Night Over Water Page 35

  The next lurch of the plane threw them against one another. She found herself wrapped in Mervyn’s arms, still laughing. They looked at one another.

  Suddenly she kissed him.

  She surprised herself totally. The thought of kissing him had never even crossed her mind. She was not even sure how much she liked him. It seemed like an impulse that came from nowhere.

  He was clearly shocked, but he got over it quickly enough, and kissed her back enthusiastically. There was nothing tentative about his kiss, no slow burn: he was instantly aflame.

  After a minute she pulled away from him, gasping. “What happened?” she said foolishly.

  “You kissed me,” he said, looking pleased.

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “I’m glad you did, though,” he said, and he kissed her again.

  She wanted to break away, but his grip was strong and her will was weak. She felt his hand steal inside her robe, and she stiffened: her breasts were so small that she was embarrassed, and afraid he would be disappointed. His large hand closed over her small round breast, and he groaned deep in his throat. His fingertips found her nipple, and she felt embarrassed all over again: she had had enormous nipples since nursing the boys. Small breasts and big nipples—she felt peculiar, almost deformed; but Mervyn showed no distaste, quite the contrary. He caressed her with surprising gentleness, and she gave herself up to the delicious sensation. It was a long time since she had felt this way.

  What am I doing? she thought suddenly. I’m a respectable widow, and here I am rolling on the floor of an airplane with a man I met yesterday! What’s come over me? “Stop!” she said decisively. She pulled away and sat upright. Her negligee had ridden up over her knees. Mervyn stroked her bare thigh. “Stop,” she said again, pushing his hand away.

  “Whatever you say,” he said with obvious reluctance. “But if you change your mind, I’ll be ready.”

  She glanced at his lap and saw the bulge in his nightshirt made by his erection. She looked away quickly. “It was my fault,” she said, still panting from the kiss. “But it was a mistake. I’m acting like a tease, I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me for years.”

  “But you love your wife, don’t you?” she said bluntly.

  He winced. “I thought I did. Now I’m a bit confused, to tell you the truth.”

  That was exactly how Nancy felt: confused. After ten years of celibacy she now found herself aching to embrace a man she hardly knew.

  But I do know him, she thought; I know him quite well. I’ve traveled a long way with him and we’ve shared our troubles. I know he’s abrasive, arrogant and proud, but also passionate and loyal and strong. I like him despite his faults. I respect him. He’s terribly attractive, even in a brown striped nightshirt. And he held my hand when I was frightened. How nice it would be to have someone to hold my hand any time I was frightened.

  As if he had read her mind, he took her hand again. This time he turned it up and kissed her palm. It made her skin tingle. After a few moments he drew her to him and kissed her mouth again.

  “Don’t do this,” she breathed. “If we start again we won’t be able to stop.”

  “I’m just afraid that if we stop now we may never start again,” he murmured, and his voice was thick with desire.

  She sensed in him a formidable passion, only just kept under control, and that inflamed her more. She had had too many dates with weak, obliging men who wanted her to give them reassurance and security— men who gave up all too easily when she resisted their demands. Mervyn was going to be insistent, powerfully so. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. She longed to surrender.

  She felt his hand on her leg beneath her negligee, his fingertips stroking the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. She closed her eyes and, almost involuntarily, parted her legs a fraction. It was all the invitation he needed. A moment later his hand found her sex, and she groaned. No one had done this to her since her husband, Sean. That thought suddenly overwhelmed her with sadness. Oh, Sean, I miss you, she thought; I never let myself admit how much I miss you. Her grief was sharper than at any time since the funeral. Tears squeezed between her closed lids and ran down her face. Mervyn kissed her and tasted the tears. “What is it?” he murmured.

  She opened her eyes. Through a blur of tears she saw his face, handsome and troubled; and beyond that, her negligee pushed up around her waist, and his hand between her thighs. She took his wrist and moved his hand away gently but firmly. “Please don’t be angry,” she said.

