Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson

sail to Tarpaulin Cove?”

Three
    “You’re sailing with whom?” Whitney’s mother asked her.
    “A guy named Benjamin Blaine. I met him at the beach, and it turns out he’s caretaking the place next door.”
    “But what do you know about him?”
    Stirring her coffee, Whitney tried to preempt further inquiry. “That he goes to Yale, and campaigned for Bobby Kennedy. I also assume he can sail a boat.”
    Her mother gave her a brief sharp look. “Have you told Peter?”
    “This isn’t a date,” Whitney answered briskly. “Or the Dark Ages. I’m sure it’s fine with Peter if I go sailing.”
    “Still, I wonder that you have time. The wedding gifts are piling up, and so are the thank-you notes. Best to write them now, while you can, rather than dash off hasty scribbles that sound like a form letter. Once you’re married, you’ll be busier than you know.”
    “It’s three months yet, Mom. I’ll catch up.”
    “We should also consider a wedding tent,” her mother persisted, “in case of rain. A light blue canvass might not look quite so sodden.”
    “You really do think of everything,” Whitney responded, glancing at her watch. “I’d better run. I’m supposed to be in Edgartown at nine.”
    Whitney felt Anne’s dubious gaze follow her out the door.
    Clasping her hand, Ben helped pull Whitney from the dinghy onto the deck of the sailboat, trim and perfectly maintained. “It’s beautiful,” Whitney said.
    “It’s a Cal 48, forty feet long, and built for speed. Usually, the Shipleys race it in the July regatta—I crewed for them in high school. But they’re gone this summer, and I’ve got no heart for racing.”
    As if to underscore the last remark, Ben grew silent, focused on rigging the sails. In minutes they were heading across the water toward Tarpaulin Cove with Ben at the helm. The day was bright and clear, and a headwind stirred his curly hair; absorbed in sailing, he barely seemed aware of Whitney sitting near the stern. While she did not mind the quiet, it felt as though he was playing the role of her indifferent crew. Then he finally spoke. “I wonder how many more times I’ll get to do this.”
    “Because of the draft?”
    Ben kept scanning the water. “Because of the
war
,” he said harshly. “What a pointless death
that
would be.”
    Uneasy, Whitney thought of Peter’s safe haven in the National Guard. “You don’t believe we’re the firewall against Communism?”
    His derisive smile came and went. “If you were some Vietnamese peasant, would you want to be ruled by a bunch of crooks and toadies? To win this war, we’d have to pave the entire country, then stay there for fifty years. And if we lose, what does that mean to us? That the Vietnamese are going to paddle thousand of miles across the Pacific to occupy San Francisco?”
    Whitney had wondered, too. She chose to say nothing more.
    The day grew muggy. Running before the wind, Ben headed toward Tarpaulin Cove, the shelter on an island little more than a sand spit. Hand on the tiller, he seemed more relaxed, his brain and sinews attuned to each shift in the breeze. It was not until theyeased into the cove that Ben spoke to her again. “I brought an igloo filled with sandwiches and drinks. Think the two of us can swim it to the beach?”
    “Sure.”
    Stripping down to her swimsuit, Whitney climbed down the rope ladder and began dogpaddling in the cool, invigorating water. Ben peeled off his T-shirt and dove in with the cooler, his sinewy torso glistening in the sun and water. Together, they floated it toward the shore, each paddling with one arm. At length, somewhat winded, they sat on the beach as the surf lapped at their feet. The Vineyard was barely visible; they had come a fair distance, Whitney realized, and yet the trip seemed to have swallowed time. This must be what sailing did for him.
    For a time Whitney contented herself, as he did, with eating sandwiches and sipping a cool beer. Curious, she asked, “Is