Gathering String Page 7

  Drowsy again, Sam muttered, “Well, St. Frank did a hell of job.” His eyes closed. “I still can’t believe we’re fucking alive.” Then he fell asleep. They both did, deeply and dreamlessly, gently holding each other’s wounds and terror.

  When Sam finally opened his eyes, he had no idea what time it was, or how long they’d been there. She was still next to him, curled on her side, sound asleep and warm in his arms. The white robe gapped just a little to reveal the smooth curve at the top of her breast, the long chain of her necklace a thin shadow across the creamy skin. Holding his breath, he gratefully, lightly, pressed the unbroken corner of his mouth to her forehead.

  And then the phone rang. As she pulled away, Sam nearly cried out again, for the loss of her. When she hung up, she looked over at him, reaching out to flick on a light. “My dad and my brother Will are downstairs. They’ve come to fly us home."

  They were both offered a month’s leave, but three days after he got back from South Dakota, Sam was back at work. His ribs hurt like hell, and the stitches in his back and shoulder were drawing and itchy. His lower lip had a raw crease he assumed would be a scar, but he could already tell it would hardly be noticeable.

  Tess took off. Baxter had insisted she take the leave, and she accepted gratefully. The last Sam saw of her was at Dulles, where her brother had landed the small Lear jet her father owned in his charter business.

  Sam liked both the Benedict men. It was reassuring, being in the hands of two experienced Navy pilots. With the youngest child in trouble, they stepped in and took charge. Will received an emergency leave from his post in Norfolk. Keith piloted the flight up to South Dakota. Will flew them all back to D.C. At the charter gate of the Rapid City airport, the sun had broken through that morning. Keith pulled Sam aside. “I know you’ve got to be a little nervous about this, son.” The corner of Sam’s mouth went up. At 40, it had been a long time since anyone called him “son.” “That was a bear of a landing you two went through. But rest easy. My Will is going to give you a smooth ride.”

  Keith was right. Though Sam was a little shaky, the take-off was perfect. After that, he found to his amazement that he never had a moment of misgiving. Will brought the plane down at Dulles with the skill of a carrier landing, all the wheels kissing the runway together. They parted at the terminal. Keith was taking Tess to her apartment so she could gather some things, and he stood beside his daughter to shake Sam’s hand. “Thanks for helping Teresa out before we could get up there.”

  Sam looked over at Tess. “More like she helped me, sir. She did the rescuing.”

  A faint blush came to her face, and she looked away. Her father smiled saying, “Well, get healed up, Sam. Good to have you aboard.”

  “My pleasure. You were right. It was a great flight.”

  Keith nodded, then stepped away to sign some paperwork with an airport official. When he glanced back at the two, a thoughtful crease between his eyes, neither Sam nor Tess noticed.

  “Well …” Sam looked down at her. She was wearing a deep blue blouse he’d seen in their Wal-Mart cart. In spite of the cheap quality, the color brought out the blue of her eyes, even though the white of the left one was a bloody red and barely visible between the swollen lids. He knew he’d never forget how she looked: battered, exhausted. But perfect.

  He cleared his throat, “This was a class way to get home.” She nodded. He hoisted the duffel bag. “I better get going. You still have a long way to go, and I don’t want to hold you up.” Somewhere beyond security Judith was waiting, and he started to walk away, then turned back to see her watching. The tears in her eyes caught the breath in his throat. Dropping the bag, he came back to gather her up in quick, careful hug, whispering, “Thank you.” Then he picked up his bag and went on. She’d never said a word.

  For the first few days Judith was uncomfortably close, forcing him to see a pulmonary specialist about his shallow breathing, nagging him to make an appointment for a cosmetic surgeon to look at his lip and remove the stitches from his back, and generally making him feel uneasy under her watchful eyes. He insisted on going back to work.

  Judith and her mother had planned a spring trip to Europe. If she had any misgivings about leaving him, her mother, Monica did not. Monica couldn’t stand Sam and was frank in her opinion, saying he had perfected self-centeredness to a high art. She certainly couldn’t see canceling a well-planned vacation on his account, and no thought of him accompanying them was entertained. So when he left them at Reagan National, surrounded by a mountain of Monica’s luggage, on a warm morning about two weeks after the accident, his relief was considerable.

