CHAPTER 18
Cate
In our deal with Eduardo and People, selling them exclusive rights to our photograph, they agreed to play by our rules and print only what we wanted them to print. Which is to say the most basic information about me. Name, age, hometown, job title, and a reference to the fact that I had once been an Elite model. And, of course, there was a quote from a fake Kingsley insider declaring us an official item.
Joe’s plan worked to a T. Our relationship was legitimized overnight—hell, I was legitimized—and it was impossible not to find that gratifying, and, if I admit, a little exciting.
Of course, the elevation to Joe’s legitimate girlfriend came with a price, as everything in life does. I was no longer anonymous—which was one of the things I’d always loved about the city. I mourned my sudden loss of the privacy that I’d taken for granted for so long, even during the peak of my modeling career. I’d never been a known name like Cindy, Christie, or Elle.
I was maybe being a little paranoid, but I felt as if I was constantly being watched—on the subway, in the park, everywhere. Even when I wasn’t, I feared that I would be at any second. I could never let my guard down, and it was physically and mentally draining to know that I was always one headline away from being exposed as an impostor. As in: High-School Dropout Dupes America’s Prince.
I decided I needed to tell Joe the truth about not finishing high school before the press found out first, so I worked up the courage one night as we made dinner in his kitchen. The fleeting look of shock on his face crushed me, though he quickly recovered, saying all the right things. It was a painful, mortifying couple of minutes, but it also felt like a weight had been lifted. I was so relieved, in fact, that it crossed my mind to confide everything about Chip’s abuse and my real reasons for leaving home. Ultimately, though, I decided against that, just as I had with Wendy in high school. I’d rather be judged than pitied, especially because I understood that the latter doesn’t necessarily immunize one from the former.
A few days later, Joe invited me to the Hamptons for the upcoming weekend. His mother and Berry were going to be there, and he wanted me to meet them. I said yes, trying not to overthink things, which was difficult to do when Curtis kept peppering me with giddy questions.
“What are you going to take as a hostess gift?” he asked me a couple of days before our departure as the two of us hung out at my place.
“I don’t know,” I said. The thought hadn’t crossed my mind—which worried me. What else could I be forgetting?
“Well, you need to nail that.”
I nodded, then said, “I can’t go wrong with a nice bottle of wine, can I?”
“Yes, ma’am, you most certainly can go wrong with a bottle of wine. Depending on the bottle,” Curtis said. “Besides, wine as a hostess gift is a cliché.”
“Sometimes things are cliché for a reason,” I said. “Wine feels like a safe choice.”
“It’s not the time to be safe,” Curtis said, shaking his head and pacing around my bedroom. “You’re having a moment, and you need to seize it. Amplify it. Make a statement.”
“Alrighty, then,” I said. “How about a bottle of champagne?”
“Too presumptuous.”
“A bottle of pastis?”
“Too French.”
“Dottie’s half French.”
“But you’re not. So it’s pandering…and can we please think beyond alcohol.”
“Okay. How about a nice scented candle?”
“Ugh. A candle? That’s more cliché than wine. And anyway, scents are too personal.”
I sighed and asked for his suggestion, which I should have just done to begin with.
“I don’t know…. But it needs to be expensive…yet not come off as obviously expensive. Like one of those home goods that catches your eye…until you pick it up and get sticker shock.”
I nodded, thinking that it was the reverse of the usual rule of thumb—to have something look more expensive than it was.
“Think ABC Carpet & Home—not Barneys or Tiffany,” he said.
“Well, yeah. Obviously not Tiffany,” I said, picturing the absurd overkill of showing up with a blue box and white silk ribbon.
“It can’t be a known brand, but it needs to signal luxury…like a fabulous serape-stripe Turkish robe that’s chic enough to double as a poolside cover-up.”
I laughed, amused by his specificity. “Oh, sure. The serape-stripe Turkish robe, of course.”
