I threw my head back and laughed. “Is that just west of Contentment Island?”
“So you’ve been there.” He smiled back at me.
“No, but I’ve heard of it.”
I laid a hand on his shoulder to keep my balance as the boat heeled to windward. We picked up speed. The sheets were tight, perfectly trimmed for the edge of the wind. The prow sliced through the frothy blue water, which swished past the hull.
Oh, how I gloried in the sensation of the wind and spray on my cheeks. I breathed in the salty, fresh fragrance of the sea, listened to the sound of the seabirds screeching overhead, following us out of the harbor. I felt exhilarated, euphoric.
“You’re right,” I shouted over the wind. “This is bliss!”
We were on a starboard tack, close-hauled, then Matt suggested a faster reach. I hopped up onto the foredeck and re-trimmed the sails. He turned the wheel for a beam reach, and we cruised faster, thundering and thrashing over the whitecaps, sharing in the excitement of our speed until it was time to turn.
“Ready to tack?” Matt called out. “You remember what to do?”
The wind whipped my hair wildly about my face. “Yes! Anytime you’re ready!”
He nodded at me, then turned the wheel hard over and ducked. The boom swung across. I released the jib sheet for the new direction.
Switching sides, I checked the sail and cleated the lines.
“Want to take the helm?” Matt asked.
I hopped back down into the cockpit. “I’d love to.”
Taking hold of the brass wheel and holding it steady, I watched Matt move to the bench and sit down.
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands together, lowered his head.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He lifted his head. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep too well last night.”
We continued to sail into the blue.
“You’re quite a yachtswoman,” he said. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
“It’s like riding a bike I guess.”
The rest of the world hardly existed for me in those moments as we coasted over the choppy waters. I was able to forget about my studies, my future, and even my name or where I came from. All that mattered was the speed and direction of the wind, and the pull of the boat’s wheel in my hands.
And the fact that Matt was sitting beside me.
“This is amazing,” I said.
I shaded my eyes to look out at the horizon, which rose and fell in the distance with the heaving motion of the boat. “She’s an incredible vessel. She responds like a dream.”
Matt was still sitting on the bench with his back to the transom, a knee raised, his arm resting over it. He was watching the horizon, too.
“I’m on cloud nine!” I shouted. “Thank you for taking me out here today. It’s breathtaking. Honestly, it’s like heaven!”
He stood up, sidled next to me and took hold of the wheel. We gripped it together for a moment, sharing the ecstasy of the day.
Then it was my turn to sit down and relax, so I let go of the wheel, plunked myself down on the bench and hugged my knees to my chest.
Matt’s eyes were serene and riveting as he looked down at me. “So do you believe in heaven?” He grinned. “Since you mentioned it.”
A lock of hair blew wildly across my face. I tucked it behind my ear. “I really don’t know,” I said. “Not that I don’t think about it. I do. Quite a bit, actually, when I’m alone. The problem is, the rational part of my brain wants proof that it exists, but of course there isn’t any.”
The boat was leaning over, skimming across the clear water like a speed skater.
“But sometimes I think that maybe this is heaven,” I continued, feeling Matt’s attention turn curiously to my face, even though I was looking out across the distance.
“How so?”
“That it exists in these moments of pleasure,” I tried to explain, “when a person is feeling completely fulfilled. You said we were headed for bliss today, and you were right. That’s how I feel right now – surrounded by water and sky, breathing in the fresh, salty air. It’s as if all my senses are alive. And isn’t that what heaven is all about? The ultimate fulfillment? Isn’t it supposed to be paradise?”
He squinted at me. “So you believe in heaven on earth.”
I was not surprised by how easy it was to talk to him about something so profound. No one else in my life ever wanted to talk about these things. No one ever questioned it, at least not out loud, in conversation.
“Who knows?” I answered. “Maybe this is just a taste of what exists after death. Because all this joy – it’s in our souls, isn’t it? Not in our brains or the flesh of our bodies. Not even in our hearts. When people talk about the joy in a person’s heart, what they really mean is the soul, don’t you think? Because the heart is just an organ, and when we’re gone, it stops. It dies with our bodies.”
“But do our souls really go on?” he asked. “That’s the real question.”
I regarded him intently. “Do you think they do?”
The wind blew a part in his hair. He took his eyes off the horizon and continued to stare down at me. “I guess I’m looking for proof, too,” he said, “just like you. Though some would argue that it’s not proof we need, but faith.”
He turned the wheel slightly to adjust to a shift in the wind, and I admired the clear, chiseled lines of his profile.
“Do you have it, Matt? Faith?”
“Sometimes,” he replied, “on certain days. But maybe not enough. At least not yet. I guess I’m waiting for something – a bolt of lightning, a burning bush. I don’t know.”
“Mm,” I agreed, chuckling softly. “Maybe these things become more clear as you get older.”
“Maybe they do.” He looked up at the large, white mainsail, straining against the wind. “But I do believe in everything else you said – that there can be heaven on earth in certain moments of our lives. This is one of those. I don’t think it gets any better than this.”
