Mary Kathryn

Ir you're looking for quick fucking or dense sex, this isn't for you.

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FOREWORD

For Katie Richards, who challenged me to write this.

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Mary

Mary walked the long dock to the end and boarded the small sloop tied there. She opened the door to the tiny cabin and put her bag, picnic basket, and thermos inside. After removing the sail covers, she looked up at the masthead telltale. The light wind was coming from the Southeast, and she could sail out of the creek, into the small bay, and then into the ocean. She looked at the water going by the hull; the tide was falling just as predicted by the tables. Only a few high clouds were turning pink with the rising sun. It was going to be a glorious day.

Just south of where the small bay opened to the sea, she could see the barrier island that had become a big part of her life here--a private part she shared with almost no one, at least not voluntarily. But lately, there had been interruptions to her tranquility there.

Mary on the Beach

Hard gray sand, nearly black in the darkness, cooled her back as she lay under the sky's indigo blanket, watching the Milky Way's final twinkle. Mary lay on the beach in the dampness just below the high tide line, waiting for the sun. Not so much for warmth--July needed no heat boost even in the darkest night before dawn--but for light to search for tracks. She felt the earth and sand tugging, drawing her to this beach in the solitary dawn, day after day, to seek the tracks of turtles in the sand.

A month after spending some nights and weekends in the small village on the island with him, Mary took one of the kayaks and discovered this barrier beach. It was solitary, guarding whatever might exist to the west. At the same time, she found the force of the tidal flow that, twice a day, in time with the moon, drained and refilled the vast marsh that extended miles inland. On her third or fourth trip to the island, she couldn't remember which; she sought the cooling relief of the ocean. Seeing that she was alone in the middle of the day, she removed her shorts and top and left them on the beach. She let the water bathe her thoroughly. Exposing her skin to the salt and sand in the warm water touched her mind with something ancient. This primary contact with epochs past remained with her when she waded ashore from the water and lay down in the sand to feel the warmth slowly soak into her back. She didn't entirely lose the feeling until she got back to the kayak to ride the incoming tide back to the village, carefully brushing most of the sand from her body before donning her civilization costume. Since then, Mary has spent her time on the beach naked, to the delight of the occasional ranger watching over the turtle nests.

On her first trip to the island, the paddle back took her hours, and she arrived with aching shoulders. Glen explained charts, tides, and currents to her in the evening over cold, umbrella-less rum drinks, and ever after, she consulted the current charts and timed her trips with the ebb and flow of the marshes on either side of low tide.

The turtles she became fascinated with, loggerheads, climbed relentlessly from the sea to deposit a hundred eggs in the sand to incubate. One or two might survive to return to this beach to lay eggs or fertilize them in offshore waters. The female loggerhead has no idea of the future of the eggs she deposits in the night; she is guided by ancient instincts back to this same beach where she hatched thirty-eight years ago. She comes singularly and in the dark, just as she always has.

That morning, as the ink-blue sky turned lighter and even pink, Mary became aware of a scuffling behind and just to her right. Slowly turning her head, she watched the loggerhead covering her nest with sand, flipper full by flipper full, her egg-laying duties completed for the night. In the rising light, Mary held her breath and watched as the loggerhead crawled back toward the ocean to resume her life-long journey out to the sea and back, out to the sea and back, endlessly toward survival or extinction.

Mary at Sea

She hoisted the sails, leaving them shaking in the wind for now. She looped a line around the piling near the middle of the boat and tied both ends to the cleat. Then she untied the mooring lines from the pier and tossed them aboard the sloop. She looked back toward the house as she was about to step aboard. He stood at the second-floor window in his office, watching her. She moved her hand at her waist, almost waving. He held his coffee in front of him, motionless. She stepped aboard untied one end of the line, looping it around the piling, pulled it aboard, and then tightened the jib. The sloop spun in place and turned its nose down the creek. It jibed, and then she tightened the mainsail and started down the creek. Once underway, she reached out and pulled the fenders in, hearing his voice urging her to neaten up her boat and keep it shipshape. He was a stickler for such things.