Curtis sat on my bed and smoothed the bedcovers around him, ignoring me. “We need to think high-end lifestyle here, for sure…Slim Aarons…Babe Paley…Bunny Mellon….”
“Or, say, Dottie Kingsley?”
“Oh my God, yes. Yes! Good point,” he said, pressing one hand to his temple. “Can you believe this is happening?”
“Nothing is happening,” I said, though I knew what he meant.
“Well, it’s about to happen,” Curtis said. “It’s on, girl.”
I laughed, but couldn’t help feeling a little excited, too.
“Now, let’s see…what bag will you be packing?”
“Are we talking about my suitcase?”
“Yes,” he said. “But you know you can’t take an actual suitcase, right?”
“I can’t?” I said, glancing over at the carry-on-size roller bag I’d already pulled from my closet.
He followed my eyes and looked horrified. “That thing?” he asked, pointing. “No way.”
“What in the world, Curtis? It’s a basic black bag!”
“Still. No,” he said. “You’ll look like a flight attendant.”
“What’s wrong with being a flight attendant?” I said, shifting into my defensive, contrarian mode.
“Oh, stop. You know what I mean. There’s nothing wrong with being a flight attendant. Nor is there anything wrong with a basic black suitcase,” Curtis said. “But it’s the wrong look…. You’re not going on a business trip. You’re weekending.”
I gave him a pointed look, then said, “Please never use that as a verb again.”
“But that’s what you’re doing. You’re weekending,” he repeated with extra panache. “In the Hamptons. With the Kingsleys. So you’re going to need a satchel of some sort.”
“A satchel?” I laughed.
“Soft luggage. Like a Louis Vuitton duffel. Or a brown leather bag, well worn with a beautiful patina. Like it’s been all around the world.”
“That suitcase has been around the world—and I hardly have time to get a leather bag patinaed in the next few days,” I said.
“Yeah. No. I’m sorry. That thing is depressingly pedestrian. What else do you have? Anything with a patrician vibe?”
I laughed. “You’re absurd.”
“Okay, how about a duffel?”
“Sorry. No.”
“You don’t own a single duffel?”
“Not the kind of duffel you’re talking about.”
“What kind is it?”
“An L.L.Bean tote bag,” I said, thinking of the one that Wendy’s mother had given me long ago.
Curtis pursed his lips, thinking. “I think we can work with that…. The large size?”
I nodded.
“And what’s the accent color?”
“Navy.”
“Okay…and is it monogrammed?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Even better.”
“Okay,” I said, amused. “But please explain to me why on earth you think L.L.Bean is better than a Tumi suitcase?”
“Because you need to go high or low. Old-money types love the price-point extremes…. They either drive a brand-new Mercedes or a beat-up Volkswagen…. They wear a Rolex or a Timex…and they resist any sort of upgrade on their electronics because ‘Hey, this one still works!’ It’s reverse snobbery. New money equals new shit.”
“Wow,” I said, thinking of Joe’s stubborn loyalty to vinyl and cassettes over CDs. “That’s really true.”
“Yeah,” Curtis said. “Stick with me, kid. I know what I’m doing here.”
—
That Saturday morning, Joe picked me up just before sunrise with Thursday in tow. To my great amusement, he was driving an old Jeep Wagoneer with seventies wood paneling. Smiling to myself, I put my L.L.Bean tote in the backseat, along with a gift bag containing Curtis’s choice of a linen robe, then climbed into the car next to Joe.
He beamed at me and said, “Don’t you look cute.”
“Thanks,” I said with a laugh, thinking that no one ever called me cute.
“And look—we match,” he said, giving me a once-over as he patted my leg.
I nodded—we were both wearing denim and white, but the similarities stopped there. Possibly overthinking what was appropriate for a beach weekend with Dottie Kingsley, I’d worn a sleeveless silk blouse, flared jeans, and leather slides, whereas Joe had on old Levi’s, a dingy T-shirt, and red high-top sneakers.