  “I won’t be angry,” he said softly. “Tell me.”

  “No one has touched me there since Sean died, and it made me think of him.”

  “Your husband.”

  She nodded.

  “How long ago?”

  “Ten years.”

  “It’s a long time.”

  “I’m loyal.” She gave a watery smile. “Like you.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. I’ve been married twice, and this is the first time I’ve come close to being unfaithful. I was thinking of Diana and that chap.”

  “Are we fools?” she said.

  “Maybe. We should stop thinking about the past, seize the moment, live for today.”

  “Perhaps we should,” she said, and she kissed him again.

  The plane bucked as if it had hit something. Their faces banged together and the lights flickered. The aircraft tossed and bumped violently. Nancy forgot all about kissing and clung to Mervyn for stability.

  When the turbulence eased a little she saw that his lip was bleeding. “You bit me,” he said with a rueful grin.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m glad. I hope there’s a scar.”

  She hugged him hard, feeling a surge of affection.

  They lay together on the floor while the storm raged. In the next pause, Mervyn said: “Let’s try and make it to the bunk—we’ll be more comfortable than on this carpet.”

  Nancy nodded. Getting up on her hands and knees, she crawled across the floor and scrambled up onto her bunk. Mervyn followed her and lay down beside her. He put his arms around her and she snuggled up to his nightshirt.

  Each time the turbulence got worse, she held him hard, like a sailor tied to the mast. When it lessened she relaxed, and he stroked her soothingly.

  At some point she fell asleep.

  She was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling: “Steward!”

  She opened her eyes and realized she was lying in Mervyn’s arms. “Oh, Jesus!” she said, panicking. She sat up and looked around frenziedly.

  Mervyn put a restraining hand on her shoulder and called out in a loud and authoritative tone: “Wait a moment, steward.”

  A rather frightened voice replied: “Okay, sir, take your time.”

  Mervyn rolled off the bed, stood up and pulled the bedclothes over Nancy. She smiled gratefully at him, then turned away, pretending to be asleep so that she would not have to look at the steward.

  She heard Mervyn open the door and the steward come in. “Good morning!” he said cheerfully. The smell of fresh coffee wafted into Nancy’s nostrils. “It’s nine thirty in the morning British time, four thirty in the middle of the night in New York, and six o’clock in Newfoundland.”

  Mervyn said: “Did you say it’s nine thirty in Britain but six o’clock in Newfoundland? They’re three and a half hours behind British time?”

  “Yes, sir. Newfoundland Standard Time is three and a half hours behind Greenwich Mean Time.”

  “I didn’t know anyone took half hours. It must make life complicated for the people who write the airline timetables. How long until we splash down?”

  “We’ll be coming down in thirty minutes, just one hour later than scheduled. The delay is because of the storm.” The steward padded out and the door closed.

  Nancy turned over. Mervyn pulled up the venetian blinds. It was daylight. She watched him pour coffee, an
d the previous night came back to her in a series of vivid images: Mervyn holding her hand in the storm, the two of them falling on the floor, his hand on her breast, her clinging to him while the plane lurched and swayed, the way he had stroked her to sleep. Holy Jesus, she thought, I like this man a lot.

  “How do you take it?” he said.

  “Black, no sugar.”

  “Same as me.” He handed her a cup.

  She sipped it gratefully. She suddenly felt curious to know a hundred different things about Mervyn. Did he play tennis, go to the opera, enjoy shopping? Did he read much? How did he tie his tie? Did he polish his own shoes? As she watched him drinking his coffee, she found she could confidently guess a great deal. He probably did play tennis, but he did not read many novels and he definitely would not enjoy shopping. He would be a good poker player and a bad dancer.

  “What are you thinking?” he said. “You’re eyeing me as if you’re wondering whether I’m a good risk for life insurance.”

  She laughed. “What sort of music do you like?”

