set on an idyllic spot along the shore of Flax Pond where we shared the sandwiches and fruit juices she had been kind enough to pack into the picnic basket on her bike.
She glanced up to catch me staring at her. “You seem quiet today," she said, toying with a wisp of her hair. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I lied, “I was just thinking.”
“You mustn’t do that," she replied wryly. "It could be dangerous to your health.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she teased, “tell me what you were thinking about.”
“About you," I confessed. "What else?”
She blushed but quickly recovered, replying, “In that case it’s about time you broadened your horizons?”
“Right now they’re as broad as I could ever have hoped.” From the look on her face I could tell my hidden message didn't go unnoticed. “Do you realize I don’t even know your last name?” I asked.
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not.” I shrugged, muttering, “A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”
For a long time we sat in silence, content to savor the scent of the lofty pines and the scenic view across the sparkling water just as much as we did the sandwiches and juice. “Are you Chinese-American?” I asked, interrupting our tranquility for a second time.
“No.” Just as I was about to hazard another guess, she threw me off stride. “I suppose, to you, all of us Asians look alike,” she chided.
“Not really,” I replied, regaining my footing. “I don’t think I’ll ever meet another as beautiful as you.” Once again she was blushing and I decided to push my luck. “Are you from Massachusetts?” I asked.
“For the time being.”
“That sounds tentative.”
“Isn’t everything in life?” she said with a sigh.
I shrugged and probed some more. ”What do you do for a living?”
“Right now" she replied, choosing her words with care, “I guess you could say I’m between jobs.”
Exasperated, I was tempted to tell her to stop playing games and answer the question. But, fearful of nipping what I considered a burgeoning romance in the bud, I thought better of it.
“And as for you,” she said, her eyes examining me closely, “I’d say you’re a college professor.”
I nodded and laughed. “You’re very perceptive.”
“Now let’s see if I can guess what subject you teach.” Closing her eyes and tapping the side of her cheek with a finger, she might have been mistaken for a practitioner of mental telepathy. "Since you don’t appear to be the scientific type, I’d have to say you’re more into art and literature.” She hesitated and, then, as if with sudden insight, went on, “I bet you’re a professor of English literature.”
“Close but no cigar," I replied, impressed with her clairvoyance. “I teach classical and the romance languages at Boston University.” I paused and studied her intently before saying, “You’re very astute.”
“If you think you’re going to get on my good side with compliments," she teased, “you’re mistaken.”
“Yes, that’s what I was afraid of,” I retorted.
We shared a laugh and, then, breaking a lull in the conversation, she asked matter-of-factly, “Do you commute to your job?”
“No, I have an apartment on Newbury Street in Boston,” I replied, my blue eyes meeting her dark ones. “I spend the winters there and my summers here.”
“So you have the best of both worlds,” she murmured.
“This is the only world I want or need,” I said, glancing around and gesturing with my hands, “but, unfortunately, my teaching schedule doesn't
permit me the luxury of wintering down here. I do, however, without fail, drive down and spend Christmas Eve here.”
She took a deep breath and broke the silence. “There may never be another moment like this, Jack,” she said, her voice trailing off to a hushed whisper, “so let’s enjoy it.”
“Perhaps they’ll be others just as good, if not better.”
“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “but never one exactly like this--“ She paused and, motioning with her hands, went on, “--one with a gull circling overhead, tiger lilies leaning across to peer at us, and an elderly couple walking along the water's edge hand in hand.”
“That could be us in a few years," I quipped, pointing toward the two of them.
She reached across and ran a finger gently over my lips and, while I was savoring her touch, whispered somberly, “Don’t spoil it, Jack.”
“I have no intention of doing that.”
“As my Latin teacher used to say, `Carpe diem,’” she joshed.
“Obviously, he was a wise and learned man." Suddenly I found myself reaching across and taking her hand in mine. “Let’s seize the day," I murmured.
I don’t know how long our hands were intertwined before she drew hers back and said softly, “Why is it we always want what we can’t have?”
“Because hope springs eternal.”
