Dark Wine Waters - Frances Simone

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as confused as I felt. Terry smiled.

      “No, preaching’s not for me; I realized that after I spent some time working with some Catholic nuns in a poor section of town. But it was a stimulating experience. So I headed to Austin and law school at UT.”

      Then it was my turn. I told him about my extended Italian family, my Catholic education, and time at City College in New York. I rattled off the names of the grammar schools I’d attended, including the one called Fourteen Holy Martyrs.

      “You’re kidding, aren’t you? That was the name of a school? What exactly did the fourteen of them do?”

      “No, I’m not kidding. That was the name of the school. I have no idea what they did, probably burned themselves in oil or jumped from a mountaintop to avoid temptation of the flesh. The Catholics are big on temptation.”

      “So are the Southern Baptists. My mother used to send me to Sunday school at Walnut Hill Baptist Church.”

      “Sounds lovely.”

      “Well, it wasn’t too lovely when they warned us that we’d surely land in hell if we drank and gambled. Guess it didn’t take, because I played a lot of poker when I was in college. Drank a whole lot, too.”

      We touched on geography.

      “I grew up in Bayside, near Long Island. The ocean is in my blood. Someday I’m going to live by the sea.”

      “Then you’d better plan to head out of these mountains someday. You know, I didn’t see the ocean until I was eleven. My mother and I drove from Dallas to visit relatives in Oregon. That was one of the few trips I took as a child.”

      “Not see the ocean until you were eleven? That’s unbelievable. I’m a water baby. There’s a picture of me at Coney Island when I was only eighteen months old. A pudgy little thing with a pot belly sticking out, carrying a pail and shovel. And my grandmother had a summer cottage on Long Island, so we went to the beach all the time. I took swimming lessons from the Red Cross when I was five. I still swim laps at the Y to keep in shape.”

      “Must work. You look pretty good to me.”

      A surge of delight washed over me like a gentle wave, even though I had pretty much invited that compliment. But he hadn’t disappointed.

      Terry mentioned the “big sky” out West. “I sure miss that.”

      “All I know about the West is from the Westerns I watched with my dad when I was a kid. I’ve never been out there.”

      Suddenly, Terry was gone, replaced by a pretty good John Wayne impersonator. “Now, missy, let’s get this straight,” he drawled, exactly like the Duke, even pushing an imaginary cowboy hat further back on his head, and hooking a thumb into his belt. “I’m partial to those movies too. After all, I’m a Texan, and damn proud of it.” (Like every Texan I’ve ever met, he felt entitled to bragging rights.)

      This charming stranger could certainly make me smile.

      And when Terry “returned,” we talked about our recent moves to West Virginia and speculated about how long we might stay. I rambled on too long about my impending divorce. He didn’t interrupt me. “Mind if I get another beer?” he asked.

      I learned that he was a movie buff who favored classics like The Wizard of Oz, It’s a Wonderful Life, Citizen Kane, and The Maltese Falcon. It seemed that movie stars like Tracy, Bogart, Gable, Jimmy Stewart, and Cary Grant were as real to him as the trees that rustled outside the living room window.

      “I actually wanted to go to UCLA to study film, but that seemed unrealistic for a poor kid like me. Also too risky. Not enough security.”

      “You’re still young. Maybe you’ll change careers and go. I read somewhere that people might change careers three times in a lifetime. Are you sorry you became a lawyer?”

      “Well, I’m no Perry Mason. But I’m not too shoddy either. I don’t make piles of money at Legal Aid, but I feel good about what I do. Poor people deserve to be represented. Besides, my office is clean and well lit.” He winked.

      I later discovered that this sensitive child of an alcoholic had mastered the subtleties of nonverbal body language. This served him well in court and at poker games with his cronies. I soon learned that everyone who met Terry was warmed by that self-deprecating humor and calm, courteous manner that was charming me so on that first night. “Yes, sir” and “no, ma’am,” were part of his appeal.

      Bathed in firelight, we lay on pillows in front of the fireplace and gorged on crackers, cheese, and conversation. When the fire faded, Terry hauled logs from the woodpile beside the kitchen door and carefully arranged them on top of the embers. Our eyes danced in the shadows of flickering flames. He sprinkled a fistful of chestnuts in a metal pie plate to roast in the fire. Once they had roasted and cooled, he peeled one and placed it carefully in my mouth. As I tasted the warm, grainy inside of the nut, Terry’s fingers brushed against my cheek. Then he circled the outline of my lips with his index finger and stroked my chin. He leaned forward to kiss me. Sweet, gentle, innocent.

      Slightly embarrassed, we chuckled like kids caught in their own delight. Not sure of what to do next, I headed to the kitchen to replenish cheese and crackers. Terry followed and gathered more logs. We repositioned ourselves in front of the fire. Surely soft music played in the background, but I can’t recall a song or melody. Perhaps Johnny Mathis or Nat King Cole.

      “Oh, my God. It’s so late; it’s almost 4:00 a.m.,” I said.

      “Guess it’s time for me to be leaving. You won’t mind if I take this last beer with me? One for the road.”

      As we stood face-to-face in the dim light of the entry hall, he whispered, “Can I kiss you again?” He lifted my chin, leaned down and kissed my lips. Again, sweet and tender. Then he grabbed his lumber jacket and opened the front door. As he turned to leave, he saluted me like Bogart.

      “Here’s to you, kid.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Let’s do this again, sweetheart.”

      I lingered in the hall, watching as he walked up the front path toward the road. Then he climbed into his ancient Plymouth Fury and revved the engine. Gravel rattled. My heart raced.

      I tossed the empty beer cans into the garbage and thought, boy, that guy drinks a lot of beer. Then I glanced at Matt’s calendar. October 3—a gold-star day.

       Sea of Desire

      It is difficult to know at what moment love begins; It is less difficult to know that it has begun.

      Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

      A month later on a brisk, cloud-free day, Terry and I walked hand-in-hand through downtown Charleston, heading for his apartment. Our conversation turned to his junior year abroad in Copenhagen in 1970.

      “I loved it,” he said. “My first time away from Texas, except for that trip to Oregon with my mother I told you about. I explored the breweries and drank huge amounts of free beer. My research project, so to speak. I chased after young women, without much success. Austin College had some connection with an international school there. Mainly we’d sit around and shoot the breeze in so-called seminars. We had plenty of time to travel. I bought a scooter and ran around with a classmate. Guy named Aubrey. We went to France, Italy, Sweden. Stayed in youth hostels and cheap hotels. I had very little money.”

      “Wow! Europe. I’ve never been,” I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “One of my college friends was born in Italy. She used to visit relatives. My grandparents emigrated from Sicily.” The words were pouring out of me, from nervousness, or embarrassment, or some combination of both. “Don’t think anyone from the family still lives there. I’d love to go to Italy. Heck, I’d like to go almost

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