  The fact was he had plans of his own.

  Their plane was probably just boarding when Sam picked up the phone on his desk at the newsroom, and dialed the number he’d found for Keith Benedict’s charter business on Switchboard. “I was just wondering how she’s doing,” Sam explained when Keith came on the line. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  “Tess is fine,” Benedict answered. “In fact, I saw her off at the airport yesterday. Ten days here was about all she could stand before the boredom got to her. She took off for Tofino. Couldn’t wait to get there.”

  Sam had never heard of Tofino, and Keith explained. A small town on the Pacific side of Vancouver Island, Tess had fallen in love with the place when she and some friends made a run up there while she was still at the Oregonian. “She’s always wanted to get back, says there’re a ton of pictures to take. Now that she’s got the time and is feeling better, she jumped on it. And honestly, I was glad to see something perk her interest. She’s been pretty quiet, a little down. It’s not an easy thing to get past, a crash like that. I’ve seen experienced pilots struggle with it. But don’t worry about her, Sam. She’s healthy. She’ll get on top of it.”

  “Well, she’s a fighter, that much I know,” Sam said. “Did she tell you she kicked open the hatch of that plane?” That made the old man laugh. “You don’t happen to know where she’s staying, do you, Keith? Maybe if the newsroom sent some flowers …”

  “Pacific Sands is the place. I don’t know a thing about it. She found it on the web.”

  Less than a minute after he hung up, Sam had the Pacific Sands website up on his screen. He could see Tofino wasn’t an easy place to get to. There would be the long cross-country flight to Seattle, or maybe to the city of Vancouver. From either place, a considerable ferry ride followed, then the drive over the mountains that ran down the spine of the island. He frowned. But then a small link to a charter airline out of Seattle caught his eye. He called the number. “A seaplane?” Sam didn’t like what he was hearing. “What do you mean? This plane takes off on the water and lands …”

  “In Clayoquot Sound.” The man on the other side of the line laughed.

  “There’s no runway?”

  “Mister, you’ve never been up-island have you? Tofino’s hanging on to the very tip of a spur of land hanging right out in the Pacific. It’s mountainous rain forest up there.”

  “How big is the plane?”

  “Cessna, four-seater.”

  “Fuck.” With all his heart Sam never wanted to ride in a plane that small again. When he heard the cost, he almost hung up.

  “Look buddy, if you’re a squeamish flyer, I don’t recommend this. You come in right over the mountains. Of course, the Sound is usually calm, but we’ve had more than one passenger freak out. Besides, it’s the start of the season. The earliest flight I can get you on is the day after tomorrow.” Sam booked it and immediately went back online and bought an outrageously expensive ticket to Seattle, a direct flight.

  Then he went to tell Steve Johnson that he wasn’t doing well. He hadn’t been sleeping: nightmares, that kind of thing. He needed about two weeks off after all.

  Chapter 6

  If Sam hadn’t been terrified, he might have appreciated the beautiful flight. The sky was brilliantly clear, and coming in over the mountains, Clayoquot Sound lay below them smooth as glass, the co
lorful fishing boats reflected in the water. The pilot explained that a water landing is always rougher than on a runway, and she was right, the impact throwing spray above the windows in rainbow sheets. Jaw set, eyes closed, Sam held his breath, waiting to hear the screech of the prop hitting down hard, but it didn’t come. In a few minutes they taxied to the dock. “Pretty landing, Bev,” a man who smelled like fish called as he pulled open the hatch, lending a hand to the passengers.

  At Jamie’s Whaling Station, they called a taxi for Sam, and less than ten minutes after it arrived, it made the turn into Pacific Sands. Coming down the drive, it was just as he’d seen on the website: the simple, neat condos and the sloping lawn leading down to the sandy beach. He could hear the rhythmic rumble of the surf, even from inside the car.

