“The first time I saw it, I could see myself living here forever.” She drew her legs up under her, tapped her cigarette against the deck rail, and watched as the breeze carried the ash away. She arched her long neck and took a long sip of beer.
“Impulsive of you.”
She put the beer down and studied his face. “Haven’t you ever felt that way about something?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Not really. So what’s next? Husband, kids? Solely the career path?” He took a puff and waited for her to answer.
She took another swallow of beer and watched the car lights pass over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge in the distance. Then she stood up. “Want to go sailing?”
He looked up at her in surprise. “A little late for that, isn’t it?”
“No later than our last boat trip. I’ve got the permit and the boat lights. We’ll just do a lazy circle and come back in.” Before he could answer, she disappeared into the cottage. Within a couple minutes she came back out wearing jean cutoffs, a tank top and deck shoes, her hair pulled back in a bun.
Fiske glanced down at his dress shirt, slacks and loafers. “I didn’t bring my sailor suit.”
“That’s okay. You’re not the sailor, I am.” She had two fresh beers. They walked down to the dock. It was miserably humid, and Fiske quickly broke a sweat helping Sara ready the sails. While standing on the bow to rig the jib sail, Fiske slipped and almost tumbled into the water. “If you had fallen into the Potomac, we wouldn’t need the moon to sail by, you’d be glowing all by yourself,” Sara said, laughing.
The water was flat, no shore wind evident, so Sara fired up the auxiliary engine and they motored out into the middle of the river, where the sails finally caught a breeze and swelled with the warm air. For the next hour they moved in slow ovals across the river. The boat had a light, and the moon was at three-quarters and there were no other craft on the river.
Fiske took a turn at the helm, with Sara coaching him at the tiller until he felt comfortable. Each time they tacked into the wind, the mainsail would shudder and drop, Fiske would duck and Sara would swing the boom around and watch as the canvas filled again and propelled them along.
She looked over at him and smiled. “It feels magical to catch something invisible and yet so powerful, and compel it to do your bidding, doesn’t it?” The way she said it, so girlish, with so much frank wonder, he had to smile. They drank beer and both smoked another cigarette after several humorous attempts at lighting up in the face of a stiff wind. They talked about things unrelated to present events, and both felt relieved to be able to do so even for a short time.
“You have a nice smile,” Sara remarked. “You should use it more often.”
By the time they headed back in, Fiske had a blister on the inside of his thumb from clutching the boom line.
They docked the boat and tied down the sails. Sara went up to the cottage and came back with more beer and a bag of chips and salsa. “Don’t let it be said that I don’t feed my guests.”
They sat on the boat and drank, and whittled down at the chips. The wind started to pick up and the temperature dipped suddenly as a late night storm rolled in. They watched as the clouds turned black-edged and pops of lightning appeared on the horizon. In her tank top shirt, Sara shivered a little and Fiske put his arm around her. She leaned into him. Then a few drops of rain hit and Sara jumped up. With Fiske’s help she pulled out the vinyl covers and snapped them into place across the open compartments of the boat.
“We better head in,” she said.
They walked up to the cottage, running the last few feet as it started to pour.
“Long day tomorrow,” Sara said, looking at the kitchen clock while patting her wet hair with a paper towel.