The Shape of Night(38)

    A group has coalesced around him, and he stands surrounded by the Webers, the brunette gallery owner, and half a dozen admirers. He casts an apologetic glance my way, and that’s enough to keep me patiently waiting, even though I’m getting light-headed from hunger and champagne. Of all the women he could have asked to join him for dinner, why did he choose me? Because I’m the new gal in town? As an eligible bachelor in Tucker Cove, perhaps he’s weary of being pursued, and I’m the one woman who isn’t interested in him.

Or am I?

I wander the gallery, my gaze drifting past the art, while my attention is keenly focused on Ben. His voice, his laugh. I stop before an abstract bronze sculpture titled: Passion. It is all curved surfaces, bodies melded so completely that you can’t see where one begins and the other ends. I think of the turret room, and Jeremiah Brodie. I think of leather cuffs around my wrists and our bodies sweating, colliding. My mouth goes dry. My face flushes. I close my eyes, my hand resting on the curve of the sculpture, and the bronze feels as hard and unforgiving as the muscles of his back. Tonight. Please, come to me. I want you.

“Ready to go, Ava?”

I open my eyes to see Ben smiling at me. The respectable Dr. Gordon is clearly interested, but am I interested in him? Could a real man satisfy me the way Jeremiah Brodie does?

We escape the gallery crowd and walk into the warm summer night. Everyone in Tucker Cove seems to be out this evening, strolling the village streets. The T-shirt shops are crowded and, as usual, a long line snakes out of the ice cream parlor.

“Doesn’t look like we’ll find an open table anywhere,” I tell him as we walk past yet another packed restaurant.

    “I know someplace where we don’t need a table.”

“Where?”

He grins. “Best meal in Tucker Cove. Trust me.”

We turn away from the village center and head down a cobblestoned street, toward the harbor. It is quieter on the landing, where only a few tourists are wandering about. We walk past windjammers creaking at their moorings, past a fisherman casting his line from the dock.

“Incoming tide. Mackerel’s running,” the fisherman calls out. I glance at his catch, and under the dim glow of the streetlight, I see silvery fish wriggling in his bucket.

Ben and I walk on, toward a small crowd of people gathered around a food cart, and I see steaming pots and catch their savory scent. Now I know why Ben has brought me down to the landing.

“No silverware, no linen, just lobsters,” he says. “I hope that’s okay with you.”

It’s more than okay; it’s exactly what I’m craving.

We buy piping-hot steamed lobsters, corn on the cob and French fries, and carry our meals to the seawall. There we sit with our legs dangling over the rocks, our cardboard plates resting on our laps. All that’s missing is a bottle of wine, but after drinking three glasses of champagne, I’m better off without any more booze tonight. Too hungry to make conversation, I tear straight into my meal, expertly extracting meat from the shell and popping it into my mouth.

“I see you don’t need any lessons on how to take apart a lobster,” he observes.

“I’ve had lots of practice in the kitchen. You should see how fast I shuck oysters.” I wipe melted butter from my chin and grin at him. “This is what I’d call the perfect meal. No fussy waiters, no pretentious menu. Simplicity and freshness always wins the day.”

“Says the food writer.”

“Says the very enthusiastic eater.” I take a bite of corn and it’s just what I was hoping for, sweet and crisp. “I plan to devote an entire chapter in my book to lobsters.”

    “You know they used to be considered trash food? If you brought lobster in your lunch pail, everyone assumed you were poor.”

“Yes, crazy, isn’t it? That anyone ever thought that way about the food of the gods.”

He laughs. “I don’t know about food of the gods, but if you need any information at all about lobsters, I’ll put you in touch with Captain Andy.” He points to a boat bobbing in the harbor. “That one’s his. The Lazy Girl. He can take you out on his boat and tell you more than you’ll ever need to know about lobstering.”

“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

He surveys the dark harbor. “As a kid, I used to work on some of these boats. One summer, I was crew on the Mary Ryan, right over there.” He points to a three-masted schooner tied up at the dock. “My dad wanted me to work in the hospital as a lab assistant, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being cooped up inside all summer. I needed to be out there, on the water.” He tosses an empty lobster shell into the harbor, where it lands with a soft splash. “Do you sail?”

“My sister and I grew up sailing on a lake in New Hampshire.”

“So you have a sister. Is she older? Younger?”

“Two years older.”

“And what does she do?”

“She’s a doctor in Boston. An orthopedic surgeon.” The subject of Lucy makes me uncomfortable and I quickly change the subject. “I’ve never sailed on the ocean, though. To be honest, the sea scares me a little. One mistake and it’s all over. Which reminds me.” I turn to him. “Whatever happened with that body the lobsterman pulled out of the water?”