Chapter 17

PENNY

Careful,” Collin says as we step down to the dock. He reaches for my hand and I let him take it.

My head hurts a little, but other than that I feel all right. “I’ll bet Dex is home now,” I say.

He walks me down the dock, and I’m glad that Naomi and Gene aren’t home and relieved that Jimmy isn’t milling about. I wouldn’t want to worry him, nor would I want to explain myself to his mother.

I know Dex isn’t inside the houseboat even before we step up to the front door. He always leaves his shoes on the doormat, right beside the shriveled geraniums in the flowerpot. But his shoes aren’t there. I’m relieved, but I’m also a little sad.

“I don’t know where he is,” I say to Collin tearfully. I didn’t expect my voice to quiver like it does.

“There, now,” he says, patting my arm. “Let’s get you inside.”

He walks me to the davenport, where I lean back against the cushions and prop my feet up against the armrest where Dex’s head has lain on so many quiet Saturday mornings.

Collin brings me a glass of water and a pill, and I doze off.

The light is bright when I open my eyes. My head pounds. I sit up, disoriented. “Dex!” I cry.

Instead, Collin appears. He’s coming from the kitchen, with a plate of cheese and sliced fruit. “Morning,” he says cheerfully. “How’d you sleep?”

“What time is it?”

“Eight,” he says with a smile. “You slept through the evening, right on to morning. You must have been exhausted.”

I rub my eyes and nod my head. “Thank you,” I say, “for staying.”

He passes me the cheese and fruit plate, and grins. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

I take a bite of sliced apple. “Oh no, what did I say?”

“There was something about a boat,” he says, “which isn’t surprising, and a whole lot of other gibberish. But you said my name.”

“I did?”

“Yes,” he says proudly. “I admit, I tried to eavesdrop, but I didn’t get very far.” He walks back to the kitchen and returns with two mugs. “Coffee?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, sitting up.

“I hope you don’t mind that I stayed. I just didn’t feel right about leaving you here alone.”

I take a long sip before I speak again. “I keep thinking, what if I’d died out there on the lake? I would have been dead for two days now. Dex wouldn’t even know. Whenever he’d get around to coming home, whenever he could break away from his precious art, he’d come home and I wouldn’t be here.”

Collin looks at his feet, as though the very thought of Dex unnerves him, but he doesn’t share what he’s thinking. “Well, you’re OK, and that’s all that matters,” he finally says. “Now that you’re up, I’m going to go home and shower. I’ll be back this afternoon to check on you.”

In truth, I don’t need anyone to check on me. I bumped my head; I’ll recover. But I touch my hand to the bandage on my forehead and nod. I like that he wants to check on me. I like that someone wants to check on me. “Thank you,” I say softly. He beams back at me.

Three days pass, then four. Dex remains unreachable. If he’s at his studio, he’s not answering the phone, because when I call, it just rings endlessly. I decide that maybe he’s gone on a trip. Maybe he’s finally gone to that gallery in Paris where he was invited to exhibit his work. But would he really go to Paris without me? Without even telling me?

When Saturday comes, I am crestfallen. It’s the night of the Frank Sinatra concert. I call his studio four times. I don’t know why I keep trying; he never answers. But this time, someone picks up.

“Hello?” It’s a woman. She sounds young, younger than I am, perhaps.

“Oh,” I say quickly. “I must have the wrong number. I was trying to reach Dexter Wentworth.”

“Just a sec,” she says, setting the phone down.

Maybe she’s a model, I tell myself. Dex hires them from time to time to pose for him while he paints. I imagine she has long black wavy hair that hangs in front of her bare breasts. Her hips are round and her skin porcelain. Dex has her on the couch, the way he used to have me pose for him. I close my eyes, then set the phone back on the receiver.

It’s four thirty, and I haven’t even dressed yet. I should be ironing my red dress, the one with the deep V-shaped neckline and stitching around the waist. It flatters me in all the right places, and I’ve imagined wearing it to see Frank Sinatra. I’ve planned it for days now. Dex would come home, see me in the dress, and wrap his arms around my waist like he always has. He’d whisper in my ear, “You look stunning.”

I wonder if I’m hallucinating when Dex walks in the door an hour later and sets his hat on the counter. He looks terrible. He hasn’t shaved in days; his cheeks are gaunt. Dark shadows linger beneath his eyes.

“Hi,” he says, sitting in the chair by the windows. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t ask why I’m propped up on the couch with pillows. He just stares at the lake.

“I called your studio today,” I say. My words are tense, tinged with hurt. My voice reverberates in the air, but Dex doesn’t seem to notice or care.

He shakes his head. I can smell the stale, sweet smell of alcohol on his breath, even from across the room. “I don’t understand it,” he says.

“What?” I ask, sitting up.