She studied me for a long time and, then, rewarding me with a smile, said, "You’re an optimist.”
“And you’re a sentimentalist.”
“I plead guilty.”
“I warn you I don’t intend to give you up without a fight.” At her look of disapproval I backed off and, softening my tone, said, “Besides, I have a habit of growing on people.”
“Yes, so I’ve noticed.”
That admission was music to my ears and once again I decided to push my luck. “But apparently not enough to change the status quo,” I offered.
Her smile vanished and she shook her head, murmuring, “Unfortunately, there are some things in life that can never be changed.”
“I respectfully beg to disagree.”
“Yes, I thought you would.” She hesitated and, and, then, in an ominous tone, said, “I’d like to make one thing clear from the start, Jack.”
“By all means,” I replied, leaning forward on the bench.
“Although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy your company,” she went on, choosing her words with care, “the fact is we’ll never be more than friends.”
Recovering from the shock of that bombshell, I asked weakly, “Is there somebody else?”
Suddenly she appeared flustered, stammering, “I’m--I’m not sure.”
Emboldened, I persisted, “What kind of an answer is that?”
Regaining her composure, she replied, “The only kind I can offer you right now.”
How long she was the object of my close scrutiny, I can’t say but I remember taking a deep breath and surrendering unconditionally. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said in a broken whisper.
Chapter 3
Whenever I prevailed upon her to go out and eat with me--which wasn’t often enough to suit me--she’d insist on doing so at one of three places. Kate’s, of course, was at the top of her list. Since pizza was another dish we both enjoyed, we’d sometimes visit her second choice, a pizzeria called Showtime--a gourmet’s jewel in Dennis, tucked away behind an old, rambling white cape that had long since become home to several small shops. Her third choice was Buckie’s, a small eatery, hidden behind the Dennis post office, which specialized in coffee, pastry and sandwiches. None of these places, however, was so far off the beaten path that old friends might not run into one another and that’s exactly what happened a few days later. Because the sun couldn't make up its mind whether to stay out or go in and the summer breeze had given way to a chilly wind, which was sweeping across the bay and roiling up the water in its wake--all of which made the beach that afternoon less inviting--she, to my surprise, agreed to join me for a snack at the pastry shop. Once there we lingered over coffee and cannoli, bantering back and forth and, more importantly, just enjoying one another’s company. Turning more serious, after a lull in the conversation, I said, “Do you mind if I ask you something of a personal nature?"
“Here we go again," she replied with a frown. “Go ahead but I won’t guarantee you I’ll answer it."
“Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of but I’m going to ask it any way,” I scolded. “You refuse to tell me your last name or where you're staying.” She sat quietly, toying with her coffee cup. ”When we do go out--which is a rare event,” I went on, “more often than not, you’re wearing those wrap-around sunglasses and that broad-brimmed hat--just as you are now--the latter pulled down so far that I’m lucky I can see your chin. And as for choosing places to eat, you limit the choice to the big three--Kate’s, the Showtime Pizzeria, or here.” I paused and took a deep breath before going on, "Don’t get me wrong; they’re nice places but, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s a big world out there.”
Suddenly the amused look in her eyes was gone only to be replaced by one of annoyance. “So what’s the question?” she asked.
I took a deep breath and blurted out, “You’re hiding down here, aren’t you?”
She studied me long and hard and, then, to my surprise, replied, “Yes, I am.” As my eyebrows arched in curiosity, she went on, “The truth is I held up a bank and I’m lying low down here and, if you promise not to turn me in, I’ll share the loot with you.”
Whenever, in the past, I would probe for more information about her--no matter how subtly--she would deflect my question or lob it back at me, more often than not in a humorous, if not sarcastic way, so that I would burst out laughing or find myself the focus of attention rather than her. Even though I found it increasingly annoying, it was a pattern that, up until now, had worked. This time, however, I didn’t think what she said was amusing and told her so in no uncertain terms. “Why don’t you stop playing games and, for once in your life, tell me the truth about yourself?”
