“If it’s an emergency, we can use the ship-to-shore radio.”
She imagined him getting an emergency call from the coast guard that his wife was at sea with someone else. “No, that’s okay.” Steve was probably at the house calling her cell phone. He’d hang out there for an hour then head home, feeling jilted just as he was hoping to work things out with her. She felt awful.
“Are you sure?” Aaron asked. “We can go back in.”
They were at the outer reaches of the harbor, near the Boston lighthouse island. It would take an hour to reach the marina. And even if they got within calling range, Steve would have left, resigned to the fact that she had forgotten. “No. It’s okay,” she said, knowing that it wasn’t okay. But there was nothing she could do.
I’m sorry, Steve.
Later, under an outrageously starry sky, the fireworks show started.
It began with the faint strains of the Boston Symphony Orchestra in the Hatch Shell playing “The 1812 Overture,” followed by a fusillade of cannon fire that sent up a roar from the crowd gathered along the Charles, filling the Esplanade and the banks between which floated the huge barges where the pyrotechnics were staged.
Then the sky opened up with fiery chrysanthemums in red, white, and blue, followed by half an hour of continuous starbursts and booms that echoed and re-echoed across the Boston Harbor. The cityscape flickered in colored fire under the canopy of smoke. Then for maybe two consecutive minutes the final volley turned the night into crackling, booming bouquets of Technicolor explosions followed by a moment’s silence then one solitary boom that concluded the show.
And a million people said, “Waaaaaaaaaaw.”
They returned to the marina after midnight. Because of the holiday, the waterfront was still bustling with activity. They took a short stroll along the walkway of Atlantic Avenue and through Columbus Park. She tried not to think of Steve, although that was impossible. Her guilt kept surfacing throughout the evening, sometimes crossing with resentment that he had put pressure on her to reconcile just as she was emerging into postop, post-separation singlehood. She’d call him in the morning, hoping he’d forgive her.
When they returned to the marina, Max was waiting nearby in the limo. “Thank you. This was wonderful.” And she leaned up and kissed Aaron on the mouth.
He was attractive, charming, brilliant, and disturbingly wealthy. Yet he did not seem arrogant or taken with himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He said very little about himself or his accomplishments, so often touted in the media. He was a good listener and said the right things; though at times he appeared awkward, she decided that he was probably not used to dating or dating someone like her who felt the compulsion to be on, to fill the silence. Maybe that was why he seemed so removed. Her only regret was that he lacked a sense of humor or perhaps her sense of humor—what she shared naturally with Steve. But that was fine. Maybe big-time cosmetic physicians didn’t joke like ordinary mortals.
“You’re welcome, and I hope we can do this again,” he said. “But it’s not good night just yet. Max is taking me home, too. So I’ll be riding back with you.”
73
They rode side by side in the rear seat without saying much, both exhausted from the long evening of sea air and champagne.
“Thank you again. I had a great time.”
“You’re welcome.”
After several minutes, she wondered if he was going to take her hand or put his arm around her. When he didn’t, she slipped her hand on his. It felt warm but limp. Deciding that he needed a little encouragement, she rested her head against his shoulder.
They rode that way for another few minutes until her head felt as awkward as a bowling ball. Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was being too forward, possibly violating some blue-blooded protocol against anything physical early in a relationship. Or maybe he was offended by her presumptuousness, especially after seeing his multimillion-dollar yacht—his coolness merely a self-protected shield against opportunism.
Then she wondered if she wasn’t his type of woman. Or that maybe she simply didn’t turn him on. Or maybe, as she and Steve had speculated, that he was, in fact, gay. But he did ask her out this evening.
After another few minutes it occurred to her that he might not be attracted to women whose faces he had operated on—knowing what she looked like under her skin. But with that logic, male gynecologists wouldn’t sire babies. What the hell, she thought, they’re seasoned adults. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
His only reaction was a slight flinch as if taken by surprise. He stared at her without expression.
“Are you in there?”
“Yes.”
Perhaps it was the champagne, but she kissed him again. The stiffness yielded as he slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her back.
Relief passed through her until she became aware that he wasn’t kissing her in the regular way but making little pecks on her mouth and cheeks. It was bizarre, as if he was practice-kissing. What the hell is he doing? she wondered. It was like making out with a child.
Then she realized. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He nodded then kissed her, letting his mouth linger on hers.
After a few moments, she opened her eyes to see Max adjust the rearview mirror as a signal that they were out of view. At a level barely perceptible, she heard the sweet refrains of Brahms flow from the speakers. Dana rested her head on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a flowery scent she didn’t recognize.
“I’m glad you had a good time. I hope we can do this again.”
“Me, too.” She kissed him again, liking the fullness of his mouth against her, thinking about the subtle differences from Steve, the only man she had ever really kissed in the last seventeen years. She shifted in her seat and her hand landed on his thigh. Only half aware, she began to caress him as they kissed.
As if she had hit a power button, he suddenly pressed his mouth to hers and began to deep kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding across her lips until it began to hurt. His breathing became quick and he started to writhe in place. She removed her hand from his leg, a bit startled at his response. His breathing turned into deep-throated groans as he pressed his open mouth hard against hers, as if trying to swallow her. She broke his hold, and he sprung back.
At first she thought he was retreating to catch his breath. But in the light of the street she noticed his eyes and the expression on his face. He was struggling with the heat of his own sensations, as if he were trying not to do this, trying to suppress arousal.
“You okay?” she whispered, hardly registering the fact that they had arrived in her driveway and that Max had turned off the headlights. The motor was still running and the music still played.
“Aaron?” she whispered.
But he did not respond. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers for more, and with his tongue against her teeth tried to wedge open her mouth, and failing that he began rubbing his face against hers, licking her lips and cheeks, all the while making tiny whimpering grunts.
With some effort she pushed him off her because the pressure had exacerbated the tenderness around her nose. “You’re hurting me.”
His eyes were large and glassy and his breath came in pants. Then as if snapping back, he muttered, “Sorry.” He pulled his hands together and straightened up. “I guess I got carried away.”
“Guess you did.” Her mouth was sore.