The creek was easy to navigate. There was one short bend where she had to hug one bank and pinch the sloop tight to the wind, but otherwise, it was easy sailing for twenty minutes out into the small bay. Mary followed the stakes to the deeper water and then spotted the buoys she would pass on her way to the ocean.

Once in the bay, she lashed the tiller in place and watched the boat for a few minutes to ensure it was balanced and would continue going where she pointed it. She reached into the cabin and grabbed a cup and the thermos. She poured herself a cup of coffee and returned to the tiller.

The wind ruffled her ponytail against her light cotton tee shirt with the boat's name over her left breast. She loved the shirt. It was the first gift he had given her, wrapped with ribbons on her birthday three years ago. She'd thought it was just a shirt with her name on it. Her name is in gold letters on a brown shape. She didn't understand why "Skipper" was written underneath. She still didn't know when they walked to the end of the private dock that crossed the marsh behind his house and saw the strange sailboat tied up at the end. Even then, she didn't catch on. He had to lead her to the back of the boat, point out the name, and tell her, "This is yours. Happy birthday, and happy anniversary."

"But I don't know how to sail." The practical side of her jumped out. "I don't know anything about how to keep a boat. What am I going to do with it?"

"Learn," was all he said.

And learn she did. He started her with simple things: feeling the wind, watching it on the sails, and understanding what happened to the boat as the sails were adjusted. Then she advanced to docking and undocking, complete rigging and set up, maintenance, and finally, sailing blindfolded by the feel of the boat alone. It had been three years, but now she was competent and, more importantly, confident in what she knew. She understood there was still more to learn and different situations and areas she could learn to sail.

Glen

The porch faced east toward the ocean. Glen liked the morning light while he wrote on his laptop before anyone else got up. This morning was different. He stood at the window, a mug of coffee in hand, as he watched Mary walk down the dock. She'd woken him before dawn, excited to be away but still wanting a long farewell. They'd made love for over an hour until dawn told her it was time to be off.

She frequently got up about the same time he did and took a kayak out to the barrier island. This was the first time she'd taken her sloop, the Mary Kathryn, out at dawn for the trip up the coast. He knew she would return in the late afternoon, but the return would be different. This time, she was leaving to start a new life with the man who would be her husband. He was happy for her but also sad that what they had for the last four years was ending.

He heard steps behind him and turned to see Leslie, eyes still half closed in sleep. "Mary left."

"Yes, she's on the dock now. Did she say goodbye to you?"

"Yeah, she woke me up."

"Well, go back to sleep. We've plenty of time before she gets back."

Leslie turned and walked to his bed, and lay down. She was asleep within a minute. Glen watched, marveling at the young woman. Twenty-one last fall and beautiful. Her hair was like a black cloud on the pillow. Her body, clad only in a pair of his boxers, was trim but not hard and athletic like Mary's. He marveled at his good fortune in having her around. Her wide-eyed innocence had added a new dimension to life on the island that Mary's somewhat jaded view never had.

His laptop dinged. He cursed under his breath; he'd forgotten to turn the alarms off after updating the system. He went over, opened the screen, and read the message.

To: G Greylag

From: Tamara H

Subject: On my way

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I'm done. I'll be there tonight if you'll have me.

XO

Tamara

"I'll be damned." He typed a quick reply and closed the screen. Then he went back to watching Mary get ready to sail away, thinking of the message he'd just received. Sometimes, life changes quickly. He smiled to himself. He'd think about that tonight. Right now, Glen's mind wandered back nearly four years to the first time he'd seen Mary.

Mary

The first time she'd seen Glen, Mary was sitting at the bar in the Clam Castle waiting for a table. They didn't take reservations, and a recent spike in popularity often required a wait while the tourists were fed. He was large-boned and slightly balding, looking like he'd spent the day on the nearby ocean searching for what she would eat for dinner that night. She would be close to his height, nearly the same in their highest heels. Their eyes met, and she blushed. She felt the warmth spreading from her breasts to her chest, then up her slim neck to her cheeks. The same flush spread downward, tightening her stomach into small butterflies and releasing just a hint of moisture toward the barstool where she perched. She crossed her legs, her muscles tensing from the tops of her athletic thighs to her calves to her purple polish-covered toes peeking out of her white Intu sandals.

