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“I’m sure it must have been quite difficult regardless,” I add softly. “I’m so sorry.” In the silence that follows, I feel breathless with growing disquiet.
“Perhaps you should return to us ahead of schedule.” I blurt it, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I recognize the wisdom of my subconscious. Were I really to steal away on Sailor’s ship—the Lord forbid it—who would handle the ill in the month until Doctor’s return? Mrs. White could manage some of it, but she’s more elderly than she once was. She can’t prop up a heavy man, for example.
I hear him clear his throat. “Perhaps that’s not a bad idea.”
“I don’t know when the next ship departs. Could you return onboard the Celia? I know she doesn’t always pass our way…but perhaps she could be persuaded to.”
The Celia one of only three vessels that pass our way with anything approaching regularity. I know from long experience that she departs Cape Town the tenth of each month. Today is the fifteenth of June. That means he can’t depart South Africa for some three more weeks, which gives me time to make a plan and carry it out—should I decide to—but puts him back here two weeks earlier. Perhaps it’s more like sixteen days. The Celia is a smaller, quicker ship than the two others.
“Are you in need of me?”
I smile, stiffly, although he can’t see that. “Always. Your guiding hand cannot be over-valued.”
There’s a silence where I feel his ego swelling.
“In that case,” he says with pomp, “prepare for my return.”
* * *
My Carnegie returns from the Glass house hungry. In the bed, he’s quite himself—all deft hands, rough murmurs, hard kisses, and his stiff sex. Before we move into our new position with him at the rear, he holds me close and runs his hands over my hair. I’m greatly relieved to find it seems he still craves me. I told him that I’d like to run away with him, and he’s not frightened off. I feel a thrill at that.
If he’s perhaps a bit more quiet than even our new normal, I chalk it up to his sore shoulder. He so seldom mentions it, I sometimes forget it bothers him, but after we make love, we lie panting together, and I see him rubbing at it.
“Stay here.” I press a kiss against his cheek.
Then I hurry to the kitchen, fetching a large Ziploc bag of frozen applesauce, two dish towels, a thin, silk tablecloth, some Advil, and a glass of tea with a straw.
His eyes are keen on my face as I drape the dish towels over his shoulder, meld the Ziploc over them, and use the table cloth to wrap the cold compress in place. He swallows water, downs the Advil, shuts his eyes.
“You’re water first, eh?”
His lips twitch at the corners. “Yeah.” His eyes lift open to give me a small smile, and that smile gives me courage to nestle in against his left shoulder.
Truth be told, I remain humiliated by my drunken proclamation. By his silence in response. Had he not said he loved me right after, I’d be drowning in the depthless sea of my own shame. As it is, I’d simply like to move beyond it—until it’s closer to time.
“How was Mark and Maura’s house?” I whisper.
“Wet.”
“Sounds like quite a headache.”
“Yeah. It kind of was. I was glad I could help, though.”
We lie in silence for a long while, and I feel compelled to address my gaffe. It’s important to me that he knows I’d never want him to feel obligated to me. I squeeze my eyes shut, exhale slowly. “I’m sorry if I worried you with what I said…when I was out of sorts. I’ve no expectation of you. In any way. Never feel I do, please.”
I wait a breathless moment for his reply. Then I realize…he’s dropped off to sleep.
I try to sync my breaths with his long, steady ones for quite some time. No matter how I alter my breathing, it seems I always come up a bit short.
* * *
I awaken the next morning to an empty bed. I find Declan in the living room, wearing only boxer briefs as he knits on the couch. My eyes move over what he’s making: something teal and muted lime green.
“Is it a scarf?” I inquire.
He lifts his brows.
“You thumbed through my pattern book.” I smile as I take a seat beside him. “What a fast learner you are.”