“Nice shoes,” I said.
“You don’t like Chuck Taylors?” he asked, pretending to be wounded before checking his rearview mirror and putting his car in drive.
“Not particularly,” I said. “Especially when they’re red.”
Joe laughed, then said, “Well, my mother hates them, too.”
“Is that why you wore them?” I asked.
He laughed and handed me one of two coffee cups in the console between us. “Here you go. Three creams, no sugar.”
“Aw. You’re the best.” I gave him a quick kiss, then leaned back in my seat, getting comfortable.
Joe drove down Second Avenue, one hand on the steering wheel, the other fiddling with the radio dial. He landed on John Mellencamp singing “Wild Night” and immediately joined in, belting out the lyrics. It was a little loud for so early in the morning, but his enthusiasm was infectious. I looked out my window and smiled, feeling a contentment that bordered on excitement. Getting out of the city was always a thrill, especially in the summertime when you were with a guy you liked. Really liked. Life was good, I told myself, and a few minutes later, as we merged onto the Long Island Expressway, I was singing along, too.
The next two hours passed quickly, as Joe and I laughed and talked and listened to music. Occasionally I’d feel myself start to fret about the introductions to come, but for the most part, I kept my anxiety at bay. I wasn’t one to put my foot in my mouth—I was too circumspect for such missteps. It was all going to be fine. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, I would survive.
—
By the time we reached the windmill at Halsey Lane, the effects of my pep talk to myself had expired, and the high of our road trip was replaced by a sinking dread. To be fair, it was the effect the Hamptons always had on me, even when I wasn’t headed there to meet Dottie Kingsley. It could be really fun—and was undeniably beautiful—but it was also exhausting. Everywhere you looked, there were bankers and lawyers and PR types, and, yes, models, all jockeying for position, frantically trying to figure out where to go, what to wear, and how to gain entry to the hottest restaurants, clubs, and parties. Like one big casting call. Even though I had opted out of the scene years ago, and my memories of all those pretentious White Parties were in the distant past, there was no way to pretend that I wasn’t now headed into the biggest audition of my life.
As we pulled down a residential road marked PRIVATE, Joe waved to a man sitting in a Buick, reading a newspaper. He slowed to a stop, wound down his window, and yelled, “What’s up, Hank?”
“Same old! Good to see you, Joe!”
Joe waved again, then kept driving, telling me that Hank had been with his family for years.
“Is he a security guard?” I asked.
“He does it all. Handyman. Gardener. Gatekeeper,” Joe said as we reached the end of the road and the entrance to the Kingsley driveway.
Joe turned on to it, but I couldn’t see anything, the property screened by tall privacy hedges.
“Here we go,” Joe said, pulling through an open gate. “Home, sweet home.”
Conjuring images from my mother’s old magazines, I knew it would be impressive. But as the sprawling waterfront property came into view, I caught my breath. It was so much more spectacular in person, the way photographed landmarks often are. The “Kingsley compound” comprised three buildings, all gleaming white clapboard. The main house was a mansion by any measure. It had a wide front porch and green-and-white striped awning and managed to be both grand and charming at once. It was flanked by two smaller buildings, which Joe said were the pool house and guest cottage.
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” I said, overwhelmed by the explosion of color—the impeccable green lawn, the pink roses climbing white trellises, the purple hydrangeas blooming all over the yard, and the backdrop of vivid blue sky and sea meeting on the horizon.
“Yeah. It’s pretty special,” Joe said as he parked, acknowledging that even he realized this wasn’t your typical Hamptons beautiful.
His voice and smile were both soft, nearly reverent, and I couldn’t help thinking of his father and the weight of his family’s history, especially as I looked up and saw an American flag flying from a pole in the center of the lawn.
“When was it built?” I asked, wanting to know, but also stalling, not quite ready to get out of the car.
“Nineteen ten,” he said. “My grandfather built it.”