He still doesn’t look at me. “It was perfect,” he says. “It was my masterpiece, and they . . .” He buries his head in his hands.

“Oh, Dex,” I say soothingly, rushing to his side. I wonder why it’s so easy to assume this role with him, so easy for him to keep taking and for me to keep giving. “Tell me what happened.” I remember the series of paintings he’s been working on for months. “Was the installation today?”

“The curator hated them,” he says, staring ahead.

I sit on the arm of the chair and rub my hand along his rough cheek, then kiss his head. His hair is unwashed, and I breathe in the scent of his scalp. I don’t ask him about the woman on the phone at the studio. It doesn’t matter anymore. Dex is here. He came home to me. “Tonight’s the concert,” I say cheerfully. “We’ll go out and take your mind off things.”

He shakes his head quickly. “I can’t. I have to go back to the studio. I have to work on the replacement. I only came home to get a few clean shirts.”

“Oh,” I say, stiffening.

He walks to the hallway and selects four or five shirts that I ironed last week. He wads them up and tucks them under his arm.

“Penn, I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how much you wanted to go to that concert.” He walks toward me as if seeing me for the first time, as if he’s just noticed that I have feelings too.

He touches my waist, but I push his hand away.

“You could still go,” he says.

“By myself?”

“Why don’t you ask your mother?”

I shake my head. “She hates Frank Sinatra.”

He scratches his head. “How about the boat maker, what’s-his-name . . .”

“Collin,” I say. “His name is Collin.” I don’t tell him that he saved my life. That he is kind and thoughtful, so much more than a boat maker.

“Yeah,” he says. “Why don’t you see if he wants to go?” He shrugs. “I paid a fortune for those tickets. You ought to use them.”

“Right,” I say. “You’d better go.” My voice is flat and mechanical.

“Penn,” he says, pulling me toward him. “You’re not mad at me, are you? Because I couldn’t handle that. Not after this day.”

I force a smile. I know he needs me to be strong.

“That’s my girl,” he says, kissing my forehead. “I’ll call you soon.”

I nod as the door clicks closed, then walk to the chair Dex was sitting in. The air still smells like him, sweet and musky. I sit there until it dissipates, then disappears entirely. Sometime later, I hear a knock at the door. “Come in,” I say. I don’t have the energy to get up.

It’s Collin. “Hi,” he says, looking at his watch. “You’d better get dressed. Aren’t you going to the Sinatra concert tonight?”

I shake my head. “I’m not going.”

“Not going? Why not?”

I turn to face him, and the tears finally come. They spill out over my eyelids and stream down my cheeks, and I don’t even try to stop them now. I can’t. Collin rushes to my side and kneels down by me. He takes my hands in his. They’re large and warm, and encircle my small fingers. “What can I do?” he asks, handing me a handkerchief from his shirt pocket.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“What happened?”

I look away, then let my eyes meet his again. “Dex isn’t going with me to the concert.”

“Why not?”

“He has to work.”

Collin nods to himself. “Then I’ll take you.”

In spite of Dex’s offhand suggestion, I’d never think of asking Collin. It seems forward, somehow. But now that he’s mentioned it, now that he’s kneeling here in front of me holding my hands, I want nothing else. “Would you?”

He nods, then stands up. “Now, let’s get you dressed.” He walks to the hallway closet and sees the red dress I left on the hook. “This one?”

I nod.

“It’s perfect,” he says, pulling the ironing board out and plugging the cord into the wall. I didn’t know men could iron. Dex always acts as if he’s allergic to housework. I watch with fascination as Collin spreads the red fabric over the ironing board and smooths the pleats beneath his fingers. His motions are gentle but determined, the way he sands the planks of the sailboat. I think of his hands touching my dress and my cheeks flush.

“There,” he says a moment later, holding up the dress on a hanger.

“How did you learn to iron?” I ask.

He grins as if I’ve just asked him how he learned to read. “My mother raised me to know these things.”

I vow to myself right then that if I ever have a son, I’ll raise him to be thoughtful like Collin. I’ll teach him to iron a dress and to make icing for cookies and to mend a hole in a pair of trousers. “Well,” I say. “Your mother did a good job.” I take the dress from Collin and eye it on the hanger. Somehow it seems more daring now. I wonder if I ought to have chosen something more conservative. “I’ll just go get changed.”

“Do you want me to come back?” Collin asks, rubbing his head nervously.

“Stay here,” I say, smiling. “It’s OK. I’ll just run upstairs.”

I climb the ladder to the loft bedroom and peel off my dress, then sit on the bed in my slip. The night air is warm and sultry on my skin. Downstairs, just a few feet below me, Collin is fiddling with the record player.

“I saw a Sinatra record on the table,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought it could get us in the mood for the concert.”