  “I’m tone deaf,” he said. “When I was a lad, before the war, ragtime was all the rage in the dance halls. I liked the rhythm, although I was never much of a dancer. What about you?”

  “Oh, I danced—had to. Every Saturday morning I went to dancing school in a white frilly dress and white gloves, to learn social dancing with twelve-year-old boys in suits. My mother thought it would give me the entree into the uppermost layer of Boston society. It didn’t, of course; but fortunately I didn’t care. I was more interested in Pa’s factory—much to Ma’s despair. Did you fight in the Great War?”

  “Aye.” A shadow crossed his face. “I was at Ypres.” He pronounced it “Wipers.” “And I swore I’d never stand by and see another generation of young men sent to die that way. But I didn’t expect Hitler.”

  She looked at him compassionately. He glanced up. They held each other’s eyes, and she knew he was also thinking of how they had kissed and petted in the night. Suddenly she felt embarrassed all over again. She looked away, toward the window, and saw land. It reminded her that when they reached Botwood she was hoping for a phone call that would change her life, one way or the other. “We’re almost there!” she said. She sprang out of bed. “I must get dressed.”

  “Let me go first,” he said. “It looks better for you.”

  “Okay.” She was not sure she had a reputation left to protect, but she did not want to say that. She watched him pick up his suit on its hanger, and the paper bag containing the clean clothes he had bought along with his nightshirt in Foynes: a white shirt, black wool socks and gray cotton underwear. He hesitated at the door, and she guessed he was wondering if he would ever kiss her again. She went to him and lifted her face. “Thank you for holding me in your arms all night,” she said.

  He bent down and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, his closed lips on hers. They held it for a long moment, then separated.

  Nancy opened the door for him and he went out.

  She sighed as she closed it behind him. I believe I could fall in love with him, she thought.

  She wondered if she would ever see that nightshirt again.

  She glanced out of the window. The plane was gradually losing height. She had to hurry.

  She combed her hair quickly at the dressing table then took her case into the ladies’ room, which was right next door to the honeymoon suite. Lulu Bell and another woman were there, but mercifully not Mervyn’s wife. Nancy would have liked a bath, but had to make do with a thorough wash at the basin. She had clean underwear and a fresh blouse, navy instead of gray, to go under her red suit. As she dressed she recalled her morning conversation with Mervyn. The thought of him made her feel happy, but beneath the happiness was a strain of unease. Why was that? Once she had asked herself the question, the answer became obvious. He had said nothing about his wife. Last night he had confessed himself “confused.” Since then, silence. Did he want Diana back? Did he still love her? He had held Nancy in his arms all night, but that did not wipe out a whole marriage, not necessarily.

  And what do I want? she asked herself. Sure, I’d love to see Mervyn again, go on dates with him, probably even have an affair with him; but do I want him to abandon his marriage for me? How can I tell, after one night of unconsummated passion?

  She paused in the act of applying lipstick and stared at her face in the mirror. Cut it out, Nancy, she told herself. You know the truth. You want this man. In ten years he’s the first you’ve really fallen for. You’re forty years and one day old and you’ve met Mr. Right. Stop kidding around and start nailing his foot to the floor.

  She put on Pink Clover perfume and left the room.

  As she stepped out, she saw Nat Ridgeway and her brother, Peter, who had the seats next to the ladies’ room. Nat said: “Good morning, Nancy.” She remembered instantly how she had felt about this man five years ago. Yes, she thought, I might have fallen in love with him, given time; but there wasn’t time. And maybe I was lucky: could be he wanted Black’s Boots more than he wanted me. After all, he’s still trying to get the company, but for sure he’s not still trying to get me. She nodded curtly to him and went into her suite.