“He did?” I said, impressed.
“Well, no.” Joe chuckled. “He had it built.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said. “And now your whole family shares it?”
“Yeah,” Joe said.
“How does that work with all the cousins?” I asked, still stalling. “Are there sign-ups for certain weekends?”
“Not really,” Joe said. He opened his door, stepping onto the crushed seashell drive, then letting Thursday out of the car. “We just sort of make it work. It’s more fun when we’re all here together anyway.”
I smiled to myself, amused by the notion of making a massive waterfront estate in the Hamptons “work,” then reluctantly opened my door while Joe retrieved our bags from the backseat. I tried to take my own, but he wouldn’t let me, so I followed him and Thursday down the path instead, then climbed the stairs leading up to the porch of the main house. When we got to the door, Joe motioned for me to go in first, both of his hands full.
I took a breath and opened the door, holding it for Joe. The foyer was dimly lit with a faded floral wallpaper that surprised me until I remembered Curtis’s theory. These people had nothing to prove.
“Hell-oooo?” Joe called out, dropping our bags at the foot of a wide staircase that turned ninety degrees at midflight. When nobody replied, he mumbled that they must be out back, then led me down a long hallway, passing two large rooms filled with dark antiques, sun-faded upholstered furniture, and wall-to-wall bookcases. Other than in a library, I’d never seen so many books.
As we reached the back porch, I got unexpected goosebumps from both the sweeping view and the fresh realization that I was here, in this famed setting. Tucked into a vast green lawn the length and width of a football field was a turquoise pool surrounded by stone decking, a tennis court lined with more hedges, and gorgeous formal gardens. Beyond the manicured perfection was the curved, rugged shoreline and an endless stretch of sparkling water dotted with colorful boats, the sails of which Joe would later refer to as spinnakers, a word I loved the sound of.
“There they are!” Joe said, pointing to a row of white Adirondack chairs in the far corner of the yard, two of them occupied.
My stomach dropped a little in anticipation as Joe cupped his mouth with his hands, then belted out a hello. Dottie and Berry turned and waved, then stood in unison and began slowly walking toward us as Thursday raced around the yard. Berry trailed one step behind Dottie, and I thought of the Queen of England, wondering if this family followed similar protocol. As they approached the porch, I could see they were both wearing shift dresses—Dottie’s lemon yellow and Berry’s a mix of pastel blues and pinks—and I fleetingly questioned my outfit. I reminded myself I needed to be me—it was the only way.
“C’mon,” Joe said, taking my hand, leading me down the porch steps and across the lawn. His grip was firmer than usual, as if he could tell that I was nervous. Or maybe he was.
“Well, you made good time!” Dottie said as she neared us. I instantly recognized her voice, from where, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a documentary or an episode of 60 Minutes that my mom had forced me to watch. It was surreal, being here in front of a woman whom I was just meeting, yet felt like I knew so much about.
“Yes. I think it was a record!” Joe said, squeezing my hand.
“I hope you weren’t speeding,” his mother said, as we closed the gap.
“Only a little bit!” Joe said, grinning.
He let go of my hand, then gave his mother a formal hug and kiss on the cheek. I waited for him to do the same with Berry, but instead he reached out and mussed her hair. She pushed his hand away and laughed, and I could instantly feel their close rapport.
“Mother and Berry…this is Cate,” Joe said. “Cate, this is my mother and Berry.”
I pushed my sunglasses up onto my hair, headband style, but instantly regretted it, both because the sun was now in my eyes and because Dottie and Berry kept their glasses on. Not wanting to fidget or appear nervous, I lived with my decision, squinting into the sun as Dottie gracefully extended her slender arm to shake my hand.
“Cate,” she said, making my name its own sentence. Her fingers were delicate and birdlike, her skin oddly cool given all the sunlight. “How do you do?”