“Neither do I,” I eagerly replied. “I hope my life will be full of moments just like this.”
We smiled at each other, and something inside me trembled with a mixture of fear and yearning.
“Are you hungry?” Matt asked, changing the subject, lightening the mood. “We could head toward calmer waters and drop anchor.”
“That sounds like a good idea.”
It was mid-afternoon by the time we cruised into a quiet cove.
With great efficiency, we dropped the sails, lowered the anchor, then Matt went below and brought up a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of chilled white wine.
“You must miss this when you’re in Chicago,” I said, leaning back against the transom and watching his expression as he looked up at the sky.
I looked up, too – at a fluffy white cloud, drifting slowly by, over the tip of the mast.
“I go sailing on Lake Michigan sometimes,” he said dropping his gaze and reaching for a sandwich. “But it’s a strange experience.”
“In what way?”
He took a bite and swallowed.
“Because it looks like the ocean and sounds like the ocean. Your eyes are telling you that’s what it is, but there’s something missing. Something…” He paused, as if searching for just the right word. “Something vital.” He sipped his wine. “All of your senses become frustrated, because nothing smells quite right or tastes the way it should. It’s a huge body of water, but it’s fresh, so there’s no salt on your lips or skin. There’s an almost disturbing absence of smell once you get out far enough.” He rested his arm along the back of the bench. “It’s nice, but it’s not the same as this.”
“I never thought of that before,” I said, though I was deeply aware of the sensuality of this day.
“I guess when you grow up by the sea,” he said, “it’s in your blood. You can never get away from it. It’s a part of you.”
“Doesn’t that ma
ke you want to move home,” I asked, “and spend your life on the coast?”
Lately I had been finding it difficult to imagine returning to Camden after graduation and settling down forever in my hometown. But if Matt was there, if I could see him every day, I couldn’t imagine anything more perfect.
“Yes. Desperately.”
Surprised by his answer, I frowned. “Then why don’t you do it? Just pack up and come home.”
He didn’t respond at first. It was as if he wanted to ignore the question. Then after a while, he leaned back on an arm and looked down at the plate of sandwiches. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why?”
He gave me a long look and shook his head, telling me without words that he didn’t want to talk about it.
I didn’t push, despite the fact that I was burning with curiosity about his life in Chicago. What was keeping him there? It had to be something. Or someone. I felt a sudden stab of jealousy, imagining that there might be a woman in his life, even though he’d already told me there wasn’t.
I told myself to be patient. There was time. He would reveal things when he was ready.
We finished eating the sandwiches and changed the subject to books. We talked about the novels we’d read over the years, and Matt opened up about the short stories he’d written and the novel he’d begun. He told me it was about a boy who had been orphaned and found an unlikely father figure in an old man who swept the streets of New York.
Again, I encouraged him to finish it.
“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”
The waves lapped up against the hull, and the seagulls circled over the boat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had indulged myself in the magic of a day like this. The whole world seemed to be singing a rhapsody, vibrating with a special energy.
Oh, how I had missed Matt. I hadn’t truly realized it until that moment. Over the past six years, I had blocked out the memory of the contentment I had known when we were together as children, because I was forever grieving the loss of it. It was as if, on the day Matt left Camden, half of my heart had been torn away.
With him, he had taken the part of me that could experience this sort of euphoria.
All at once, I wanted overwhelmingly to be closer to him, to slide across the bench and curl into his arms. I’d always wanted it, even when we were children, but I hadn’t completely understood the foundation of those desires. I had not understood that my feelings, even then, were sexual.
There was no denying it now. Here I sat, stuck head-to-wind in this flashing moment in time. In one direction, there was safety on the shore – Peter – and in the other, there was Matt. He was the vast unknown with all its unpredictable dangers – the riptides and icebergs. Storms and breakers.
Matt gulped down the rest of his wine, then let the empty glass dangle from his fingertips as he looked out at the choppy Atlantic.
“Looks like there’s a fog rolling in.” He rose to his feet. “Do you see it?”
I stood up as well. “Yes. I can feel the chill.”
“We should probably head back.”
He faced me and reached out to take my empty wine glass. Our fingers touched briefly, and I felt it like an electric jolt through my body. I believe he felt it, too, because he stood there for the longest moment, staring into my eyes.
My lips parted. My heart began to race. I wanted to say something, but what? There were no words to describe what I felt or what I wanted. All I knew was that I was overcome by a desire so profound, no amount of self-discipline or control was powerful enough to stop it.
The boat lifted and I swayed toward him. It was all he needed. Matt stepped forward and pulled me into his arms. He held me close for a brief, tenuous moment while my heart beat wildly in my chest, then his mouth collided rashly with mine.
He tasted of freedom and ecstasy. My whole body quickened at the connection as his hands roamed over my hips and across my back, the lush heat of his mouth like a balm to my starving, raging senses. Disoriented and trembling, I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and held on tight, clutching at his jacket, wanting so much more than either of us had ever intended to take or give.
He bent his head and kissed the side of my neck until I was near to weeping with joy and misery, for I wanted him with a mad desperation.