  Sam paid the driver and watched the taxi drive off, then stood staring at the lodge doors, finally confronted with the one thing he hadn’t allowed himself to think about.

  How was he going to find Tess?

  The front desk wouldn’t give him her room number, that much he knew. He could call or text her, but what would he say? "Surprise!" No, his sudden, uninvited appearance needed to be explained in person.

  Taking his bag, he wandered down the lawn to a spot between the trees bordering the drop-off to the beach. There was a bench there, and he sat looking out to sea. She could be off anywhere, taking pictures. He had a cigarette, watching the rollers come in, the mist from the pounding waves hanging in the air. Kids built forts and sand castles, and couples walked the beach, holding hands or picking up sand dollars. Hardy surfers in wet suits braved the 58-degree ocean water. He’d read online that this beach had some of the best surfing in the world.

  He snubbed out the cigarette and immediately lit another. This was bad. This was the way a guy turned into a stalker. He knew exactly how he’d describe it if he were pitching it as a story to his editors: “So the sweet young thing takes off to get in some personal work, and the randy old goat gets it in his head to take off after her. She hasn’t got a clue, so naturally he scares the shit out of her.” Jesus, that plane crash really had messed up his head. He’d gone fucking nuts.

  He shut his eyes listening to the ocean. And then, over the rumble, the sound of her voice, a memory covered in a medicated haze, came to him. “I was really into surfing.” When he opened them again, he began to scan the beach carefully. It didn't take long to spot her, coming out of the surf and pulling off a wet suit hood, all those bright, fine curls springing free as she shook her head, the surfboard under her arm tethered to her ankle. A group of three young men, also hauling surfboards, followed her up the beach. One must have called to her, because she stopped and turned to talk with them, laughing, and pointing out into the water.

  Sam watched in horror. This was something he hadn’t thought of. Maybe she had come here with one of those guys. Or hooked up once she got here. He immediately started plotting how to slink away before he was discovered. But then he saw her move off, giving them a wave, and pulling down the front zipper of her black neoprene suit, growing hot in the sun. Dropping the board, she peeled the suit down to her waist, a little blue bikini top under it. He watched, dry-mouthed, as she gathered her things and started up the path to the condos with the same fluid grace that had so captured him the first time he saw her in the newsroom.

  At a standing spigot, he saw her pull off the black booties she wore to protect her feet, and rinse the rest of the sand off as best she could. Then she walked up the stairs and went into her room.

  Walking around to the other side of the jutting condo, he caught sight of her just a few minutes later when she stepped out onto the balcony, now in just the tiny blue swimsuit, a blue-and-white striped towel in her hand, the sun hitting a quick, flashing glare off her St. Francis medal. She slung the wet suit over the railing, propped the surfboard against the siding and used the towel to brush away the remaining clinging sand. Then she went back inside.

  For a while he just stood there, staring up. There had been something strong behind her tears when he left her that day at the airport, he was sure of it. That was all he'd thought about in the days since. But slowly climbing the stairs, he couldn’t stop the surging doubt. He tried to imagine what would happen when she saw him, wondering how he would go back to working with her if she slammed the door in his face. For a long moment he just stood there, staring at the metal room numbers. Then, aware that the cleaning lady on the opposite landing had stopped what she was doing to watch him, he raised his hand and knocked softly.

  “Look guys, I told you I’m really not up for …” She swung the door open, and gasped “Sam!” Her hand went to her mouth. He couldn’t move, unable to smile, unable to speak. He could only look at her, slim and lovely, her skin glowing pink from the cold water where she’d rinsed off the sand. “What, what are you doing here?” She looked up at him so stunned she could barely form the words. Then slowly she stepped back and allowed him to enter. He put his bag down as she repeated, “Sam?”

  The door clicked shut behind him, and he could still hear the sound of the sea inside the sitting room where they were standing. Time seemed to stretch out, her standing in front of him, his green eyes so dark with desire she took another step back. At last, he murmured, “I had to, Tess. I just had to.”