  The bunks had been dismantled and remade as a divan seat, and Mervyn was sitting there, shaved and dressed in his dark gray suit and white shirt. “Look out of the window,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  Nancy looked out and saw land. They were flying low over a dense pine forest streaked with silver rivers. As she watched, the trees gave way to water—not the deep, dark water of the Atlantic, but a calm gray estuary. On the far side she could see a harbor and a cluster of wooden buildings crowned by a church.

  The plane came down rapidly. Nancy and Mervyn sat on the divan with their seat belts fastened, holding hands. Nancy hardly felt the impact when the hull cleaved the surface of the river, and she was not sure they were down until, a moment later, the windows were obscured by spray.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve flown the Atlantic.”

  “Aye. There’s not many can say that.”

  She did not feel very brave. She had spent half the trip worrying about her business and the other half holding hands with someone else’s husband. She had thought about.the flight itself only when the weather got rough and she became scared stiff. What was she going to tell the boys? They would want all the details. She did not even know how fast the plane flew. She resolved to find out all that sort of thing before they got to New York.

  When the plane taxied to a halt, a launch came alongside. Nancy put on her coat and Mervyn his leather flying jacket. About half the passengers had decided to get off the plane and stretch their legs. The rest were still in bed, closed in behind the tightly fastened blue curtains of their bunks.

  They passed through the main lounge, stepped out onto the stubby sea-wing, and boarded the launch. The air smelled of the sea and of new timber: there was probably a sawmill nearby. Near the Clipper’s mooring was a fuel barge marked SHELL AVIATION SERVICE, with men in white overalls waiting to refill the plane’s tanks. There were also two quite big freighters in the harbor: the anchorage here must be deep.

  Mervyn’s wife and her lover were among those who had decided to land, and Diana glared at Nancy as the launch headed for the shore. Nancy was uncomfortable and could not meet her eye, although she had less to feel guilty about than Diana herself: after all, Diana was the one who had actually committed adultery.

  They landed via a floating dock, a catwalk and a pier. Despite the early hour, there was a small crowd of sightseers. At the landward end of the pier were the Pan American buildings, one large and two small, all made of wood painted green with red-brown trim. Beside the buildings was a field with a few cows.

  The passengers entered the large airline building and showed their passports to a sleepy exciseman. Nancy noticed that Newfoundlanders spoke fast, with an accent more Irish than Canadian. There was a waiting room, but it attracted no one, and the passengers all de
cided to explore the village.

  Nancy was impatient to speak to Patrick MacBride in Boston. Just as she was about to ask for a phone, her name was called: the building had a voice-hailer system like a ship’s. She identified herself to a young man in a Pan American uniform.

  “There’s a telephone call for you, ma’am,” he said. Her heart leaped. “Where’s the phone?” she said, looking around the room.

  “In the telegraph office on Wireless Road. It’s less than a mile away.”

  A mile away! She could hardly contain her impatience. “Then let’s hurry, before the connection is broken! Do you have a car?”

  The youngster looked as startled as if she had asked for a space rocket. “No, ma’am.”

  “So we’ll walk. Lead the way.”

  They left the building, Nancy and Mervyn following the messenger. They went up the hill, following a dirt road with no sidewalk. Loose sheep grazed the verges. Nancy was grateful for comfortable shoes—made by Black’s, of course. Would Black’s still be her company tomorrow night? Patrick MacBride was about to tell her. The delay was unbearable.

  In ten minutes or so they reached another small wooden building and went inside. Nancy was shown to a chair in front of a phone. She sat down and picked up the instrument with a shaking hand. “This is Nancy Lenehan speaking.”

  An operator said: “Hold the line for Boston.”

  There was a long pause; then she heard: “Nancy? Are you there?”

  It was not Mac, contrary to what she expected, and it took a moment to recognize the voice. “Danny Riley!” she exclaimed.

  “Nancy, I’m in trouble and you have to help me!”

  She gripped the phone harder. It sounded as if her plan had worked. She made her voice calm, almost bored, as if the call was a nuisance. “What sort of trouble, Danny?”