Читать книгу The Summer Wives: Epic page-turning romance perfect for the beach - Beatriz Williams, Beatriz Williams - Страница 20

JOSEPH VARGAS STOOD on the edge of the small wooden platform that served as the Flood Rock quay. I couldn’t see his face very well because the lighthouse blocked the moon, but I thought he was furious. His voice confirmed this. He called out, not loudly—I guess he didn’t want to wake anyone—but with terrible force.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Isobel? At this hour?”

“Hour, schmour. I’ve brought champagne!” She stood in the bow and held up two bottles, one in each hand.

“You don’t need any more champagne.”

“Maybe not, but I’ll bet you do. Look, I’ve brought my new sister. You remember Peaches, don’t you? From this morning?”

There was a little pause. “Of course I remember Peaches.”

“Well, it turns out she can row. Lucky for me, because I do believe I’d have just gone round in circles, in my ineb—ineeber—in my condition.”

During the course of this speech, I managed to maneuver the boat up to the quay, despite the swift, angry current that wanted to yank us in the opposite direction. Joseph reached in and grabbed the rope next to Isobel’s feet, and with his other hand he lifted her safely to the dock.

“Well, you’re a fool, that’s all. Why’d you do such a crazy thing? Might’ve drowned you both.”

“I’m bored,” Isobel said simply, removing her shoes. She turned and started to scale the steps cut into the rock. The shoes dangled from her left hand. Joseph made a noise of frustration, torn between helping me out of the boat and helping Isobel mount the stairs. He must have figured I stood in greater danger, because he swiftly wound the rope around the bollard and held out his arms to me. I rose to my feet and did my best to appear steady and sober. I don’t think he was fooled. He put his hands on either side of my waist and hauled me through the air to solid ground. I felt a brief sensation of weightlessness, of the world disappearing around me, and then his hands were gone and I stared at the ghostliness of his shirt as he went after Isobel. When he caught her, she laughed, as quicksilver as the moonshine around us.

“What a naughty pair we are,” she said. “Don’t send us back, though. Can’t we just stay a little while?”

Joseph groaned in such a way that I knew this wasn’t the first time they’d enacted this scene. I stood there on the dock and looked up at the pair of them. Took note of the stocky line of his shoulders, covered by the white T-shirt, while the darker color of his arms sort of melted into the rocks. Both hands sat on his hips. Isobel stood a step or two above him, her blond hair made white by the moon. On her face sat an expression of triumph, even though Joseph hadn’t yet capitulated.

He lifted his right hand and dragged it through his hair. “Just a minute or two, all right? Then I’m rowing you back myself.”

“Yes, do. I love watching you row.”

Isobel turned and picked her way through the rocks around the other side of the lighthouse. Joseph turned to me and held out his hand. “Hold on. It’s kind of tricky, if you don’t know where you’re going.”

I slipped off my shoes and gathered them in my hand. “Where are we going?”

“The beach, it looks like.”

“Beach?”

“It’s not much, but it’s ours.”

I reached him on the steps and put my hand in his palm. His fingers closed around mine and he started through the rocks, the same way Isobel had gone. They were damp and slippery—the tide was on its way out—and I couldn’t see the holes and gaps between them. Couldn’t judge my steps so well. I didn’t want to rely on Joseph’s hand, but I had no choice. His palm was rough and strong, a fisherman’s palm, and he kept a solid grip as we clambered through the silvery darkness to the other side of the lighthouse. Once my foot slipped, and he caught me by the elbow. “All right?” he asked, and I was surprised by the closeness of his face, the scent of his breath that suggested toothpaste.

“Yes,” I gasped back.

He turned and led me forward, and over the corner of his shoulder the beach appeared. Beach. Just a scrap of pebble and sand, really, at the bottom of a sac formed by two outcroppings of rock, maybe fifteen feet apart. Isobel lay there, surrounded by the pale tulle waves of her bridesmaid gown, and her shoes in a small pile near her hip. As we drew near, I saw that her stocking feet pointed out to sea, and her head rested on her folded hands.

“She’s not asleep, is she?” I whispered.

“No, she’s not,” Isobel called out. “Just resting my eyes. Did you know your beach moves, Joseph?”

He released my hand and dropped into the sand beside her, propping himself up on his elbows. “I had no idea,” he said.

“Well, it does. Sort of sways back and forth. Up and down. Baby in a cradle.”