My sharp tone took her by surprise--so much so that she was momentarily at a loss for words--but so angrily did she glare at me that if looks could’ve killed, at that moment I’d have been vaporized. Before she could retaliate with some choice words of her own--which I knew were sure to come--miraculously, I was granted a reprieve.
“Noriko, what are you doing here? That question, sounding more like a demand, came from a short, chunky young woman with a furrowed brow, harsh eyes, and pursed lips all of which gave her round Asian face a look of perpetual peevishness. Those features, combined with a cold, aloof manner, would, I am sure, have made even the boldest of persons think twice about approaching her much less striking up a conversation with her.
As Nora--or Noriko which I just now found out was her real name--whirled around, within seconds the expression on her face went from anger to panic and finally, like the sun returning from behind a cloud after a sudden squall, back to the look of quiet dignity that I had come to know so well. With a cursory embrace and an exchange of wooden smiles they stepped back from one another. Noriko--obviously still miffed at me --pointed in my direction and said frostily in English, “Oh, Keiko, this is Jack Roberts, a friend of mine.”
The look on the latter’s face was one of surprise, mixed with disapproval. She gave me a reluctant nod and, with a pretense of cordiality, replied, “Nice to meet you."
No sooner had I responded--more sincerely, I hope, than had she--than the two of them, oblivious to me, began talking to one another in what by now I had assumed was Japanese. They babbled on for what I thought was an eternity before Keiko finally stepped back and, with a deep bow to Nora and another curt nod to me, vanished as quickly as she had appeared.
Noriko turned to me and said tersely, “Keiko and I went to school together"
“The two of you spoke to one another in Japanese?” I asked matter-of-factly.
“Yes," she said in a voice brimming with sarcasm, “you’re very observant.”
“Not really," I replied, matching her sarcasm with some of my own. “I was a language major in college, remember?” She didn’t answer and I found myself probing some more. “How come you didn’t tell me you were Japanese?”
“Would it have made any difference if I had?” she snapped.
“No, of course not.”
“Then you’ve answered your own question.”
Irked that once again she had turned the tables and put me on the defensive, I was tempted to fire back with another dose of sarcasm but, instead, punned, “Your real name’s Noriko, isn’t it, Nora?”
“Yes,” she replied, ignoring my attempt at humor, “but my friends here in this country prefer to call me Nora.”
“In that case,” I said, my blue eyes capturing her dark ones, “I’ll call you Noriko”
Aware of the hidden meaning in my words, she turned scarlet. “Whatever,” she said, turning her eyes from mine.
“Look, Noriko, I’m sorry about blowing up at you the way I did,” I said, hoping to melt the icy silence that followed. “I had no right to treat you that way.”
“I haven’t been playing games with you,” she reminded me, her tone softening. “The truth is I’m sick and tired of your endless barrage of questions. So much so, I avoid answering them.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because--” She hesitated and swallowed hard before saying, “Because I have some serious personal issues to deal with.” Sometimes discretion is the better part of valor and, because I sensed this was one of those times, I chose to remain silent and not pursue the matter. “And, yes, as you’re so fond of putting it, I have been keeping you at arm’s length,” she went on, a trace of anger lingering in her voice, “but I don’t know why you’re complaining about it. From the beginning, I was upfront with you about our relationship; I told you we could never be more than friends.”
I breathed in deeply and exhaled. “So you did,” I admitted.
“Obviously you couldn’t accept that.”
I nodded. “It’s been more difficult than I thought.” She didn’t say anything and, with a sigh of resignation, I murmured, “Do you know I’ve just learned more about you in ten minutes than I have in a whole month?” Standing, rooted in the same spot, she didn’t reply. “Since you speak both Japanese and English fluently,” I continued, “I assume that either you’re Japanese-American--Nisei is the term I believe they use in Japan--or that you were born over there and educated here.” She didn’t answer but instead let her eyes, which all the while were blazing across at me, do the talking for her. “Would you mind telling me which one of the two it is?” I persisted.
“You never give up, do you?” she replied, shaking her head.
“On occasion I have been known to be stubborn.”
