Angels All Over Town (19 page)

“I’m glad you’re finally out of prison,” Callie said. “But you should watch it here—you’re getting really sunburned.”

They walked away, and I shot off my back. My arms and chest were a tender pink. “I can’t believe I forgot sunscreen,” I said.

Sam wrapped a towel around my shoulders, the essence of concern, but his expression was amused.

“It’s not funny,” I said. “I haven’t had a sunburn in more than three years.”

He was staring with earnest concentration at my face.

“What are you doing?” I asked, nearly breathless.

“Counting all your new freckles,” he said.

The sunburn didn’t amount to much. It stung a little, but Margo gave me some vinegar to rub on it. I lay face down on the bed while Sam massaged clear, biting vinegar into my skin. I began to smell like a marinade. “The clouds saved me,” I said dreamily.

“Actually, it’s possible to get a much worse sunburn through clouds,” he said.

“You know so many facts,” I said, with true admiration.

Waking up beside Sam in the turret room two days later, I listened to rain splash on the windows; it seemed to be coming from all directions. Sam was asleep, his wide mouth slightly open, his dark lashes resting on his cheek. I brushed his messy hair off his forehead, noticing for the first time the fine white scar above his left eye. It was tiny, delicate, and nearly invisible. I thought it must have happened when he was very young. I pressed close to him, making our curves fit together. My skin felt stiff from the sunburn. We had touched all night. Once I had wakened, after a dream, and discovered space between us. But then, as if he were awake also (which he was not), or could dream right into my mind, he rolled against me.

By then Margo had started delivering coffee to both of us in the turret room. We were awake, already dressed, scanning the horizon for whale spouts, when she arrived that morning. She called through the door, “Chance Schutz is on the horn.” Then she entered to give Sam his coffee while I flew through the door and down the suicide stairs.

“Una dear. I apologize for the intrusion on your holiday,” came Chance’s brisk voice through the telephone wire.

“Please—you’re not intruding. How are you? How’s Billy?”

“Marvelous. We’re marvelous. First of all, congratulations on your award. It is quite a coup. For you personally and for the show. We are all proud.”

“Thank you.” I was beaming. I was accepting my Emmy.(…
And I would like to thank everyone who made this possible
…)

“Secondly, and I hesitate to ask this: would you be willing to cut short your time away? We could make it up to you later, of course, but we’re thinking of a European tour. Of the American army bases. Two weeks or so of different cities; strike while the iron’s hot, we thought.” He paused. “Also, it happens that Emile Balfour is at home in Paris this month and would be willing to see you next week. Would that be convenient?”

I loved the way Chance used euphemisms like “convenient,” knowing full well that I would slit my throat to read for Emile Balfour in Paris. “Of course,” I said, burbling, a brook flowing through a lush green meadow. “Of course it’s convenient.”

“Now, you understand, I’ve recommended you to Emile with the stipulation that
if
you get a part, you will return to
Beyond the Bridge
, bringing with you new glory.” His tone was half serious; no one who made a big hit in movies returned full-time to soap operas. But I went along with him.

“Of course.
Beyond
is my spiritual home.”

“Now, this little hiatus won’t interrupt anything important, will it? You can resume your vacation later?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, but the thought of Sam took my breath away. Leave Sam? Right now, just as things are getting perfect? My acceptance speech died in midair.

“My secretary will make arrangements for the trip. When will you return to New York?”

“When?” I repeated dully. The fact of my imminent departure from Watch Hill brought me up short against the truth. Only I didn’t know what the truth was. Had I fallen in love with Sam Chamberlain? That was a simple question; why didn’t it lead to a simple answer?

“When will you return to New York?” Chance asked again. “To be truthful, we would like to see you as soon as possible. Would tomorrow be too soon?”

“No, that would be fine,” I said, thinking,
Shit, tomorrow.

“Marvelous. The sooner you get to New York, the sooner you can go abroad.”

“Wonderful,” I replied without any conviction.

