They spent the day swimming and sunbathing, and had great conversations about authors and movies that they liked. They talked about Casey’s two daughters and Paul’s own childhood.
At 5:00, he produced a bottle of cold chardonnay he’d stored in a special bag with ice packs. He uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass into a clear cup.
“You are amazing,” she said, laughing. “All I brought was a bag of trail mix.”
He took her hand just then and looked into her eyes.
“You know,” he said. “I feel like I’ve known you all of my life. I felt it the minute I walked into your newsroom the other day. It’s funny how that happens sometimes in life—these instant connections we have with people. It’s rare, but when it happens, it’s magical.”
Casey looked up and caught his gaze.
“This is the best afternoon I’ve had in years,” she said. “I feel like I’ve been whisked off to paradise…even though it’s in my own backyard.”
He reached over and kissed her, putting one hand on her cheek. They kissed for a long time, finally leaning back onto the blanket, lying in each other’s arms.
Up above, they could see the sun peeking through the clouds and they pointed out cloud shapes and birds that were flying overhead.
He told her stories about his childhood summers in Mallorca, about the beautiful beaches and people that he’d known. She was mesmerized with his past, and he was taken with her simplicity—the perfect complement to her elegant charm.
The wind began to pick up and Casey sat up to take a look at the sky. Towards the south, a wall of darkness straddled the horizon and Casey realized there were no boats out on the water. They’d all gone in to reach safe harbor. She lamented not keeping an eye on the forecast this morning, and for being so taken with her date that she hadn’t kept up with the threat of a hurricane.
“Paul,” she said, gathering her things, “we have to leave. I thought Hurricane Betsy was going to miss us, and she still might, but it looks to me as if it’s going to be a rough night here. I have to get home and check on the girls and then call the newsroom.”
Paul stood up and looked to the south. The wind blew his thick hair to the side and he smoothed it back with his hands.
“It doesn’t look like I’m going to be going anywhere tomorrow,” he said. “I have to check in on my aunt and then call about my flights.”
Hurricanes never reach the Cape, Casey thought as they headed back down the trail to the car.
She couldn’t help think of the irony that both a hurricane and a warm, sophisticated man had made landfall in the same week.
*****
Back at Casey’s apartment, Bill and Jennifer were preparing the yard for the storm. Bill was putting lawn furniture in the shed and Jennifer was carrying her plants in.
When she and Paul pulled up, Bill waved for them to roll down their windows.
“The eye of the storm is supposed to land in Connecticut,” Bill said as he leaned into the window. “But that’s close enough to give us a big whooping. We’re not going to board the windows this time, but I suggest you go out and get some supplies in a while. You’re going to want some gallon jugs of water and some meals you can make without power in the kitchen.”
“Thanks, Bill,” Casey said getting out of the car. “Let me know what we can do to help.”
She introduced Paul to her landlords and headed inside. They seemed surprised to see her with a man, and Jennifer gave her a little wink as she walked away.
Casey called Robert to see what his plans were with the girls. He lived further inland and they both agreed it would be safer at his house than it was along the coast. Then she called Mark to see what the status of the storm was.
“It’s a category 4 storm,” he said. “That’s a big one, and even though we won’t get a direct hit, prepare for a long couple of days.”
He explained that he was checking the generator at the radio station and that he planned to stay there for the first few days. He asked Casey to plan on coming in on Tuesday at the very latest.
“The wind will start tonight,” Mark said, “and the worst of it will be tomorrow.”
Paul had been on the phone with his aunt, who said she’d taken herself to her sister’s house, which was off Cape Cod and an hour west. She’d tried to reach him in the afternoon, but he’d explained he didn’t have service at the beach.
The only thing left to do was stand in the kitchen and look at one another, not sure whether to be frightened or excited for the time they were stealing together.
They went and gathered supplies at the local store and then went back to Casey’s apartment to settle in for the night. Neither of them discussed the fact that Paul was staying for the interim.
While Casey was preparing shrimp scampi in the kitchen, Paul put on some jazz in the living room and poured them each a glass of wine. In some ways, it felt to Casey like they were playing house, acting as if they’d been together forever. Over dinner, they talked about Casey’s job and her old dreams about working in New York.
“Let me give you a piece of advice,” he said. “I’m ten years older than you and while I do have a few regrets, if I died tomorrow I’d look back at my life with a sense of adventure. I’d feel as if I’d done many of the things I’d wanted to do.”
He took another sip of wine and stared out the window for a bit.
“Listen,” he said. “It’s very noble of you to want to give your daughters stability. But there’s not just one way to skin a cat. I’m sure if you and Robert were creative, you could find a way to let you pursue your dreams without damaging your daughters. You have to count too, Casey.”
Casey took in his words and let out a sigh.
“I’m not so sure you’re right,” she said, “but you’ve given me something to think about.”
They danced to the soft sounds of Ella Fitzgerald in the living room after dinner, holding one another close, watching the leaves dance on the trees. At midnight, the wind picked up and it wasn’t long after that the power went out.
Casey lit some candles and they sat on the porch together in one another’s arms, listening to the wind whistle through the trees.
He turned to kiss her and she was eagerly awaiting him. He was so gentle, and his kindness seemed to come across in everything he did.
“Let’s go to bed,” he said, after a time.
“The safest port in a storm,” Casey said, “is my bed.”