For some reason, the wording of her simple question flustered me, and I stumbled over my reply. “I’m well, thank you…. It’s so nice to meet you…both of you,” I said, shifting my gaze to Berry.
“The pleasure is all ours,” Dottie said in a tone that went along with her handshake. Not quite aloof, but close. Her oversize glasses were dark, covering much of her face, but I could still make out her chiseled cheekbones, which Joe had inherited. Like the estate itself, she was more striking in person and almost formidable, despite her small stature.
“Yes,” Berry said in a cheerful voice, stepping forward to give me a quick hug. “We’ve heard so much about you, Cate.”
“Likewise,” I said, a word I don’t think I’d ever used before. “Thank you for the invitation, Mrs. Kingsley. Your home is so lovely.” It was another word I seldom used.
Dottie nodded in response, as if I’d just stated a fact rather than given her a compliment, then said, “We’re so pleased you could come for a visit…. Shall we go in? Are you hungry after your drive?”
What was the polite answer—yes or no? Fortunately, Joe chimed in for us, announcing that he was starving.
As we all made our way back into the house, I braced myself for a formal brunch served in the dining room on a table set with silver and crystal. I was both surprised and relieved to find that we were eating on a farmhouse table just off the kitchen, with simple place settings and some baked goods, fruit, and a pitcher of orange juice that looked freshly squeezed.
“There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen,” Berry said.
“And I can put the kettle on if you prefer tea?” Dottie said, looking at me.
I politely declined both as we all went to the table, sat down, and began serving ourselves. No one spoke for an awkward moment. Then Dottie turned to me and smiled.
“So, Cate, Joe tells us you grew up in Montclair?” she said, using her fork, European style, to pierce a strawberry half.
“Yes,” I said.
“That’s a lovely town,” she said. “Do your parents still live there?”
“Yes,” I said. “Well, my mother and stepfather.”
“I see,” she said. “And your father?”
“He actually passed away when I was quite young.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Dottie said, cutting her eyes to her son as if to say he should have warned her.
“Thank you,” I said, looking down, wondering if I should acknowledge her loss as well. Or Berry’s, for that matter, as Joe had told me that she’d lost both of her parents in a plane crash. But I decided that it was better to move on from the gruesome accidents that united us.
Apparently, Berry felt the same because she quickly changed the subject. “Joe tells us that you work in fashion,” she said as she spread cream cheese on her bagel half.
It was more of a statement than a question, but I answered it anyway. “Yes,” I said, nodding. “I do.”
“I’m sorry—I forgot the designer’s name?” she said.
“Wilbur Swift,” I said.
“That’s right. Sorry. I’m clueless about fashion—much to Dottie’s horror.”
“Oh, Berry,” Dottie said, shaking her head. “You know that’s not true.”
“That I’m clueless or that you’re horrified?” Berry said with a laugh.
“Neither is true!…Now, Joe is another story,” Dottie said.
“Heey, now! I resent that!” Joe said, pretending to be offended, but looking oddly proud of himself.
Dottie ignored him and looked at me. “Cate, I do hope you’ll be able to assist him on that front.”
“I’m trying, Mrs. Kingsley,” I said, playing along.
Joe laughed and accused us of being jealous of his style.
“What style?” Berry said.
The two sparred for a few seconds, sounding like brother and sister, before Dottie cut in. “And how is your job going, Joe?” she said, eyebrows raised.
Joe avoided her gaze, taking a huge bite of a donut. “It’s okay,” he said with a shrug, powdered sugar on his lower lip.
Dottie stared back at him. “Just…okay?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “I’m thinking of requesting a transfer to another division. Maybe white-collar crime.”
“Why white-collar crime?” she asked. “Is it more prestigious than doing drugs?”
“Yeah. Well, Mother, doing drugs isn’t prestigious at all,” Joe deadpanned. “In fact, there is quite a stigma attached to it.”
“Oh, Joseph,” Dottie said, waving him off. “You know what I meant. Would this be a promotion?”