Before ascending to the turret, I sat alone on the porch for a while. A few guests sat in the lobby reading the Providence
Journal
and drinking coffee. I rocked myself back and forth on the metal glider and watched the gray rollers, full of churned-up sand and seaweed—
Chondrus crispus
, probably—smashing on the beach. Storms brought all kinds of debris up from the bottom; walking along my parents’ beach after storms, I’ve found quarters, shark’s teeth, children’s sand toys, rubber soles off sneakers, bleached fish bones, battered lobster pots, rusty teakettles. Everything you can imagine. Margo once found a brand-new playpen, with shiny pale wood slats and bright plastic rattles strung across one side on a metal bar. She ran up to the house to tell us all about it, and the same thought clouded all our faces: what had happened to the baby inside? Lily called the Coast Guard to find out if any babies had fallen overboard, or if any yachts with young families had gone down in the Sound, and they said no. But all that spring we stepped carefully along the high-tide line, watching fearfully for small remains.

Rain splashed into the porch, but it felt good. I heard someone sneaking up from behind. “Boo,” Matt said, kissing the top of my head. “Big doings in New York?”

“Yes. I have to leave tomorrow.”

“Oh, boy. Margo will kill you. She had big plans for a birthday party.”

“Oh, well.”

“She’s loved having you here. So have I. Ever since we met she’s been telling me stories about you Cavan girls. How great you and Lily are. How she and Lily used to watch after you.”

“They did,” I said. “Isn’t that weird? I’m the oldest sister, and they took care of me.”

“I think you looked after each other.”

“Hmmm,” I said, thinking how nice it was that I was having a good talk with Matt on the porch while Margo was having a good talk with Sam upstairs. She was probably drinking coffee out of my cup. From the porch, I could see squalls blowing in from Block Island. Rain poured from the low, brownish clouds to the sea’s surface, and the clouds traveled fast. Lightning slashed out of some of them.

“Tonight we’ll have an unbelievable farewell dinner,” Matt was saying. “Anything you like. What’s your favorite food?”

“My favorite?” I thought about it. My favorite food varied from place to place. In restaurants in New York it was veal, lightly sautéed, with lemon and butter. At my apartment when I was too tired to cook it was take-out Chinese from a small place that did a fantastically hot Capital Chicken with Watercress. At my mother’s house it was Connecticut River shad, the first of the spring, with asparagus and new potatoes. Anywhere else at the shore it was
very
fresh sole, caught that same day.

“Filet of sole,” I told Matt.

“Filet of sole it shall be,” he said. “And now you’d better head upstairs and prepare to break two hearts.”

“Two?” I asked, wanting him to spell out what he was getting at.

“Your sister’s and Sam’s. Yes, Sam’s,” he said, noting my skeptical expression. I am not an actress for nothing; I know how to use facial expression to coax explanations that might otherwise not be forthcoming. “Sam’s crazy about you.”

“How do you know?”

“The same way I know you’re crazy about him. You can’t take your eyes off each other. You’re together twenty-four hours a day.”

“So, what does that mean? We’re attracted to each other. This is our vacation—we’ll probably never see each other when we get back to New York.”

I must have been carrying the naive act a bit far, because Matt threw me a fishy look. “Tell me that in a month and I might believe you. I predict big things for you and Mr. Chamberlain.”

I smiled at him, noticing the way he said “Mister,” as if he were not quite used to having any sort of authority, as if he wanted to ally himself to someone older. “We’ll see,” I said to him, then walked upstairs.

Sam and Margo stood by the window, where I had left them, training binoculars on something. “Margo thinks she saw a spout,” Sam said.

“It was rain hitting the water,” I said, staring at Sam’s back. He wore the same rumpled blue shirt he had worn our first night in the turret room.

“No, it could be a whale,” he said. “It’s possibly a migrating humpback.”

“Like a robin heading south for the winter,” Margo said.

“Guess what? I’m going to Europe next week, and I leave for New York tomorrow!”

Both of them whirled around. Margo let the glasses dangle on a cord around her neck. She looked stricken, but Sam grinned his loose, wide smile and opened his arms. “That’s great! Your public overseas will—” Spotting my expression, he came toward me. We hugged. “What’s wrong?”

If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you, I thought angrily.

“You have to
leave
?” Margo asked.

“Yeah, but Europe. That’s great,” Sam said.