She led him into her room in the dark, blowing out candles as she moved. They lay down in bed together in their clothes, not wanting to take the time to fumble just yet.
For a long while they lay there, gently kissing one another, and after a time he quietly guided her dress over the top of her head.
“I can’t see how beautiful you are in the dark,” he said. “But I can certainly imagine it. I’ve thought of nothing else for days.”
He took off his shorts and his shirt and he found his way to her as the wind reached its highest peak. It sounded as if the storm were a train on its way through the house, rattling the windows as it sped by.
Very slowly he kneeled down in front of her and began to kiss her body, starting at her toes and moving slowly to her knees and then up to her thighs and then her groin.
She cried out into the dark room, lost now in her own desire, both of her hands grasping his head, pushing him further into her sweet wetness.
Before he lost her in the moment, he stood up and quickly took off his clothes, and then he slowly lowered himself on top of her, being careful to be gentle, wanting her to know that his gentleness was his way of telling her that in this moment, she was the only person in his universe, that he wanted nothing more than to stay with here in this room, for a day, for a week---long enough to have her completely, not just to be inside of her, but to have her in a way he’d never had anyone before.
He pushed inside of her and then moved with her, faster and with deliberate intention, being sure she was with him, that their movements were synced, that her moaning matched his in regular rhythm.
They moved together this way, his hands cusped in her hers and their arms stretched above her head, and for a moment they slowed down, afraid that the moment would end, but then she pushed her buttocks up to him, asking him to take her now.
They exploded then, breathing out air that seemed pent up for years, crying out in a thankful cacophony of pleasure. He fell to the bed and grasped her shoulders, held her sweaty body close to his. They laid there together in a silent reverie, composing themselves, staring into one another’s eyes for what seemed like forever.
They made love to the symphony of Hurricane Betsy, their climax competing with the peak of the storm. They fell asleep, not afraid of anything in that moment.
This night, they had each other.
*****
She awoke to hear the rattling of pots and pans in the kitchen and noticed Paul was no longer in bed.
“I lit the stove with a match,” he told her. “You still have gas, just no electricity to light the burner. How do omelets sound?”
“That sounds perfect,” Casey said, looking out the window to survey the damage.
“I spoke to the airlines and delayed my flight until tomorrow,” he told her as he whisked a bowl of eggs. “I hear round two should start sometime this morning—the other side of the eye is coming through.”
They spent the morning doing crossword puzzles on opposite sides of the couch on the porch, their legs wrapped together.
The storm intensified once again and Paul went and grabbed a blanket from Casey’s bed. He wrapped her up to her chin and he settled in beside her, and they lay like that for a while, watching the wind whip through the trips, bending them in half.
It was a beautiful, quiet morning—at least in her head. She was so oddly content with this man.
They talked about when they would see one another again. He described his cabin in Northern California and asked if she could get away soon to visit him.
“I’m working on my next book,” he said, “but I can take a few days off to spend time with you. It’s beautiful where I live. We can take walks and go for a sail one day.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she said, “but I have no vacation time. I use the one week I get every year to visit my parents in Florida with the girls.”
As the day wore on and they discussed ways that they could be in one another’s lives, it became apparent just how helpless their situation was. Their lives were so very different. She was raising children and trying to find a way off Cape Cod, and he was a best-selling writer who traveled often and lived up in the sticks in Northern California. The odd thing was that what they were feeling for another seemed to transcend the realities of life. It was quick and fleeting, yes, but deep and compelling at the same time, and yet, here they were, both reluctantly admitting how hopeless it all seemed.
“I’m not giving up,” he said as he left in the late afternoon. “I want to get to know you more and see where this takes us.”
Casey closed the door and watched him walk down the steps.
She had a feeling she would never see Paul Neal again.
*****
Ten years had passed when Casey saw a review for one of Paul’s new books in the New York Times. She had sporadically kept up with Paul’s life and writing career over the decade and knew he had published a total of five best-selling books.
She was still living on Cape Cod, having decided to put her dreams on hold, still working for WCCB. She had her own house now, though, and was dating a guy who owned a marina in Cataumet.
She and Paul had kept in touch for a few months, but her lack of vacation time and his adventurous life had prevented them from seeing one another again.
One day, several years earlier, she had looked Paul up on the Internet and found he’d written a chapter on being a father in an anthology of stories about parenthood.
She drove all the way to Hyannis to the closest bookstore to buy a copy. She knew that his chapter would describe how he found his way to fatherhood. He had been childless when she met him, having been only married once for a short time.
She still thought of him all of the time and it had broken her heart when their conversations ended.
Their last call he’d been on his way to London where his mother lived and he’d given her the address. She had a gift to send to him—some old poetry books she’d picked up at a used bookstore and some trinkets she’d found in several antique stores on the Cape that had reminded her of him. One was a small wooden boat, similar to the one he’d lost when he was crossing the Atlantic all those years ago.
She’d mailed the gifts with a sweet letter, ending it with a question. “Is there any hope for us?” she’d asked.
Several weeks later, she got her response. While he would never forget the time they spent together, their lives made it impossible to forge a future, he’d said. His answer was no—but in the kindest and most gentle way, he let her down with his words.
She still yearned for him in some strange way. No one she’d ever met since their weekend together had ever made her feel the way he did. He was smart and sophisticated, well-traveled and full of life. It’s not like Cape Cod was full of men like him. Most of the guys she met were fishermen or small business owners. She hadn’t run across another writer since he’d left.