“No, Mother,” he said, speaking slowly, his jaw tensing. “It wouldn’t be a promotion. It’s just a different division…. I’m tired of prosecuting petty drug offenses that, for the most part, seem racially motivated. Gary agrees.”
Dottie nodded and said, “Would it be better in terms of making political connections? Ultimately running for office?”
Joe shrugged, and Dottie said, “What do you think, Cate?”
“About moving to white-collar crime?” I said, meeting her gaze, wondering why I felt so nervous.
Dottie shook her head and said, “No. About Joe running for office one day?”
I could feel everyone staring at me as I stumbled over my reply. “Umm. I don’t know,” I said. “I mean…I think he’d make a great…politician…you know…if that’s what he wants to do.”
“Key word being if,” Joe mumbled.
Dottie pretended not to hear him as she kept staring at me. “Yes. I agree, Cate,” she said. “I think he’d be wonderful. He has so much to offer—and could really make a difference.”
For a few seconds, the mood at the table seemed a little awkward. Then Berry righted the ship, chatting breezily about Joe’s cousin Peter’s recent engagement and the spring wedding he and his fiancée, Genevieve, were planning in her hometown of Annapolis, Maryland. I listened, wondering if I’d be attending. I could only hope that I would.
—
After brunch, Joe and I went to our respective bedrooms to freshen up and change into swimsuits. I wasn’t exactly sure of our agenda, only that we were going out on his boat, and that it was just the two of us. I’d been on boats before, but only the extremes—either yachts for modeling shoots or tacky river cruises with tour guides telling bad jokes amid nauseating gasoline fumes. So I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect or what to wear. I played it safe, changing into a tankini with a cover-up and a pair of leather sandals. Then, deciding I looked a bit too bland, I pulled the Hermès scarf Joe had given me out of my bag, folded it in half, and wrapped it around my head, tying a double knot under my ponytail.
When I finally opened my door, Joe was waiting for me in the hall.
“Hey, baby,” he said, grinning at me. “I like your scarf.”
“Why, thank you,” I said, reaching up to touch it. “This hot guy gave it to me in Paris.”
“Wow.” He grinned again. “He must really like you, huh?”
“Seems that way,” I said.
—
It took some time to get to the marina, and even longer to get Joe’s boat freed from the dock. It reminded me of snow skiing—the one time I went, I couldn’t believe all the effort that was required just to get onto the slopes. It didn’t seem worth the trouble, and it kept crossing my mind that I’d rather be sitting on the beach with a good book.
Once Joe and I were out on the sparkling water, though, with an ocean breeze on our faces, it all made sense, and I almost understood why these people loved their boats as much as they did. It really was exhilarating, and my heart raced as Joe revved his engine and sped toward the horizon under the brightest blue sky painted with thin, wispy clouds.
As gorgeous as the views were—in every direction—it was hard to take my eyes off Joe. I don’t think I’d ever seen him look sexier than he did driving his boat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching up to keep his backward baseball cap in place as he took sharp turns in the water, showing off. Gripping the top of the windshield on the center console, I yelled for him to slow down, but he only laughed and went faster as we got wet from the sea spray. I rationally knew we weren’t in any real danger—that Joe knew what he was doing—but there were moments I still felt a little scared. It was the good kind of scared, though. An adrenaline rush from the beautiful world and this beautiful man.
After Joe got the speed out of his system, we turned around, heading toward the shore. I thought maybe we were going back to the dock, but instead we puttered up and down a series of peaceful inlets. Along the way Joe occasionally let me steer as he told stories. Some were about his father and grandfather, family lore passed down to him. But he also shared his own memories, which ranged from simple and sweet to outlandish and braggadocious. There was even one tale of a near-death experience involving kayaking in a storm. I listened, marveling over both his stupidity and his bravery. I was especially fascinated by the reaction from his mother and Berry; his mother had been terrified, and Berry only angry. It was a dynamic I could perfectly picture after having met them.
