Liz’s friend was in Boca, feeling rejected. He was a sad, sallow little man with a half bushel of lank hair, a battered violin case and a concerto half written. Questioning revealed that it had been half written as long ago as 1952. Maudie was back from Naples and ready to leave for the island. Even the Beastie was ready, her motor repaired.
I walked to dockside with them and helped stow the groceries aboard. Maudie was the most animated of the four of us. The violinist was sullen and my Mary had been growing ever more somber throughout the afternoon. For my part I was quietly, pleasantly thoughtful. I was making plans.
They went aboard. I was waiting to cast off the stern lines when Mary gave the word. She stood at the wheel with her back to me, but she did not start the Beastie s antique power plant. She turned and came back to the stern and stepped ashore.
I do not know what this next incident proves, unless it’s that the only thing you can count on is luck, or that nobody ever gets to know anybody else except in the most tentative way.
Mary tilted her head to one side, put her hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. I have never seen her eyes so blue. “If you’re ready, I’m ready, Wescott.”
“I... it... it can work out fine, Mary. I know just how we can—”
“Details, details,” she murmured, and her eyes and her mouth looked sleepy. “Make the deal. Draw the contract later. Kiss your commonplace girl, Wescott. Kiss your tiresome wife-to-be.”
When the world creaked back into its customary orbit, I released her.
“Tiresome, Dawes?” I said. “Commonplace?”
“Maybe I’m not so very,” Mary said. She beamed upon me. “I’ll probably be seeing you around.”
She boarded her craft, wobbling slightly on her way forward, and started the engine. I could not stop grinning. She put it in gear. Maudie came back, smirking, to free the stern lines. I was beyond figuring out why the Beastie wouldn’t move.
Mary waved all the way to the bridge. She’s the waving kind.