“Izzy—”

“No! That’s not it. Not a cradle.” Her voice had begun to slow and slur. “A magic carpet. That’s it. I’m flying, Joseph, flying. Don’t you feel it?”

“’Fraid not. Just good old solid ground for me.”

“Oh, that—that’s—such a shame …”

“Izzy.”

No answer.

Joseph peered briefly over her face and laughed. “Out cold. How much booze’ve you two sucked inside today?”

“Just wedding champagne. A bottle or two.”

“Between you? Then I guess Izzy must’ve taken more than her fair share.” He patted the ground beside him. “Sit down. Let her sleep it off a bit. Come on, I don’t bite.”

I sank into the coarse sand and wrapped my arms around my legs. My stockings were wet, and the grit now stuck to them like a crust. I wished I had the nerve to take them off. Along the sea before us, the moon cast a wide, phosphorescent path that disappeared mysteriously over the edge of the horizon. I said, “You’ve known each other forever, haven’t you? You and Isobel.”

“Ever since I can remember. Born a few months apart.”

“Who’s older?”

Another soft chuckle. “Me. So how did everything go today?”

“Oh, the wedding? Fine. Just fine.”

“Lobster all right?”

“Sure.”

“Caught fresh just this morning. Your stepfather bought the whole catch from me and Pops.”

“Oh, did he?” I cried. “That was your lobster?”

“Caught fresh,” he said again.

“Oh. I wish I’d known.” I paused. “It was wonderful. Best lobster I ever had.”

“Aw, you’re a good sport. Don’t tell me it’s the only lobster you’ve ever had?”

“Of course not! I’ve had lobster before.” Honesty compelled me to add, in a grudging voice, “Not often, though.”

“I guess we’ll have to do a clambake for you, this summer. Like a baptism. Make a genuine New Englander out of you.”

“I’d like that very much.”

Joseph lifted himself upright from his elbows, so we sat side by side. His arm brushed against mine, warmer than I expected. “What’s with Peaches?” he said.

“Oh gosh. Nothing, really. Isobel started calling me that today, just for fun.”

“But why Peaches?”

“Ask Isobel, why don’t you. She’s the one who made it up.”

He pointed his thumb. “Her? She’s not going to remember a thing tomorrow.”

“Then I guess you’re just dumb out of luck, aren’t you?”

He flung himself back on the sand, folding his hands behind his head, and for an instant I thought I’d angered him. Then I glanced over my shoulder and saw his chest was shaking, and a grin split his face from cheekbone to cheekbone.

“You’re a peach, Peaches,” he said. “A real peach.”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with Miranda.”

“Nothing’s wrong with Miranda. It’s a heck of a name. Suits you just fine in the winter months, I’ll bet, sitting indoors with your books and your cocoa. Or dressing up for some party in your gown and long gloves. Miranda.” He said it slowly, stretching out the vowels. “In Latin, it means ‘worthy of admiration.’ That’s what Shakespeare was talking about, in that line I threw at you this morning.”

“I know.”

“Aw, of course you do. Sorry.”

“My father used to tell me things like that, when I was little.”

“Did he? I like your dad. In my head, I’ve been calling him Prospero. But I guess that’s not his real name, is it?”

“No. It was Thomas. Thomas Schuyler.”

“Thomas Schuyler. Warrior, teacher of art, father of Miranda. And maybe a bit of a Shakespeare nut, too. Right?”

I stretched out my legs and listened carefully to the rhythmic wash of the waves as they uncurled onto the beach. The air was so warm and so silvery, like a primordial dream, like we sat on a beach at the beginning of the world, and we were the only people in it. I said, out to sea: “We used to read plays out loud to each other.”

“Did you? Now that’s grand. Do you remember any of it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. A lot of things.”

“Can you do Once more unto the breach?”

“That’s a man’s part.”

“So what? You’ve got it in you, I’ll bet. Thomas Schuyler didn’t raise a sissy.”

I straightened and crossed my legs, Indian-style. The tulle floated out over my knees, and as I gazed out over the gilded water, I thought, if I strained my eyes, I might actually see all the way to France. Harfleur. Did it still exist? Had anything happened there in the last five hundred years since the siege, or had it fallen into obscurity? Had my father maybe glimpsed it, in his last days? We’d received no letters from France. Any messages, any postcards he’d had time to write had disappeared along with his body, and yet I felt sure that if my father had seen Harfleur with his own eyes, he would have written to tell me.