He stood behind her at the bar, signaling the bartender to order. She tried to ignore the warmth coming from his shirt and pay attention to what Brenda was saying. She had lost the conversation thread when she first glanced at him.

Two fingers touched her shoulder, and a voice softly entered her consciousness. "May I refill your drinks? I wouldn't want you to run dry."

Without waiting for a reply, he pointed to their glasses and ordered a refill. Then he asked for a white wine and a rum and coke. Mary thought there must be a companion since he ordered two drinks.

Brenda smiled and said, "Thank you."

Mary tried to speak but could do no more than nod.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Glen."

"Hi, I'm Brenda, and my quiet friend is Mary." Mary managed to hold out her hand to shake his. He smiled at them both and walked off, carrying the drinks, leaving her shoulder still tingling where he had touched it. She lost sight of him and wasn't too sorry. She felt something she wasn't sure of, perhaps a fear that she couldn't control the situation more than she'd controlled ordering her drink.

Brenda looked at her, "Do you know who that was?" Mary's blank expression showed she had lost enough composure to have no idea what Brenda was saying. "That was Glen Greylag. Greylag. The writer. He's famous."

Finally, this penetrated the fog spreading through her brain. "No shit. I read something by him in school."

The second time they met was at a wedding. She smiled at the thought of that. She'd been set up with a friend of the bride who had come in from Brussels. She didn't know anyone there except the bridesmaid who had set her up. Two minutes after meeting her date, Mary knew he would not be getting lucky that night. Of course, she was polite to Wayne and had a good time until the dancing started.

The order of things in dancing was decided quickly; Wayne didn't, and she loved to. She tried not to pout through the required dances until she felt the two fingers on her shoulder lightly. He asked Wayne, "May I dance with your date?" Wayne nodded, although she could tell he didn't care what Wayne might say, and neither did she. Wayne nodded. She stood, and he held her chair for her. She remembered the touch on her shoulder at the restaurant and how it didn't go away when he removed his hand but seemed to linger for the night. She felt the same, as if he continued touching her skin.

"I believe we've met before; I'm Glen."

"Perhaps, but I'm not sure where," she lied. "Do you live here in the city?" God, could she sound any more pathetic?

"I live just south of here, but I keep an apartment just off of St. James Square, handy when I've had too much to drink or it's too late to make the trip back. It seems you're not from around here and haven't yet acquired the accent."

"I'm from Ithaca. That's in upstate New York." Shit why did she say that? He knows where Ithaca is and only lives three blocks from me! "I moved here after school to work at The Sheraton. Marketing stuff. What else would an English Lit major do?"

He laughed. "You may be right. English is a dying art. We communicate with our thumbs now. I trust you can do more than bounce and wiggle on a dance floor. The bride and groom seemed quite choreographed. I wonder if they learned anything but a foxtrot?" His eyes twinkled.

"When I was a teen, my father--" She didn't finish. She was being swept onto the floor, held the way she remembered her father and her dance instructor holding her. She had an instructor for all three lessons, except this man's hand didn't stray onto her ass the way the instructors did. She had no option but to follow his lead, and she didn't want one. It was a waltz, and she picked up the rhythm quickly and followed him around the floor.

They were dancing face to face, not cheek to cheek, and she looked at him for the first time. She realized he was older than she thought, maybe twenty or even twenty-five years older than her twenty-three years. His face was tanned or wind-burned; she wasn't sure which, and there was grey in his hair. His eyes were much bluer than she expected for someone with dark hair. Her eyes were almost level with his since she wore heels close to four inches.

She was fascinated. She had never danced with a man who had led before. She always led or, at most, shared the responsibility with her partner. After the next dance, he got her a glass of champagne. They discussed who they knew at the wedding and discovered that neither knew anybody except the other. After the next dance, he took her back to her chair and then excused himself to leave and take care of another matter. As he walked out, she realized she wanted him to stay, or even more, she wanted to go with him.

