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"Desmond, I'm sorry. I can't give you the boat."
Glass tinkled. Metal clanged. Wood clattered. Libby's collection of chimes celebrated the wind with a jittery symphony. Their noise obliterated the need for Desmond to respond immediately.
He sagged against her porch rail. The offer had been ludicrous on so many levels he was surprised to be so disappointed. Mulling over their meeting after he left the coffee shop a month ago, he felt he had arrived in New York as the lead character in a nineteenth century dime novel. The type where a kindly benefactress takes a chance on the ragged shoeshine boy and it's all courage, determination and the American Dream. He should have known better. He was not the plucky hero but the cautionary tale, whose fall is a lesson to the reader. Make something of yourself boys, less you end up like crazy old Desmond.
"I see." He couldn't hide the annoyance that slipped into his tone. After all, she might have told him this over the phone and saved him the bus fare from New York to Providence. And now he was stuck in Newport until morning, having missed the last ferry back to the capital.
"Let me write you a cheque instead, get you started."
"No, no. It's fine." He couldn't take her money. The boat had been something different, a sign that he was on course.
"I want to help. It's just the Elizabeth has…"
"Too many memories?"
"Yes." She drew out the word like she was savouring some of those memories presently. Libby tucked her hands into her sleeves, hugged herself. "It's freezing. You've come all this way, the least I can do is make you dinner."
"I should go."
"It's almost ready and I hate to eat alone." She didn't wait for his answer, just disappeared inside. The screen door bounced against the doorframe a few times before closing.
Desmond remained on the porch debating whether he should follow. The warm glow from the hallway beckoned but he hesitated. Being once again under the spell of Libby's generosity would only serve to remind him of his folly, however he knew the shame that rested heavy on his chest would not vanish once he was alone. He reached for the handle and the wind chimes applauded his decision with another frantic dance of disharmony.
Inside was just cozy just as he imagined. He ran his hand along the wainscoting, admiring the careful restoration. Someone had lovingly laboured to return the house to its former glory, resurrecting its colonial charm but banishing the drudges of the past: damp, mould and mouse holes. The wood floors, worn shiny with a century of footsteps, were decorated with colourful braided rugs. Watercolours depicting historic Newport covered the hallway walls: fishermen at the wharf, a red brick schoolhouse and a clapboard tavern. Somewhere deep in the house, a fire burned, spreading out its warmth and a smoky pine scent.
Desmond found Libby in the kitchen under a canopy of bright copper pots, her nose buried in a cookbook.
"I must have made this recipe over hundred times but I always second guess myself," she said, running a finger across the page and glancing at the ingredients strewn across the counter. "Do you like clam chowder?"
"I'm sure I will."
"It's cliché but you can't come to New England without trying it."
"Can I do anything?"
"No, just sit." She gestured to a stool on the other side of the counter. "The broth's been simmering all afternoon. I just need to add the potatoes."
Desmond sat, removed his jacket, and folded it in his lap. "Are you from Newport?"
"No, David was. And let me tell you, he pulled this California beach girl kicking and screaming to the Atlantic."
"Must have been true love."
Libby looked up from her book. "Said by someone who plans to go to the ends of the earth and back for love."
Desmond scratched his head. "Or at least round the bend."
"If it's meant to be, she'll wait for you."
"You should learn to sail," he said, changing the subject. He didn't want to tell Libby that Penny had always been the one waiting for him. He was the one who frequently failed to show up.
"Is that an offer?"
"I wouldn't make a very good teacher."
"Oh, I don't know. My husband was a professor. Teaching terrified him at first but when he left the university he missed his students more than the research."
"What did he teach?"
"Psychology."
"Ah, a head shrinker."
Libby laughed. "That's the reaction which made David hide his profession whenever he met new people. They would either badger him to figure out why they hated their fathers or clam up, afraid to say or do anything for fear of revealing too much about themselves."
"Do you mind me asking how he died?"
"It was an accident," she said simply, not taking her eyes off the potato she was chopping. "At work."
"Oh, I thought you said he got sick."
"He did."