“I could use a lift,” I say, letting my slip fall to the floor. It glides over my budy effortlessly. I hear the crackle of the record player, and then the deep, smooth sound of Sinatra’s voice. I sway to the melody as I unclasp my bra. I select another, white lace, from the drawer and put it on, then reach for a fresh pair of lace panties. The music is sweet and beckoning. I could just say his name. “Collin. Could you come up here, please? Could you help me with the window? The hinge is stuck.” My heart beats faster when I imagine what would happen next, when I imagine his strong hands holding me. I hear his footsteps downstairs. I open my mouth to say his name, and then close it quickly. I think of Dex. I can’t.

I put on my stockings, then slip into my dress and heels. I fasten my hair back with a clip and swipe red lipstick over my lips. I fiddle with the zipper, tugging it halfway up my back, but it sticks. I try again, but I’m worried I’ll tear the dress. Timidly, I climb down the stairs, where Collin is waiting. He’s beaming at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “Wow,” he says. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m sorry, but do you think I could talk you into zipping me up?” I turn around, and without saying anything, he walks toward me. I feel his warm hands on my back as he rights the path of the zipper. It relents instantly, and a tingly sensation erupts on my skin as he pulls it up to the nape of my neck.

“There,” he says, placing his hands on my shoulders to turn me around. “Perfect.”

We arrive at the theater and take our seats near the stage. A waitress appears to take our cocktail orders, then returns with two martinis. After taking a sip, I eat the olives from the toothpick in my glass.

“Here,” Collin says, handing me an olive from his glass.

“Thanks,” I say, popping it in my mouth. Dex never gives me his olives.

The waitress returns with another round of martinis, and by the time the lights dim, the crowd is applauding and I feel light and happy, like I could float away. Frank Sinatra takes the stage, and everyone stands, cheering. He’s handsome, with mature, chiseled features like Dex’s. The band begins to play and I hear the opening melody to “How Deep Is the Ocean,” and I sway beside Collin until the band preludes into a soft ballad. A couple in front of us begins to dance, and then another. Collin looks at me, and I don’t hesitate. I lean into his arms and press my cheek against the lapel of his jacket.

The cab drops us off on Fairview Avenue. I know I’ve had too much to drink, because my legs aren’t cooperating and my face feels numb. “Take my hand,” Collin says softly, helping me out of the cab. I stumble a little, but he steadies me. “Let me carry you.”

He doesn’t wait for my reply before lifting me into his arms effortlessly. I feel as light as a feather. He steps onto the dock, and we pass the neighbors’ houseboats. The old lady near the stairs must be asleep, because her house is dark. I realize I have no idea what time it is. Or what day it is. I see the potted flowers in front of Naomi and Gene’s house and detect the ruffle of a curtain in the window, but I don’t care. Let them all see me. Let them all think what they want.

Collin stops suddenly, and I look up. I recognize the front door of my houseboat. He sets me down, and I lean back against the door. His eyes sparkle under the house lights, and I feel dizzy looking into them. I think about going back inside my houseboat, alone. “I don’t want this night to end,” I whisper.

“Me either,” he says. His arms are at his sides, but I wish he’d wrap them around me, press me against the door, and kiss me. I wish he’d carry me over the threshold like Dex did on the day of our wedding.

Without thinking, I lean toward him so that my lips are close to his. I feel the warmth of his skin as I close my eyes. I can hear music, the sound of waves lapping against the houseboat. I hear my future. Laughter. Children’s voices. Music. Happiness. But Collin pulls away suddenly and lets go of my hands.

I look down. “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry, I . . .” I search his eyes. “Why can’t you kiss me? Do you not want to?”

“I do,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “More than you could ever know.” He shakes his head. “Listen, it’s late. I should say good night.”

He turns to the dock, and in a moment he’s gone.

Inside the house, I sink into the couch. My dress falls all around me like a heap of red velvet frosting, and I lean back against the cushion. My heart is beating wildly. There’s a half-drunk bottle of wine on the counter. I uncork it and pour some into a glass. I stare at the phone and think of Dex. I dial the number to his studio and take another sip of wine as the phone rings.

“Hello?” It’s the same voice. The same young woman. I look at the clock—after midnight—then slam the phone down.

I slip off my heels and run outside to the deck, then climb into the canoe, forgetting my life vest. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing does. I paddle across the little channel and tie the rope to the cleat hurriedly. I don’t care if it floats away. I don’t care about anything but falling into Collin’s arms.

There’s a light on inside, and I run to his back door and knock quietly but persistently. There are tears in my eyes and anticipation in my heart. Collin appears a moment later. He’s changed into Levi’s and his shirt is unbuttoned. I don’t say anything; neither does he. We speak a language all our own. He lifts me up to him, and I wrap my legs and arms around his body. I look into his eyes and feel his breath on my skin. Our lips are close now, and this time, he kisses me.