“Oh, Matt,” I sighed.
He tried to end it, to pull away, but couldn’t. Instead, he held me close in his arms and touched his forehead to mine.
“God, Cora.” The boat bobbed gently beneath our feet. “I should never have come here.”
“Don’t say that. I wanted this.”
“But I promised myself I wouldn’t touch you.”
Frustration flooded through me, because I had been absolutely willing to dive into this headfirst, and was still willing. Consequences meant nothing to me now.
“Why?” I asked. “Because of Peter?”
“I told you before, I don’t want to complicate your life. I’m not the one for you.”
I sucked in a breath to speak, but he cut me off. “You know I’m not the type to stick around. I’ve never stayed with a job for more than a year. I can’t finish a book I started five years ago. We both know what kind of person I am. I’m not steady, and you deserve better.” He dropped his hands to his sides. “It’s time to go back.”
He turned to gather up the plates and the empty wine bottle, and just like that, the bond between us snapped. The passion in his eyes disappeared, smothered by what, I had no idea. Fear, perhaps. Concern for my welfare. Maybe even his loyalty to an old friend he hadn’t seen in six years.
Or was it simply as he said – a natural inability to commit to anyone or anything? A deficiency that he would never overcome? Perhaps he didn’t want to overcome it. Maybe he preferred his freedom. Maybe he would always grow bored with anything that became too familiar.
Maybe that was why I was so attracted to him. Because he was unattainable.
I couldn’t speak. All I could do was move about methodically to help rig the boat.
Together, in silence, we drew up the anchor and hoisted the sails, and said very little to each other as the wind took us back to more familiar waters, and eventually back to dry land.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Matt was distant during the sunset drive back to Wellesley – so distant that he barely spoke to me. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, and when we came to a set of lights and had to stop, he reached across for a package of cigarettes in the glove compartment.
He didn’t look at me as he dug into his pocket for a pack of matches, nor did he ask whether I minded if he smoked. He lit the cigarette and dragged on it with relief – as if he’d been waiting all day to do just that – then he shook the flame from the match and dropped it into the ashtray.
He draped a wrist over the steering wheel and hung the other arm out the window. “Come on, come on,” he said impatiently to the traffic light while the cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.
It was the first time I had seen him smoke since he’d re-entered my life. I had forgotten that he’d ever taken up the habit.
I rolled down my window. “So what are your plans for the rest of the week?” I asked.
“Don’t know.”
He switched on the radio. The light turned green; he stepped on the gas. We drove out of town, farther away from the sea until I could no longer hear it or smell any trace of it.
I sat back in the seat and said nothing. He made no effort, either, to initiate any conversation.
A chill wind blew in through the open window. The scarlet light of the evening cast a queer glow on the trees at the side of the road. Matt turned the silver knob on the radio, pushed through noisy, obnoxious static, found music, and turned up the volume.
We drove for miles in silence. Eventually I just pretended to be asleep.
By the time we arrived back at Wellesley, it was full dark. Matt turned onto the campus. I reached over without asking and switched
off the radio. It was quiet at last.
“Why don’t you pull over right here,” I brusquely said, feeling a powerful urge to hit something. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
I didn’t want him to drop me off at the main doors because I knew I would need time to wrestle with my mood before I faced anyone.
I also needed a few final minutes to chastise myself for becoming infatuated with Matt after a mere two days in his company. Hadn’t I learned a long time ago that he was not capable of finishing what he began? It was why he left Camden. He could not manage the long haul of personal relationships or commitments. His personality could go from hot to cold in the space of a single heartbeat. He was fickle. When anything became too familiar, he was no longer interested.
What was I thinking, imagining that what I felt for him was more meaningful than what I had with Peter? Peter wanted to marry me. He wanted to commit to me for the rest of his life. He had been my constant, devoted friend since we were children. He had never strayed from that friendship, and my happiness and well-being meant everything to him.
He had even warned me about Matt. He’d wanted to protect me as he always did, because he loved me. He had been sensible and prudent, as always.
Matt pulled over under an oak tree. He did not turn off the car, which only fuelled the fires of my hostility. He made no mention of seeing me again, nor did he thank me for spending the day with him. He stared straight ahead, as if I had offended him in some way.
I suppose I had – for I allowed myself to adore him.
A single oak leaf floated down through the air like a feather onto the windshield.
I wrapped my hand around the door handle and thought about getting out with a mere, “See you around,” but couldn’t do it. It was not my way. Unlike Matt, I communicated my feelings, and I was going to be very frank.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” I said, “but you haven’t spoken one word to me since we left Marblehead, and I want you to know how disappointed I am. I thought we had a nice time today, but now you’ve ruined it.”
He finally looked at me.
“Did you think I was going to expect something from you?” I asked. “Is that what you’re afraid of, that I might want a promise from you, or a marriage proposal? Have you been trying to tell me – in your own rude, cowardly way – that you’re not interested? Well, you needn’t worry, Matt, because I know you better than that. I know how quickly you get bored, how you hate to be boxed in. I know enough not to expect anything from you.”