“I haven’t been comfortable in…oh…so very long —”
She’d meant it by way of explanation, but it seemed more accusatory as the words stretched awkwardly, attempting to span the chasm between them.
“— I’m not unhappy…”
It really didn’t seem to matter; not now.
The boat lulled listlessly. She felt sure he was probably asleep anyhow, so she tucked herself beside him, into the bow, along with an arcing stream of moonlight that found its way below deck.
Face to face, nose to nose— she shut her eyes tightly, putting every piece of this moment into its place, that, were it all to shatter, not a shard would be lost.
“Prettiest girl I ever did see.”
And between the slosh of a distant wake against the hull and the gentle, inquisitive flashing of the lighthouse — somewhere between waking and sleeping — she knew he’d heard.
*
Voices on the deck had long since subsided, the yacht now motionless on a glassy sound.
She sat with a start.
The night was black — how long had she slept?
Quickly she straightened her hair, the straps of her tank top; she sought her sandals but felt only the sandy remnants of footprints on the wooden floorboards.
Allowing herself a brief moment to brush his cheek with her fingertips before pulling away, a single, lithe movement brought her to the stairs, up and into the open.
Above, a cache of stars glimmered. It was not without rue that she spied Draco climbing into the velvety night — but the emphatic thrust of the yacht mast separated him from Virgo in the West. Her sigh was relief as she slipped into black sandals still on the dock and hurried toward land.
She saw it all in a moment, as she always did, measuring light against darkness at a glance; glimpsing hidden figures that preyed upon their lives from distant, yet consequential, spheres.
*
It wasn’t until dawn roused her that she remembered. She’d sworn she wouldn’t go to the Waterfront. She wasn’t sure whether it was him or the draw of the water, but the two together had a powerful effect on her. Forty years, and the pull never lessened.
She gazed out into the massive boughs of live oak that encircled the house like Sleeping Beauty’s fairytale hedge, blocking from view the tireless sway of the ocean. It didn’t matter. Its cadences flowed through her veins as acutely as if the water were her very blood.
And the music.
“This one is for … well, you know who you are,” he’d faltered, strumming and searching for words; but it was the melody that found its way to the surface, through the throng of townies and tourists:
My words are lost and you’re the only one
Who saw them leave
You’re the only one to transcend that threshold…
Wrapping herself in a woolen shawl against a pang of regret, she crept carefully down to the kitchen, deftly sliding the kettle onto a burner and finding comfort in the clicking tongue of the gas stove. She set out her teacup — the one with the constellations.
His harmony wound through every corridor of this house. She was sure she heard their youthful laughter in the alcove under the stair; and if she crept up the staircase quietly enough, maybe he’d still be singing his heart out to broken chords on a tuneless upright; she shook her head. A tendril of gray unfurled itself and she resolutely swept it behind her ear.
Some fragments were meant to splinter with time… after all, that’s what kept him here.
She unbolted the door, pressing the screen against the morning chill. She felt it keenly these days. Bending down to reach the newspaper, she spied a tiny nosegay just beneath her potted mums.
Wildflowers… violets, pansies.
She carefully plucked the tiny bouquet from its hiding place, careful not to rearrange a single stem. The petals were soft against her fingertips; she brushed them across her lips before disappearing inside once again.
He remembered.
*