As if reading my mind, Joe suddenly asked what I thought about them.
“I love them,” I blurted out. It was a bit of an overstatement, yet still felt sincere, perhaps because my heart felt so full.
Joe looked relieved. “You do?”
“Yes. Berry’s really sweet.” I hesitated, then added, “Honestly, I didn’t expect that. I knew she’d be nice, but I thought she would be a bit…harder on me.”
Joe nodded, not bothering to play dumb, which I appreciated. “Yes. She can be very protective…but I could tell she loved you, too.”
I smiled and told him that made me happy.
“And what about my mother? Do you see what I mean about her? She didn’t last twenty minutes without grilling me about running for office. It’s relentless.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But she just wants the best for you—and thinks that you could use your name to make a difference. You really would make a great public servant.”
“Oh, I like that description,” Joe said. “It sounds better than politician…and you really think so?”
“Yes. You genuinely care about people. You care about the cases you prosecute and you care about why defendants find themselves in situations that lead them to commit crimes,” I said, feeling a wave of pride in him. He was such a good person. “I love that about you.”
“Wow. That’s really nice. Thank you,” he said as we entered the most picturesque cove. The shore was rocky, and the water like glass. For the next few minutes, we idled along, taking in the scenery. Then Joe cut the engine and announced that this was the perfect spot for a picnic. He walked around the console to the front of the boat, reached for the anchor, and tossed it into the water. I watched as he quickly and expertly tied some fancy nautical knot, thinking what a turn-on it was when a man was so good at something.
He glanced up, catching me staring at him, and smiled. “What?”
“I was wondering whether you were a Boy Scout.”
Joe laughed and said, “What were you really thinking?”
I swallowed, feeling myself blush as I put my hand on his tanned forearm and said, “Okay, yes. I was thinking that watching you tie a knot is kind of sexy.”
Joe laughed.
I smiled as he moved to the back of the boat, spread a towel on the floorboards, and asked me to join him. I sat down, watching as he got to work unpacking a small cooler.
“When did you put this together?” I asked, impressed with his organization.
“I didn’t. I begged Berry to pick it up from a store in town,” he said, opening a bottle of chilled white wine with a corkscrew and pouring it into plastic cups. He handed me one, then took his sunglasses off, hitching them on the collar of his shirt.
“To us,” he said, raising his cup with a soulful expression.
“To us,” I repeated, tapping the edge of my cup against his.
For the next thirty minutes or so, we sipped wine and ate grapes and cheese and crackers and little cucumber sandwiches, talking and laughing.
At some point, my buzz kicked in, the talking turned into kissing, then full-on making out.
“Is this safe?” I whispered at one point as he slid his hand under my swimsuit top, then pulled it up and kissed one breast while he palmed the other.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s totally private back here.”
“What about long-range cameras?” I said, thinking of all the celebrities who had been photographed topless on vacations.
“There’s nobody out here, babe,” he said, now taking my hand and pressing it against his erection.
He let out a low moan that made me wetter than I already was, and I knew then what was going to happen. Sure enough, Joe laid me on my back, pulling down my bathing suit bottom. He slid one finger slowly inside me, then took it out even more slowly before putting it in his mouth. Then he went down on me.
It was so good—too good—and I begged him to stop even as I held on to his head, my hands running through his hair. Then, just as I was on the brink of exploding, he pulled down his swim trunks, climbed on top of me, and slowly entered me.
“How?” he whispered when he was the whole way in. “How is it this perfect?”
“Because it’s us,” I said, breathless.
“Yes. Because. It’s. Us,” he said, thrusting inside me with each word as the boat began to sway, then rock, water slapping against the sides.
I stared up at the sky, watching the clouds drift along, feeling completely helpless as Joe talked to me in a low voice, telling me that I was his. I belonged to him. He belonged to me. His voice in my ear made me come so fast and hard, and as I dug my hands into his back, he came, too, saying my name over and over.