  His throat closed, and he couldn’t utter another sound. Instead he reached out and touched her cheek. It was cold from the water. He cupped it gently in his hand, and he felt the warmth of her breath on his palm. His other hand slipped behind her shoulder, and he pulled her gently toward him. Slowly, reluctantly, shaking her head, she moved into his arms. For a moment he just held her, his warm cheek against her cool one, running his hands up and down her arms. Relishing the smooth, fresh skin, they wandered over and down her back. He pulled her tighter against him, so close he raised her up, lifting her free of the floor, and her long legs closed around his waist.

  His mouth took hers at last, desperately, as his fingers clenched in the tangle of her curls. If he could have absorbed her body into his own, he would have done so with joy. Reeling with her in his arms, he found the couch and sank down, her on his lap, kissing deeper and deeper, aware of nothing but the touch of her, the feel of her, no words interrupting the rhythmic rumble of the surf.

  Her hands were warm now, and they parted his shirt, traveling up his chest and sliding around to his back. Fingers spread, she ran her hands down from his shoulders, pausing to gently circle the tender, new scar just below his shoulder blade where the deepest stitches had been. With a sigh, she pulled away from his lips, and fluidly slid around him, pulling off his shirt to press her lips to the spot. Taking her arm, he sank to the floor, pulling her on top of him. She wore so little, he seemed to only have to brush it away. Her hands, her body, smooth and liquid as quicksilver, moved over him until nothing was left between them.

  It was a long time before he came back to himself, became aware of something more than her softness against him. Slowly it came to him that his head was heavy on her shoulder, and the carpeting was scratchy under them.

  Sitting up, he grabbed the sofa pillows, sliding one under her head, and then pulled the afghan off the back of the couch, tucking it under and around them. She nestled her head close against him, her breath tickling through the dark hair on his chest. He grinned, running his fingers along her collarbone, then up over the curve of her breast. “That was one hell of a hello, Benedict, better than I’d even imagined. And I’ve been imagining this since the first day I saw you. I see St. Frank is still with you.” One finger ran down the chain to where it dipped between her breasts, the medal lost in the cleavage.

  “Always. And I imagine he’s pretty outraged.”

  “Well, saints and I have never had much common ground,” he continued to play with the chain. “If it’s meant to protect you, it shouldn’t look so goddamn hot, especially when it’s all you’ve got on. I want to stay here with you, Tess, until it’s time to go back.”

  She sighe
d, and looked away, but answered, “I want you here, God forgive me, I’ve been thinking about you ever since you left the airport. How did you know?” Sam just shook his head with a smile of wonder. In the gloaming, he could see a tiny frown pull at the corners of her mouth. “What about …”

  “She’s in Europe,” he said, and took her chin and turned her face so he could see into her eyes. “We’ll talk about it, about her. But not now.” She nodded.

  He told her then how he’d called her father, how desperate he'd been to get to her that he'd taken the plane, so similar to the one that went down.

  "I'm not sure I could have done it, not yet anyway," Tess said. "It's still always there, in the background, you know - how close we came to dying."

  "Yeah, me too."

  "I keep wondering about Opie and how he is."

  "Wally's parents have him up at Mayo."

  "You called and checked on him?"

  Sam shrugged a little sheepishly. "They're hoping to use robotic surgery when they go back in to work on his jaw and maybe save some of the facial nerves to keep his mouth from drooping."

  Tears came to her eyes. "Will you follow up? We should keep track of how he's doing." Sam nodded.

  After the sunset, he lit the fireplace. Sometimes drowsing in each other’s arms, mostly just watching the flames, they listened to the sound of the sea and music drifting up from the beach where a group of surfers had gathered around a bonfire.

  When they finally did move to the bedroom, they made love again, this time slowly in the dark, his hands seeking, memorizing every line, every curve.

  He’d never had time like that with anyone. Every morning they were up early, and for a change, he didn’t mind, glad just to walk the beach with her. Sam had forgotten how good it felt to wear cotton T-shirts and shorts. He had never seen sand dollars the size of pancakes. He never knew live starfish were red and green and purple and blue. Their living room was always full of seashells and sand.