“This is really lousy,” Margo said and walked out of the room.

I pressed my cheek against his chest. I wasn’t crying; I felt more like sleeping. Cradled in his arms, breathing his familiar odor, listening to the rain, I thought I might take a snooze on my feet, right in his arms. But that sleepy feeling dueled with one of being very pissed off. He should not be so happy for me, I thought. This confirms my suspicions—all we’re having is a fling. He straight-armed me away from him. “What gives?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Sullen. A child. If you knew me at all, you wouldn’t have to ask.

“Okay, fine. I thought you were excited about going to Europe.” Walking away from me, taking up the binoculars. Scanning the drenched horizon.

I sat on the unmade bed and looked through yesterday’s
New York Times
. Matt picked up one for me every day at the store. I turned straight to the arts section. There it was, the big ad for
Hester’s Sister
…“Starring Susan Russell, Broadway’s newest light. A witchy moonbeam glimmering with light, sensitivity, and truth. Takes her audience straight to the play’s dark heart.” I turned to the classified ads and started looking for a new apartment. I love doing that. All those little ads seemed to promise wonderful new things. Bigger windows, better kitchens, tons more closets, exposed brick walls, huge terraces, working brick fireplaces, more space, more space, more space. Lower maintenance payments. A superintendent on the premises. More tax credits. I threw the paper across the bed and waited for Sam to turn around.

He took his sweet time. During the time he didn’t turn around I could have read the editorial page. “Well,
I
didn’t see any whales,” he said. “Margo must have been mistaken. If there’s a whale in the area, you usually see more than one sign.”

“I’d better pack my stuff,” I said. “I have to leave on a very early train tomorrow.”

Sam stretched across the bed and kissed me. “Do you think I’m not going to miss you? Is that what’s wrong?”

“I guess.” It must be, because I’m starting to cry, you goon squad.

“I thought you could tell how I feel,” he said. “This is different for me. I’m falling in love with you.”

I racked my mazed brain. Wasn’t it supposed to be better if the man said “I love you” instead of “I’m falling in love with you”? A boy I had gone out with on the Vineyard had closed a letter to me with “I love you,” then edited it to “I love being with you.” Growing up with two sisters meant that our house was always full of
Seventeen, Mademoiselle, Glamour, Cosmopolitan
, and
Vogue
. How often had we read each other articles on the dynamics of love? On the Best Words to Tell Him What You Mean, How to Read Between the Lines, and What Is He
Really
Trying to Say? “What are you really trying to say?” I asked Sam.

“That I will miss you like crazy. That I wish we had more time together, but I’m happy for you. That I love you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Because I love you too. And I’ll miss you like crazy. Too.”

“See, I knew that. It’s pretty obvious.”

All through my life I’ve been hot to communicate without words. With a look, with a gesture. I could do it with Margo, Lily, and Susan. But how long had I known them? It took time to develop a secret language, one that didn’t need words. I had to learn these things.

“You’ll go to Europe,” Sam said slowly, “but you’ll be back soon. By then I’ll be in New York, and we’ll see a lot of each other. I’m planning on it. This doesn’t change things—we’ve both known that you’d have to leave for Europe. All this does is move up the clock a little. Right? You’ll go to Europe and you’ll come back. That’s all.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” I said slowly.

“You know, I never thought I’d get to thirty without being married,” Sam said, lying on his back and moving me next to him, with one arm around my neck. We stared at the conical ceiling. “I grew up with great parents. We were really happy. They were always going off on research trips, but we had a great life. I thought marriage was really terrific. Really the tops. I figured I’d go to college, meet someone, marry her, and bango.”

My parents hadn’t had quite so idyllic a love life, but I had had vaguely the same idea. Bango.

“But then I never met anyone,” Sam continued. “I had a few long relationships, but they weren’t right. Didn’t feel right. And then I went to graduate school and started thinking about spending nine months out of every year on board a research vessel. I stopped thinking about…marriage.”

He paused before saying “marriage” because he didn’t want to give me the idea that he was proposing. I knew that much. I mean, we were just lying on a bed having a discussion. Telling each other a few intimate facts. It was my turn.