It's raining, I said again. All over the town.
Harry, the chef, made a mixture of spices for me. He handed me a
plastic bag and told me to shake a swordfish steak in the bag and not
to broil the fish too long. She'll never forget you, he said without
smiling. Harry cooked breakfast at the Gray Gull and lunch and dinner
at The Upper Deck, a sixteen hour day. Our relationship was respectful.
Eight hours a day was enough for me, but while I was working I did my
best. When Harry, under stress, snapped at me, I learned to hear him
say, "Take another shrimp, Joe." Cocktail shrimp, waiting in the
cooler, out of sight from the grill. I acquired a reputation for good
humor.
I borrowed my buddy Morgan's truck on a clear evening in late July and
picked up Jamie. Madaket was her favorite beach, less known, wilder. We
drove out and made a driftwood fire, opened a bottle of wine, and
talked as the sun went down and the moon rose. We were easy with each
other by then, although we had never touched, let alone hugged or
kissed. The swordfish was a success. The moon sent its ivory path over
the wave tops, inviting and promising. Jamie told me how she liked to
swim that path and how, several times, she nearly hadn't made it back.
We were young.
I was giddy with accomplishment as we finished a second bottle of wine.
She was wearing a tight T-shirt and shorts, apparently unaware of the
effect her body had on me as she told me about her parents and her
friends on the island.
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