Two weeks later, she returned to Clam Castle with a group of her friends. Of the five of them, three had never been there. It was a busy night, and the wait for a table was long. The group stood at the bar sipping the latest girly drink, some successor to the Cosmopolitan, chatting and laughing in the manner only a group of girlfriends who know most of each other's secrets could.

She noticed him when he stood and left his table for two. He walked over, smiled, and they made introductions all around. The remarks from her friends quickly went to the long wait for a table since they had little else in common. He went over to the host, and after some discussion and some wiping and rewriting on the chart, he returned, smiling almost triumphantly.

"I've worked out a solution to your problem. The table for four, next to mine, will be ready in less than five minutes, and Mary can join me at my table. You'll all get to eat before you get too drunk to enjoy it."

The host appeared beside them in less than five minutes and escorted them to the table adjacent to his but far enough away that she would have privacy with him. She noticed this and, in a few minutes, decided that she was pleased with this arrangement. He helped the host by seating one of her friends, then pulled out the chair for her at his table. The gesture amused and pleased her since it was rare among people her age.

She ordered a bucket of oysters as an appetizer. He shucked them for her and commented, "I never eat oysters, never liked them, and never needed them." His eyes smiled at her. She felt the beginning of a blush but was sure it didn't show. The rest of the dinner continued the everyday conversation, except she found she didn't have to work at it. He asked about her life, education, and why she was here. She found it odd to talk to a man genuinely interested in her and not some sport or the outcome of the evening.

When it came time to leave, three of the girls were quite drunk. He took charge of them all and arranged for the sober one to drive the two who lived on the outskirts of the city home while he and Mary took care of the one who lived in the city.

As they left, Mary asked, "But where's your car?"

"I came by boat; I'll pick it up in the morning."

She thought about this all the way back into the city, and it finally occurred to her that he intended to spend the night there. At first, she thought it presumptuous of him to think he'd spend the night with her, but then she admitted that she would like nothing better.

He drove Dorothea home, and they helped her inside. They took off her shoes and dress and deposited her on the bed with a sheet over her. Her cat came to inspect his unmoving mistress, curled up beside her legs, and proceeded to purr. Glen and Mary let themselves out.

He drove Mary to her house and found a parking spot for Dorothea's car on the street. He walked her to the door. Saying nothing, she used her key and opened the door. She took his hand to make sure he knew he was welcome inside.

"I'll give you a ride back to your boat in the morning if you'd like to stay here." She hoped that put out the hint without sounding too much like I want to get laid.

He smiled and said, "If you're sure I won't be a bother." She shook her head and looked at his mouth. He bent his lips to hers and kissed her gently at first. Then, as her arms went around him, she opened her mouth, and they began to consume each other.

About four in the morning, she'd felt him move to get up. In the fog of sleep, she knew she didn't want that to happen. She hadn't spent the night with a man in a long while. She was enjoying the cuddling and the holding and the touch of a body next to hers almost as much as she'd enjoyed the way he'd taken her when they made it to her bed, first with his hands. His mouth finally penetrating her and leaving her gasping and incoherent. "Don't go," she mumbled, holding his hand.

"I've got a couple of things to take care of. I'll be at my apartment; it's not far. Come for breakfast about ten." He kissed her cheek.

"Okay." She said, unsure if she was awake or asleep, and then realized he wasn't there.

She woke at about nine and remembered the night and the post-coital glow that hadn't completely faded. There was something about breakfast. She got up and went to the bathroom, hoping that would clear her head. As she was sitting there, she realized the seat was already down when she sat. One more plus for him. She thought she had agreed to have breakfast with him, or did she dream it? She must have dreamed it since she didn't know where he lived.

She walked to the kitchenette to make coffee and found his card beside the coffee maker. It was not a business card, just his name, address, and phone number. The name was crossed through, and his first name was written above it. She looked at that, puzzled. It must be some kind of code. The address was only three blocks away. She could make it.