Afterward, we lay there together for the longest time, sweating and catching our breath. The sun was hot, but there was a breeze, and we both fell asleep. I’m not sure how much time passed, but when we woke up, we put our suits back on. Then Joe sat up and said it was time for a swim.
“Wait,” I said. “Aren’t there sharks?”
He laughed and said, “Tons. But I’m brave like that.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Seriously! Tell me, Joe!” I said, as he stood at the back of the boat, preparing to jump into the water. “Are there sharks?”
“I’ve never seen a shark in this cove,” he said. “But you never know. There’s a first time for everything!”
Wondering if it was the first time he’d had sex in this boat, I stood and moved toward him, then looked nervously down into the water. I couldn’t see the bottom. “How deep is it?”
“About ten feet,” he said. A second later, he was diving in. As he swam just below the surface, I admired the lines of his body. When he finally emerged, he shook the water from his hair, grinning up at me. “Get in here!” he said. “It feels so good.”
It was something people always claimed after jumping into cold water; I wasn’t buying it. “I’ll pass,” I said.
“You’re not going to swim?” he asked.
It was the last thing I wanted to do. Beyond the fact that I knew it would be cold, I didn’t want to embarrass myself. I knew how to swim, but barely—and had a distinct memory of failing a water treading test in the swim unit of ninth-grade gym class. I couldn’t believe how exhausting it had been to simply stay afloat.
But Joe kept begging me, and I didn’t want to be that girl. So I asked if there was a ladder.
“A ladder?” He laughed, doing a backstroke behind the boat. “There is no ladder, baby. Just jump in.”
“Well, then how would I get back into the boat?”
“There’s a little swim platform back here. See?” he said.
I looked down and nodded.
“C’mon. Just get in. Now.”
I could tell then that he wasn’t going to give up, so I took a deep breath and climbed over the back of the boat, then slowly eased myself down onto the teak platform that was like a little bench just above the ocean surface. Dangling my legs into the cold water, I kicked them, hoping that this would be enough to appease Joe. I didn’t want to confess to another shortcoming. But he swam over to me, grabbed my calves, and tried to pull me in.
At that point, I panicked and blurted out the truth. “Joe, no! I can’t swim!”
His smile turned to surprise, then concern. “You can’t swim?” he said, now half out of the water, his arms on either side of my thighs.
“Well, I can a little bit,” I said. “But not very well. And I just…I don’t like deep water.”
“Well, we need to fix that, baby,” he said.
I nodded, so embarrassed, as Joe heaved himself out of the water onto the platform beside me and said, “Everyone needs to know how to swim. It’s just not safe—”
“It’s safe if I stay away from the water,” I said, cutting him off with a smile.
“But, Cate,” he said. “Don’t you love it out here?”
I nodded and said that I did, very much.
“So, we’ll get you lessons. Or I can teach you. Hell. Why don’t we start now?”
I shook my head, starting to panic, knowing how persuasive he could be. “Not today. Please? Another day. Soon.”
“Okay,” he said. “We should probably start in a pool anyway.”
“Yes. Definitely a pool. Where I can see the bottom. And there are no sharks.”
Joe climbed back into the boat, then pulled me up after him. He grabbed a fresh towel and wrapped it around me, even though he was the wet one.
“I’m sorry—” I said.
“For what?”
“That I can’t swim,” I said.
“Whatever,” Joe said, shaking his head. “You’re exactly what I want.”
I nodded, feeling a little better, remembering what we’d just done.
“Cate?” Joe whispered, cupping my face.
“Yes?” I said.
“I love you,” he whispered into my ear.
I inhaled, too overwhelmed with emotion to exhale, let alone speak, but finally found my breath and voice. “I love you, too,” I whispered back.
He leaned down and gave me a long, slow kiss that felt like a seal on our joint declaration.
And just like that, for the very first time, I began to imagine a future with Joe.