“It’s been a while,” I said. “Since he left for the war.”

“Say, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I mean, if it hurts too much or something.”

“No. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“All right. Whatever you want. I’m listening, that’s all.”

I lowered my voice and said,

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,

Or close the wall up with our English dead!

In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility,

But when the blast of war blows in our ears,

Then imitate the actions of the tiger:

Stiffen the sinews, conjure up the blood,

Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage.

“Go on,” said Joseph softly, from the sand.

I scrambled to my feet and shook out the grit from my dress. I had told Joseph the truth; I hadn’t spoken those words since childhood, and yet—in the way of certain memories—they rose passionately from my throat. They burst from my mouth in my father’s hard, warlike delivery. The blood hurtled into my fingers to grip an imaginary sword.

On, on, you noblest English,

Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof,

Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even fought

And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:

Dishonor not your mothers. Now attest

That those whom you called fathers did beget you.

Be copy now to men of grosser blood,

And teach them how to war …

I didn’t recognize myself. I was not Miranda but someone else, a man, a king, a warrior, a voice roaring. I heard its faint echo from the rocks.

The game’s afoot.

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”

And there was silence, and my original soul sank back into my skin. Miranda resumed herself. My arm dropped to my side. I went down on my knees, one by one, shaking a little. Against my hot skin, the sand felt cool. Each grain made its individual impression on my nerves.

“That was something,” said Joseph.

I shook my head and laughed.

“I mean it. You’re something, you know that? You’re something else.”

I felt as if I’d just stepped off some boardwalk roller coaster. Been spat back ashore by some monstrous wave. Shaken and changed, muscles stiffened from the shock of metamorphosis. Joseph’s gaze lay on my shoulders, on the back of my neck. I thought, If I turn, if I look at him looking at me, I’ll die.

“Here, lie down,” he said. “You can see the stars real good from here.”

So I settled myself back in the sand, rigid, arms straight against my sides. Wanting and not wanting to come into contact with Joseph’s shoulder, Joseph’s arm, bare above the elbow in his white T-shirt. From this small distance, I could smell his soap. He must have been getting ready for bed when he saw our signal. That would explain the toothpaste, the soap, the T-shirt. I should have felt overdressed in my blue tulle, but I didn’t. Maybe it was my stocking feet, crusted with sand, or the democratizing effect of moonlight and salt water.

“How well do you know your constellations?” Joseph asked.

“Pretty well.” I was surprised to hear that my voice had returned to its ordinary timbre, not quivering at all. “But you must be an expert.”

“Why’s that?”

“Aren’t sailors supposed to be experts on the stars?”

“Not anymore. The old explorers were, I guess. Back before we had clocks and instruments, and you only had the sky to tell you where you were. Skies and lighthouses. The old days.” He made some movement with his hand, sliding it out from beneath his head to rub his brow. “Anyway, lobstermen fish by day, mostly.”

“So what does that mean? Are you an astronomer, or not?”

“The answer to that, Peaches, is yes. I can map the night sky pretty well.”

“Peaches,” I said.

“It’s your Island name. Don’t you like it?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet. It’s too new.”

“Well, let me know what you decide.” He lifted his hand and pointed. “There’s Hercules. I’ve always liked him. Had to earn his place there in the sky. He wasn’t just born with it, like the others.”

“Me too. Makes me feel safer, somehow, knowing he’s hanging there with his sword raised. Why don’t you have an Island nickname?”

“Me? I don’t know. Nobody ever gave me one.”

“Maybe nobody ever dared.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I turned on my side to face his profile. His nose was too big, his brow too ridged. His lips were full, though, which softened him a little. I wondered if the moonlight gilded my skin in the same way; whether his cheeks, if I were so unfathomably brave as to touch them, would feel as cool and smooth as they looked from here, a foot or two away. “That was something, this morning,” I said. “What you did. Diving into the water and saving Popeye. You might have been killed.”

He didn’t turn toward me or anything. Just shrugged his shoulders a little, against the sand. “Popeye?” he said.

“That’s what I called him, in my head. Watching you from the window. He had that shirt on, and he was chewing on a pipe—”

“Wait a second.” He turned his head and squinted at me. “You saw his pipe?”

“I—well—”

“You were watching us with binoculars, weren’t you?”

“Well—”

“Miranda! For how long?”