"I'm sorry," he said, unsure of how to reconcile her responses. "That must have been difficult."
The phone rang and Libby looked up in alarm. When she didn't move to answer it, Desmond asked, "Should I get that for you?"
"No." Her grip appeared to tighten on the knife. "It's probably telemarketers."
The ringing stopped but Libby remained frozen. Her mouth hung slightly open and she stared right through Desmond.
"Libby?" When she didn't respond, he reached across the counter and touched her wrist lightly.
Her eyelids fluttered and her face flushed with colour. "I'm sorry. Where were we? You were telling me about your girl." She put down the knife and went to the sink to wash her hands. Desmond watched Libby carefully survey her yard from the window. The phone had done more than startle her, she appeared truly shaken, maybe even frightened.
The phone continued to ring unanswered throughout dinner. Each time it rang, Libby grew tenser and Desmond felt more uncomfortable. He wondered why she just didn't leave it off the hook.
Finally, after the fifth unanswered call, he set his spoon down and asked, "What sort of trouble are you in?"
"Trouble?" she echoed, followed by a hollow laugh. "No trouble. I just don't want anyone to know I'm home."
"Creditors?"
"No, nothing like that." She reached for the wine, refilled her glass, and sighed. "Sometimes, I just wish I could go somewhere and start over. Here, I'll always be poor Mrs. Lapin. Back home I'm just poor Elizabeth… I need a fresh start but your past always follows you, no matter where you go."
"I'm the last person to be handing out advice but I do know this. You might not be able to out run your past but that doesn't mean it has to determine your destination."
"That's what I like about you, Desmond—you're a romantic. Even when you know the glass is half empty…" Libby tilted her glass and the wine sloshed back and forth. "You just pour life into a smaller glass and suddenly it's half full."
Desmond didn't feel her observation was particularly apt or perhaps he recognized it wasn't as flattering as she made it sound. If he kept reaching for smaller glasses eventually the water would spill over and he would be left with none. He made a non-committal noise and concentrated on eating his soup.
They finished the rest of the meal without saying much more. Even though the phone didn't ring again, they both expected it to and listening for held their attention. Desmond itched to leave. He was relieved when she didn't protest his departure immediately after dinner. "Thank you for the chowder. It was lovely."
"A pitiful gesture in the face of what was promised."
"But a much more sensible gift."
"Good luck with everything," she said, leaning her head against the doorframe, clutching his hand. "Boat or no boat, you'll find a way to win her back."
"Maybe it's not about winning." His own statement caught him by surprise. Was he was trying to convince her or himself? "Good-bye."
"Bye."
Outside on the porch, the chimes were silent. The wind was gone but the chill remained. Desmond zipped his jacket and pulled up his collar. As he descended the steps he could hear Libby's phone ringing and felt her eyes on him until he was out of sight.
The further he got from Libby's, the less distracted he was by her potential problems and his mind returned to linger on his own. Instead of finding his way back to the bed and breakfast he had checked into earlier, he followed the salty air and found a bar overlooking the waterfront. As he sampled the ridiculously dull American beer he wondered if the Elizabeth stood among the masts in this harbour.
The race was in seven months. Before, there had barely been enough time to raise the necessary funds, grow comfortable with a new boat and train properly. Now he had wasted a month, pinning all his hopes on a stranger's promise. Should he bother going back to the sleeping bag on the floor of his friend's flat and keep working on the list of potential New York investors? Or should he return home to Aberdeen, take a job in his brother's shop, lock his dreams in a box and throw away the key?
Desmond hung his head. Deep down he knew the race had never been the answer, just a way to delay facing Penny—procrastination mapped out via Brazil, Singapore and Ireland. The smartest thing he could have done after leaving the garrison was to have turned up on her doorstep and begged her forgiveness, not concocted a complicated plan, which even if it all miraculously came together, would guarantee nothing.
These dismal thoughts found him teetering on the steps of the locked guesthouse at 1:00 a.m., waking up the very annoyed proprietor. The accent to which he had charmed his way to a discounted room earlier in day had no affect on her now. If it hadn't have been the off-season and if he hadn't of been her only guest, Desmond would have fully expected to have been thrown to the curb. Instead she let him in with a sermon on human decency worthy of her undoubtedly Puritan ancestors. He solemnly listened and once she left him alone, he collapsed on top of the pastoral bed covers, fully dressed and was asleep almost instantly.