She studied me long and hard and then, with unusual frankness, replied, “I’m both Japanese and Japanese-American; I have dual citizenship.”
“So, you attended public school and college here.”
Although it was more a statement than a question, she took it as the latter. “Don’t push your luck, Jack,” she warned.
Again, instinctively, I knew she meant business and backed off. "Believe me," I said forthrightly, "as far as you're concerned, I have no intention of committing hari-kiri."
Although I regretted having started the harsh exchange of words, nevertheless, some good came of it. Oh, sure she still kept me at arm’s length and that invisible barrier beyond which I dared not tread remained in place but she became less evasive and more forthright in the way she answered my questions and, of course, I, in turn, stopped, as she was so fond of saying, grilling her over my barbecue pit. To put it simply, each one of us knew, intuitively, just how far he or she could push the other.
A second such incident, from which I gleaned further information about her, took place two weeks later. Wednesday, the last day of July, to my surprise, she turned to me and nonchalantly said. “Oh, Jack, I’m going bicycling on Martha’s Vineyard this Friday. Would you like to join me?
Trying to mask my eagerness with humor,” I replied, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Thursday night sleep eluded me and, in anticipation of the bicycle trip, the first rays of the morning sun were a welcome sight. When I arrived to pick her up--the parking lot at Paine‘s Creek Beach was still our trysting spot--she was at the water’s edge, barefoot, playing tag with the incoming tide. She was wearing a pink halter and white shorts beneath which, respectively, were hidden a full bosom and shapely hips. Although the trademark sunglasses were there, gone was the straw hat, replaced by light blue baseball cap, emblazoned with the words, Cape Cod. Her long dark hair was neatly threaded through the opening at its back and held in place with a leather thong. I don’t know how long I stood silently, savoring the sight of her before she glanced up and waved to me.
“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” I quipped, walking down to meet her half-way.
“All right,” she replied, turning and pretending to leave, “if that’s the way you want it.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I replied, catching her by the arm and drawing her to me. I don’t know how long our eyes were locked onto one another but as far as I was concerned it wasn’t long enough. “Let’s not spoil a good friendship,” she replied, slipping out of my grasp and stepping back.
“No, I wouldn’t want to do that,” I grumbled.
“What did you say?” she asked, putting her sandals on.
Confession being good for the soul, I found myself replying, “What I meant to say is that you look so stunning today, I got carried away.”
She colored but quickly recovered and, glancing at her watch, said, “We had better get going before we miss the ferry.”
The more I got to know her, the more I realized how many things we had in common. Bicycling, as I’ve said before, was one of them. Because she wanted to ride through the countryside of the Vineyard rather than the more commercial and populated towns, her plan--which I heartily agreed with--was to get off the ferry, rent two bicycles from the shops that were clustered near the docks, and get out of Vineyard Haven as soon as possible. And that’s exactly what we did.
Our destination was Gayhead where we looked forward to seeing the unique, multi-colored, clay cliffs and famous lighthouse. The distance each way would be nineteen miles--about the length of the whole island. Although at times we were winded because there were more hills to climb than we had anticipated, we enjoyed the sights--the gingerbread style cottages, gray-weathered farmhouses with their stone walls, rolling moors, and spectacular views of Vineyard Sound. We stopped in Menemsha, the last true fishing village on the island, and bought some sandwiches and cold drinks before bicycling down to the town beach.
There, beneath a brilliant blue sky and two colorful kites, which were playing tag with one another, we rested and picnicked. Reluctant to violate the truce between us, I didn’t ask any searching questions. For me, at that moment, just being close to her, I felt as if I were the luckiest guy in the world.
Long after the frolicking youngsters had reeled in their unruly kites, a solitary duck appeared, circling and screaming above us. “I don’t think he likes us,” she said, pointing up toward him.
I joined her in looking upwards. “I don’t think he--if it is a he--is screaming down at us.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “He or she--take your pick--is probably screaming for a lost mate.”
She quirked an eyebrow, asking, “How do you know that?”
“Because ducks mate for life.” I stroked my chin, all the while trying to gage her reaction to what I had just said.