Kathleen Valentine by My Last Romance, other passions Page A
Authors: My Last Romance, other passions
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has taught me how passionately it is possible to feel love.
Thump-thump. My head snaps up to a grin and a wave from Eddie, the short, bald, snaggle-toothed man who is Stash’s assistant manager. He is heading down the street to his day job as a guard at the whaling museum. Eddie likes me. He turns red and inarticulate whenever he tries to talk to me. Now he blows a cloud of blue steam into the frigid air, turns up the collar of his peacoat, and trots off.
I sigh, trembling slightly. This neighborhood, with all its wounds and warts has become warm and familiar. The cobblestone street slants down to the docks where deep-water fishing vessels sit rusting in the frigid sunlight waiting for the crew that will guide them back out to George’s Bank or the Grand Banks where their livings are earned. For men between bunks, in need of a clean bed, some hot food, and a friendly ear, the Seaman’s Haven is easily accessible and welcoming. The city established the Haven long before the Civil War when restless bands of homesick seamen were a nuisance, and possibly a threat to the city’s carefully cultivated peace. Today, civic minded groups continue to support the Haven though it seems to be less and less in demand. Still it is rare night when there is no one waiting when the doors open at five in the afternoon and sometimes all twenty-eight beds are occupied. It stands quiet now, its uncurtained windows looking fearlessly at the distant blue.
The first time I drove up here I thought the house was sad and a bit forlorn but now, thanks to the many hours of absolute ecstasy I have spent snug inside her, she looks splendid to me. A battered figurehead of an Indian Chief, from some long scuttled barque, arches ferociously above the door. Eddie will have locked the front door on his way out. The Haven is just that, a haven, and is closed every day from nine to five to discourage rootless mariners from becoming too comfortable here. But the side door will be open.
I slip into the warm silence and inhale the winsome fragrance of ancient wood, morning coffee, and men. Only two sounds invade the space, the steady tick-tock of a sea captain’s clock on the fireplace mantle in the common room and a steady thumping sound, crockery moving back and forth on wood, that comes from the kitchen.
He stands in the light-filled kitchen. Everything here is simple—plain, scrubbed wood, undraped tables, walls covered with unframed charts and maps. This could as easily be a Shaker meeting room or a monastery.
His back is to me as he bends over the table. His arms and shoulders move steadily, rhythmically, and I realize he is kneading bread dough in a glazed brown bowl sitting on a folded linen towel. Whish-thump, the bowl rocks back and forth on the table under the expert movements of his big hands. Whish-thump.
I step quietly toward him, slide my arms around his waist, and snuggle as close as I can get, pressing my face into the rough wool of his well-felted sweater.
"I smelled your perfume," he says and from the tone of his voice I know he is smiling.
"I couldn’t wait to get her today," I say, kissing his back between his big shoulder blades. "I’ve wanted you all morning."
He turns holding his sticky, dough-caked hands out and away. He sits on the edge of the table and lets me cuddle close wrapping his forearms around my shoulders. I kiss him. God, I love his face! It is hard and lined and bony with a nose and jaw that are too big and eyes that are like hematite nuggets set under bushy, untameable brows. Everything about Stash has a wildness to it, a rocky, brokenness just on the edge of ruin, and yet so delicious in its wanton imperfection.
"You didn’t come to work then?" he teases. His eyes twinkle and I am lost.
I kiss his mouth and he kisses back gently, sweetly. "I want to go to bed." I feel bold and wicked speaking my desires to him—a boldness I would never dare with my husband.
He smiles and turns back to his bread dough. It is
Thump-thump. My head snaps up to a grin and a wave from Eddie, the short, bald, snaggle-toothed man who is Stash’s assistant manager. He is heading down the street to his day job as a guard at the whaling museum. Eddie likes me. He turns red and inarticulate whenever he tries to talk to me. Now he blows a cloud of blue steam into the frigid air, turns up the collar of his peacoat, and trots off.
I sigh, trembling slightly. This neighborhood, with all its wounds and warts has become warm and familiar. The cobblestone street slants down to the docks where deep-water fishing vessels sit rusting in the frigid sunlight waiting for the crew that will guide them back out to George’s Bank or the Grand Banks where their livings are earned. For men between bunks, in need of a clean bed, some hot food, and a friendly ear, the Seaman’s Haven is easily accessible and welcoming. The city established the Haven long before the Civil War when restless bands of homesick seamen were a nuisance, and possibly a threat to the city’s carefully cultivated peace. Today, civic minded groups continue to support the Haven though it seems to be less and less in demand. Still it is rare night when there is no one waiting when the doors open at five in the afternoon and sometimes all twenty-eight beds are occupied. It stands quiet now, its uncurtained windows looking fearlessly at the distant blue.
The first time I drove up here I thought the house was sad and a bit forlorn but now, thanks to the many hours of absolute ecstasy I have spent snug inside her, she looks splendid to me. A battered figurehead of an Indian Chief, from some long scuttled barque, arches ferociously above the door. Eddie will have locked the front door on his way out. The Haven is just that, a haven, and is closed every day from nine to five to discourage rootless mariners from becoming too comfortable here. But the side door will be open.
I slip into the warm silence and inhale the winsome fragrance of ancient wood, morning coffee, and men. Only two sounds invade the space, the steady tick-tock of a sea captain’s clock on the fireplace mantle in the common room and a steady thumping sound, crockery moving back and forth on wood, that comes from the kitchen.
He stands in the light-filled kitchen. Everything here is simple—plain, scrubbed wood, undraped tables, walls covered with unframed charts and maps. This could as easily be a Shaker meeting room or a monastery.
His back is to me as he bends over the table. His arms and shoulders move steadily, rhythmically, and I realize he is kneading bread dough in a glazed brown bowl sitting on a folded linen towel. Whish-thump, the bowl rocks back and forth on the table under the expert movements of his big hands. Whish-thump.
I step quietly toward him, slide my arms around his waist, and snuggle as close as I can get, pressing my face into the rough wool of his well-felted sweater.
"I smelled your perfume," he says and from the tone of his voice I know he is smiling.
"I couldn’t wait to get her today," I say, kissing his back between his big shoulder blades. "I’ve wanted you all morning."
He turns holding his sticky, dough-caked hands out and away. He sits on the edge of the table and lets me cuddle close wrapping his forearms around my shoulders. I kiss him. God, I love his face! It is hard and lined and bony with a nose and jaw that are too big and eyes that are like hematite nuggets set under bushy, untameable brows. Everything about Stash has a wildness to it, a rocky, brokenness just on the edge of ruin, and yet so delicious in its wanton imperfection.
"You didn’t come to work then?" he teases. His eyes twinkle and I am lost.
I kiss his mouth and he kisses back gently, sweetly. "I want to go to bed." I feel bold and wicked speaking my desires to him—a boldness I would never dare with my husband.
He smiles and turns back to his bread dough. It is
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