I rolled back to face the sky. “Just a minute or two. I was curious. Never saw anybody fishing for lobsters before.”

“Aw, you’re blushing.”

“No I’m not. Anyway, how could you tell if I was?”

“I just can. I can feel your cheeks getting warm.”

“No you can’t. Not from over there.”

“Yes I can.”

I made to rise, and he caught my hand, and for a second or two we didn’t move. The air grew heavy between us. His hand was calloused and hot, larger than I thought, so rough it seemed to scratch my skin. The hand of a lobsterman. I looked away, because I didn’t know what was happening, because I’d never held a boy’s hand before, certainly not a tough hand like that. The sea slapped against the rocks, the lighthouse beam swept above our heads. A fierce voice called out.

“Joseph! What’s going on out there?”

Joseph turned toward the sound, but he didn’t drop my hand. Instead his grip tightened, not uncomfortable, just snug. I looked, too, and saw a dark silhouette in the middle of a glowing rectangle, painted on the side of a squat, square building attached to the lighthouse.

Joseph called back to this apparition. “Nothing much, Mama. Izzy rowed over with a friend.”

She said something back, something I couldn’t understand, and Joseph replied in the same language, which I figured was Portuguese. Sounded a little like Spanish, but it went by too fast for me to pick out any words. The exchange ended with a noise of exasperation from the other side, the maternal kind of noise that means the same thing in any language, I guess, and the silhouette stepped forward from the doorway and became a woman, monochrome in the moonlight. She was small and sharp and graceful, and her dark hair was gathered in an old-fashioned bun at the nape of her neck. She made me think of a ballerina, only shorter. She was examining me, I knew. I felt the impact of her dislike like a blow. I shifted my feet and straightened my back, and when I realized Joseph still held my hand, I pulled it free and tucked my fingers deep into the folds of tulle that hung around my legs.

She turned her head to Joseph and said something in Portuguese.

He answered in English. “Don’t worry. I’ll row them back myself.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I said. “I can row.”

“Not on your life. That current’s a killer when the tide’s going out, and you’ll be rowing against it.” He bent over Isobel and shook her shoulder. “Izzy! Izzy, wake up!”

She moved her head, groaned, and went still.

“She’s drunk,” said Mrs. Vargas.

Joseph didn’t reply to that. He didn’t even sigh, as he might have done, annoyed as he must have been. Just lifted Isobel in his arms and said to me, “Can you make it across the rocks all right?”

“Sure I can.”

He went ahead of me, carrying Isobel, and I followed his white T-shirt, phosphorescent as the ocean in the moonlight. My feet were steadier now. I wrapped my toes around the sharp, wet edges of the rocks and didn’t slip once. When we reached the dock, I held the boat steady while Joseph bore Isobel aboard. “You better hold her while I row,” he said, so I stepped inside and made my way to the bow seat and took Isobel’s slack body against mine.

I don’t think we said a word, the two of us, the entire distance from Flood Rock to the Fisher dock. I sat on the bench and held Isobel between my legs while she slumped against my left side. Joseph just rowed, steady and efficient, like a fellow who’d been rowing boats since he could walk, which was probably the case. He wasn’t lying about the current. I watched as he fought the strength of the outgoing tide, hurtling through the narrow channel and out into the broad Atlantic; I watched the strain of his muscles, the movement of his shoulders, the pop of his biceps, and my bones filled with terror as I realized I couldn’t have done this by myself, Isobel unconscious at my feet, however hard I pulled. The boat would have borne out past the Island to the open sea.

At one point, near the dock and the shelter of the small Fisher cove, our eyes met. I’d been looking over his shoulder and so had he, judging the distance to shore, and when he turned back his gaze made right for my face and stayed there, so that I couldn’t help but succumb to its human gravitation. Instead of looking away, he smiled, as if we’d just shared a secret, the nature of which I couldn’t have guessed, so young as I was in the early days of that summer. I only thought that he had a warm, beautiful smile, the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen, and in the instant before I ducked my head, I knew I was in love with him. Just imagine. As innocent, as uncomplicated as that. I still remember that moment, that sweet, shy revelation, remember it fondly, because it only comes once in your life, and then it’s gone. You can’t have it back. And it’s only a second! Isn’t that capricious? One measly instant of clarity, tucked inside the reach of your livelong days. And then the boat touches the shore, and the moment flies, and your life—your real, murky, messy, incalculable life—your life resumes.