"Hum ..." She had looked up at him, her expression quizzical, interested. "They're sea snakes, right?"
Ford told the woman they were clam worms, as he got his first close look at her: pale, pale-green eyes, long auburn hair that was copper streaked in the fresh sunlight; her face like something out of a 1940s movie, Carole Lombard maybe, high oval cheeks, full mouth set in an expression of slight bemuse-ment, good skin and no makeup at all. She was probably in her late twenties but carried herself as if older; reserved but sure of herself; a woman who lived alone and liked it. She was almost as tall as Ford: the gawky, awkward teenager come of age whose beauty, in developing late, had probably spared her the self-consciousness common in beautiful women who had lived too long with the knowledge that they were always, always under inspection.
Looking into the bucket again, Jessica had said, "Clam worms, huh? I like the color, that iridescent green. They're really kind of pretty. "
In the collecting bucket, the clam worms were writhing, their beaks protruding and retracting mechanically. Ford told her that beak-throwers had to be dug carefully, not just because they were delicate, but because they could bite, and not many people would agree with her that the worms were pretty.
Jessica had said, "I guess most people wouldn't," which could have come off sounding self-congratulatory but didn't because she said it so objectively, a simple observation which pleased Ford. She was smiling, more at ease but still aware she was standing knee-deep in water with a stranger. "I'm Jessi McClure, the woman who's been waving at you."
"I know. You're the artist."
"And you're M.D. Ford, the guy who fixed up the old stilt house. But I don't know what the initials stand for, just that everyone calls you Doc." She was still smiling, but not giving it too much. "I asked about you the last time I was at the marina. So which is it?"
"Which is what?" Ford had picked up the bucket and was moving down the sandbar again.
"Do they call you Doc because of the initials, or because you have a lab and look at things under a microscope? Or maybe it's those wire-rimmed glasses."
"I had the initials before I had the microscope. Back in high school, though, it was because my first name is Marion."
"Marion's a nice name."
"Easy to spell, too."
They had spent the rest of the day together and then had dinner: Ford sitting across from her at a table at Gran Ma Dot's, feeling the sensual impact of her face, her body, but not quite sure he wanted to pursue the attraction. For one thing, he thought the quick pass might offend her. He had already found out she preferred classical music to cult rock, ocean swimming to aerobics, so maybe she was an anachronism when it came to curb-service sex, as well. For another, Pilar, the last woman he'd been involved with, had almost gotten him killed; worse, he'd been in love with her—a first for Ford. What he'd most enjoyed about the past year was living without the complications of romance; of doing whatever he damn well pleased without having to yield to the exigencies of emotion or the plans of some woman.
No involvements, he decided, not with her—at least until the rules had been established, the parameters set.
He saw her nearly every day after that; at first on the pretext of teaching her something about marine biology, then just because it was fun. Some evenings he would boat to her house on the point, or maybe jog the back way, come up quietly and surprise her. Other nights he would look out and see her porch light go on, a sure sign that she was leaving. A few minutes later he would hear her skiff's motor, and soon she would holler up from the darkness, "Hey, Ford—how about some company?" It was a couple of weeks before he finally kissed her; touched his lips softly to hers, then harder, feeling her mouth respond, feeling her body go soft and slack as her back arched slightly. But she had pulled away then, pressing his hand to her cheek, looking up with those eyes. "Whew ... I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to do that."
Ford had said, "I guess it just hadn't crossed my mind before," smiling with Jessica because it was such an obvious lie.
"Well, it's been on my mind. So maybe it's time we talked about it, huh? Do you know that I've told you things I've never told anyone? It's true."
"I'm flattered."
"Not so quick. Do you also realize that I've told you very little about my past? And you—you, you big lug, have told me even less about yours. In some ways we're complete intimates; in other ways, complete strangers. Don't you think it's about time we sort of dropped the shields a little; dispense with some of the cowshit?"
Grinning, Ford had said, "Sure," enjoying the way she phrased things: You big lug . . . dispense with the cowshit; but he was also aware, from the way her eyes bore in on him, that she was hoping for a more heartfelt response.
After a time she had said, "You've become important to me, Ford. I wake up in the morning anxious to get done with my work, wanting to hear the sound of your boat because, once you're here, it's like I can let my breath go and relax. I've had lovers before, Doc ..." letting that hang in the air until she saw that he wasn't going to respond, then continuing, "but I guess I've never really had a male friend before; a man who was an intimate. Maybe that's why I'm having a hard time with this. But you know what I'm getting at; we're close enough that you know what I'm trying to say. I can see it in those damn chilly eyes of yours. Help me out here, buster!"
Ford had laughed with her, but said nothing because he had absolutely no idea what she was trying to say.
"I like you, Doc. I like you a lot."
Ford waited, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. Christ, she's not going to start talking about marriage already, is she?
Jessica had pressed on. "It frightens me a little. I keep wondering what happens to intimate friends when they become lovers. What happens to them, Doc?"
Ford, who hadn't been with a woman since the day before he left Masagua, said, "Well, we could stick with it for a while—"
He meant they could try being lovers, but Jessica had interrupted.
"Then you're willing?"
"Ah . . . sure; more than willing." He had shaved until his skin burned and showered, just in case. "On a friendly sort of basis, I mean."
"I knew you could tell what was on my mind! You dog, letting me go on and on like that. It could be kind of like an experiment, Doc."
"An experiment, sure. That's one way of looking at it."
She had hugged him quickly, then stepped back. "I'm so damn weak! I was ready to jump into bed with you that first night. And just now, when you kissed me, my knees got all watery, like some schoolgirl. But I think you're right, Ford. Why not just be friends, a man and a woman, and see where it takes us? How many people have ever had that opportunity? You know ... I'd rather have you as a friend. And it's a great feeling knowing I can say that and you're not going to go away with a damaged ego, worrying about your sexuality or whether I find you attractive or not."
Finally realizing what he had just agreed to, and wincing at the force of her enthusiasm, Ford had said, "I'd be silly to worry about that," and immediately began to wonder about both.
In the weeks that followed, though, Ford regretted the misunderstanding less and less. Abstinence was frustrating, but it had its good points, too. There were no obligations, no hurt feelings, no bruised egos. Jessica told him things she probably never could have confided to a lover, and Ford began to take a distant, almost clinical interest in the emotional differences of men and women.