directly across from Jim, sat Maureen.
The two women debated shoe styles. The old Commodore had completely disengaged. He stared past his wife toward the Atlantic, watching the two racing motorboats and farther beyond, the lone sloop.
Jim sipped Sauvignon Blanc and leisurely spooned the heavenly chowder into his mouth. Kathleen prepared the seafood chowder before their arrival, but had gone to the market only for more dill. Jim suspected the old man had been keen to leave Maureen behind at the house by any means so that he and Jim could talk business and Walter would be free to relate a bawdy or gore-filled joke, tale, or pun.
Listening with half an ear, Jim stared at his bowl. The women switched their discussion to jewelry. The contrast in voices caught his attention. Kathleen's Rhode Island accent carried inflections borne of Italian and Portuguese immigration and a location between Massachusetts and New York City. Her voice was more mellow and lower than her daughter's. Maureen's voice was younger and more lilting, but just as authoritative.
Jim shot two successive glances at the duo, taking in their faces, hair, clothes, and positions at the table. He chuckled inwardly as he contemplated that he did indeed harbor some guilty but nevertheless understandable attraction to the mother, a dead ringer for a middle-aged Raquel Welch, with the same nostrils that often flared sensually, the same lynx-like eyes harboring an inner fire. That last feature she had passed on to Maureen.
Kathleen Silva Burgoyne must have wielded that allure when, as a girl of twenty-seven, she snagged Walter, fifty-two, lightly graying, tall and strapping, and newly retired. Half French and the remainder mostly Portuguese with a dash of Wampanoag Indian, Kathleen first met Walter at a coffee breakfast at the Our Lady of the Assumption Catholic Church in Osterville. Jim had forgotten how the rest of it went.
"So Walter, Kathleen," Jim said. "Can someone tell me the story of how you met at church?"
"Well, Walter had just been discharged," Kathleen began, "and had returned to his father's estate here on Cape Cod."
Jim noticed she omitted mentioning Walter's first wife had passed a few years before the move.
"Walter rarely missed Mass, rarely missed an opportunity for a doughnut, so he inevitably found himself in the parish hall, where—"
"I was chatting with my new friend, Father Higgins, who suddenly mentions he needs 'to give in to the sin of gluttony and find those doughnuts.' He whispers for me to follow him, that he wants me to meet this young parishioner here for the summer. I see this twenty-something, beautiful, somewhat exotic woman, arranging the doughnut tray on the table. Kathleen starts blushing at me, and—"
"But what did you say to me to make me blush?" Kathleen said.
"Can you help a poor sailor?!" Walter yelled and pounded the table with his fists.
Jim and Walter and Kathleen laughed in unison. Maureen looked at them, from one to another, with an expression of bewilderment.
"Then," Kathleen said, raising her beautifully arched eyebrows, "Father goes, 'This captain returned from a long voyage and needs some breakfast!' I offered Walter a doughnut, and then another one. We spoke of my summer job at this Hyannis boutique and of my Osterville friends I was staying with for the summer. I'd come to the Cape a month before to learn sailing. My father had taught me to motorboat on the Sakonnet and the Narragansett in Rhode Island but I knew little about sailing. I had said the right thing—but as Walter often jokes—I could have said anything."
Jim took another spoonful of the chowder.
"To your liking, eh, Jim?" Kathleen said. "If only you could see your face!"
"I've seen him eat it at two different restaurants in a single day," Maureen said. "But I know Jim and all his funny mannerisms. He's really enjoying that right now."
"It's amazing, Mrs. Henretty, really."
"Please call me Kathleen! I'm not that old yet! But Walter?"
The two women debated shoe styles. The old Commodore had completely disengaged. He stared past his wife toward the Atlantic, watching the two racing motorboats and farther beyond, the lone sloop.
Jim sipped Sauvignon Blanc and leisurely spooned the heavenly chowder into his mouth. Kathleen prepared the seafood chowder before their arrival, but had gone to the market only for more dill. Jim suspected the old man had been keen to leave Maureen behind at the house by any means so that he and Jim could talk business and Walter would be free to relate a bawdy or gore-filled joke, tale, or pun.
Listening with half an ear, Jim stared at his bowl. The women switched their discussion to jewelry. The contrast in voices caught his attention. Kathleen's Rhode Island accent carried inflections borne of Italian and Portuguese immigration and a location between Massachusetts and New York City. Her voice was more mellow and lower than her daughter's. Maureen's voice was younger and more lilting, but just as authoritative.
Jim shot two successive glances at the duo, taking in their faces, hair, clothes, and positions at the table. He chuckled inwardly as he contemplated that he did indeed harbor some guilty but nevertheless understandable attraction to the mother, a dead ringer for a middle-aged Raquel Welch, with the same nostrils that often flared sensually, the same lynx-like eyes harboring an inner fire. That last feature she had passed on to Maureen.
Kathleen Silva Burgoyne must have wielded that allure when, as a girl of twenty-seven, she snagged Walter, fifty-two, lightly graying, tall and strapping, and newly retired. Half French and the remainder mostly Portuguese with a dash of Wampanoag Indian, Kathleen first met Walter at a coffee breakfast at the Our Lady of the Assumption Catholic Church in Osterville. Jim had forgotten how the rest of it went.
"So Walter, Kathleen," Jim said. "Can someone tell me the story of how you met at church?"
"Well, Walter had just been discharged," Kathleen began, "and had returned to his father's estate here on Cape Cod."
Jim noticed she omitted mentioning Walter's first wife had passed a few years before the move.
"Walter rarely missed Mass, rarely missed an opportunity for a doughnut, so he inevitably found himself in the parish hall, where—"
"I was chatting with my new friend, Father Higgins, who suddenly mentions he needs 'to give in to the sin of gluttony and find those doughnuts.' He whispers for me to follow him, that he wants me to meet this young parishioner here for the summer. I see this twenty-something, beautiful, somewhat exotic woman, arranging the doughnut tray on the table. Kathleen starts blushing at me, and—"
"But what did you say to me to make me blush?" Kathleen said.
"Can you help a poor sailor?!" Walter yelled and pounded the table with his fists.
Jim and Walter and Kathleen laughed in unison. Maureen looked at them, from one to another, with an expression of bewilderment.
"Then," Kathleen said, raising her beautifully arched eyebrows, "Father goes, 'This captain returned from a long voyage and needs some breakfast!' I offered Walter a doughnut, and then another one. We spoke of my summer job at this Hyannis boutique and of my Osterville friends I was staying with for the summer. I'd come to the Cape a month before to learn sailing. My father had taught me to motorboat on the Sakonnet and the Narragansett in Rhode Island but I knew little about sailing. I had said the right thing—but as Walter often jokes—I could have said anything."
Jim took another spoonful of the chowder.
"To your liking, eh, Jim?" Kathleen said. "If only you could see your face!"
"I've seen him eat it at two different restaurants in a single day," Maureen said. "But I know Jim and all his funny mannerisms. He's really enjoying that right now."
"It's amazing, Mrs. Henretty, really."
"Please call me Kathleen! I'm not that old yet! But Walter?"
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