It felt like he had been only sleeping for a few minutes when he was shaken awake. He pried one eye open to see Libby leaning over him. Her hair seemed electrified, as did her eyes. They were ablaze with a manic energy of a lamp lit with excessive wattage.
"Desmond! Wake-up."
His mouth felt like it was full of sponges but even if he had the power to speak he wouldn't have known what to say. He propped himself onto his elbows and saw the disgruntled owner glowering from the corner. "Libby?" he finally managed mumble.
"I have the papers right here. My lawyers made them up weeks ago. Sign them and the boat is yours."
"What?" He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He saw she had thrown a ski jacket over her night gown. "What time is it?"
"Janet, can you leave us?" Libby asked. The owner looked all too ready to relinquish their company.
"How did you know where I was?"
"It's a small island." She sat on the on the edge of his bed and spread the documents over his lap. "I was wrong. You have to take the Elizabeth. It's your destiny."
"My destiny?" He squinted at his watch. It was 3:00 a.m., either too late or too early for speeches about destiny.
"After you left I had time to think. The Elizabeth's not doing either of us any good gathering barnacles." She got off the bed and looked around the room with a slightly stunned expression. Then she smiled brightly and retrieved one of his shoes from floor. "Come on! Get your coat. I'll take you to see her."
Twenty minutes later they stood on the dock. In the moonlight, the Elizabeth seemed no more real in front of him than it had been in his imagination. Desmond gingerly touched her hull. His grandfather once told him that if you listened carefully, a boat speaks to its captain through its sails, tells you where it's been and where it's going. Even without her sails unfurled, Desmond felt the Elizabeth's history seep through his fingers. She could get him where he needed to go.
He reluctantly pulled his hand away. He didn't trust Libby's enthusiasm not to evaporate in the light of day. "If you still feel the same way in a few days, I'll sign the papers."
Libby quivered beside him, either in excitement or from the cold. "It's now or never."
"Are you sure?"
"More than ever. I'm convinced you're meant to fulfil David's dreams, finish his work."
"I don't know what to say."
"Tell me you'll take good care of her."
"I will."
Libby pulled the paperwork and a pen out of her pocket, handed them to him. A strong breeze whistled off the water. The pages folded in the wind and nearly flew out of her hand before Desmond grasped them. There was just enough light reflected off the water to make out the details. She was transferring ownership to him for the price of one dollar. Her signature was dated a week ago.
He held the contract against the hull and scrawled his name where indicated. He pulled out a wrinkled bill from his wallet and handed it to her. "This is the nicest thing anyone has every done for me."
"There's just one catch."
"Yes?"
Libby shuffled her feet back and forth, trying to keep warm. "I want you to remember that you're doing this for yourself, as much as for trying to impress any woman."
He swallowed and looked up at the Elizabeth. He felt very small in the shadow of the boat and even smaller when he considered the sea beneath and the sky above. "All right."
"Win or lose, the journey is what matters. Whatever happens, don't give up hope."
"Thank you, Libby. I won't let you down."
For a moment she looked like she was going to impart more instructions but she just wound her arm around his and said, "Brrrrrr. Let's go home. I'll make us some coffee."
They trudged down the dock and up the hill to Libby's house, heads bent, fighting the wind. It swirled around them, howling a lament for all who refused to bend to its will. By the time they reached the shelter of her porch, the gale had quieted. It crawled like whispers over his exposed skin, wove between the chimes, released them into a gentle dance.
He felt the same delicate chill years later, the day Hurley told him about a woman named Libby. It was one of those afternoons on the beach where the heat settled into your bones and everyone held still, hoping to catch the slightest shift in humidity that masqueraded as a breeze. Even as the sweat dripped down his spine, a layer of invisible frost settled over Desmond when Hurley showed him her grave. He swore he could hear the jingle of chimes stray from the jungle.
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