Chapter Eighteen

Most of the guests slept late the next morning, but not Charlie. He was up with the birds, circumnavigating the house with his new stick. He found it both difficult and easy to use at the same time. Across an empty floor, like crossing the great hall, he was able to move at twice—three times—his regular speed. But learning to identify a stair, an entry, a chair, a divan, that proved difficult. Still, it was a godsend to detect furniture without having to shuffle up to it. For the first time, walking outside without terror seemed possible. Distant but attainable. He was elated.

Women’s shoes clicked across the floor as he worked through the grand salon, a room full of furniture. His spirits jumped, hoping it was Violet, and he turned to the door.

“Good morning,” she said.

He felt the familiar push-and-pull, the urge to be near her, and a corresponding need to not be too obvious. Just in case. But he felt like taking risks this morning. Dancing the night before was something he’d remember all his life. He’d replayed it so many times already that he knew it had snagged the weave of his mind and wouldn’t ever come untangled. That was what he was after today. One more bright memory to replay during the long stretches of solitude.

“I have a favor to ask,” he said. “Unless you’re busy this morning?”

“I only want to check in with Alva, but I can do that by telephone,” she replied.

He paused, making sure he wanted to utter these words. “I’d like to go sailing.”

“Oh, with Earl?”

“No, no, not on a yacht. Nothing large. A little skiff, something that can stay close to shore. Do you know how to sail?”

“I can handle a one-man boat like that,” she said. “Grandfather taught us, on Cold Lake. Shall I see if Flora can arrange something at the yacht club? They had a whole fleet of dinghies.”

“Would you? I’m afraid I’ll just be a duffer, so it’ll mean all the work for you.”

“I don’t mind. That sounds fun. Let me go see what Flora can do.”

Within an hour, they were seated side by side in the back of the familiar Rolls-Royce, heading to the yacht club. Charlie’s nose practically quivered when they reached the club’s far side and stepped onto the floating dock. The breeze—not too strong, not too soft—cooled his face. A steward led Violet forward, and she led Charlie, because, he thought, that was the way things were now. He was the caboose.

Violet and the steward had a short discussion about the dinghy, then the steward’s footsteps sounded on the decking.

“This one’s to be ours,” Violet said. “It’s a twelve-footer, mainsail only, so no jib to worry about. Can you stand here a minute while I double check that the centerboard is down?”

She slipped her arm out of his, and Charlie stood alone on the lilting dock, trying to pretend that he wasn’t nervous, that every lift of the planking didn’t feel like a surge.

“We’re all good,” said Violet from somewhere below him. “I think the safest way to get you in is for you to sit on the edge of the dock. Only mind your fingers!”

He sat, aware of what she was up against. She needed to move a blind man from a dock to a boat without him upending the whole business, hitting his head on the boom, or tripping over sails or a line or the tiller. He stretched out one foot cautiously—she caught it and pressed it onto the deck of the boat. As he moved his other foot to join the first, she placed one of his hands on a flat wooden platform—a seat, he realized—and held the other from where she sat on the far side.

“One, two, three?” she asked. He nodded, she counted, and he shifted his weight, keeping as low as possible. “Nicely done! It’s a good thing you’re tall—my legs would never reach the bottom like that. Let me get the sail raised, and we’ll be off. Really, they take all the work out of sailing at this place. They rigged everything for us.”

He sat quietly, his spirit deflated. That had been humiliating. A week ago, he loved having Violet’s arm to guide him, Violet’s hand placing his on the typewriter. Suddenly, her solicitousness made him feel ill. He’d been beginning to think they could carry on together, after this stay at the Breakers, but who was he kidding? It was torture to have her placing his feet. When she was the one woman in the world he wanted to impress.

The sail luffed above him. Water washed against the hull; the sun lifted the smell of varnish from the wood. He wanted to go back. He wanted to be anywhere in the world but here, with anyone in the world but her. She must think him so pitiful.

“There,” Violet said, “I’ve found my seat.” Was she narrating her actions just for him? Of course, she was. It made him feel even worse. “I’ll take the main if you’ll take the tiller.”

Charlie laughed. “Of course, I can’t steer.”

“Au contraire, of course you can. Put it to ten o’clock and let’s pull away from this dock.”

He did as she asked. The little boat bit cleanly when the wind filled the sails—Charlie felt the telltale lunge forward in the pit of his stomach. Violet called out steering changes, and he complied as well as he could. Before he knew it, they were sailing through a stiff breeze, and he hadn’t even had time to be frightened. He was too busy grumbling.

Of course, the second he realized where they were and what they were doing, fear iced over his extremities. He swallowed hard, took it down the wrong pipe, and had a coughing fit.

“Are you all right?” Violet patted him on the back.

“Sure,” he gasped. “I just need to not think about it too hard.”

“The fact that we’re out here, on the water?”

He nodded. They sat in silence for a bit, as the wind tried to blow his worries away.

“It gives me the willies, too,” she said. “If I think about it too much. About Mother and Papa and how they died. I used to love to sail, but I can’t say I pictured myself ever doing it again. So I was glad when you suggested this. Maybe a nice day out will help. But we can go back if you need to. Anytime.”

They sailed on, and he fought to keep his mind on the tiller beneath his hand, the decking under his feet.

“I didn’t think—” he said suddenly. “Should we have brought you a chaperone?”

Her laugh was warm and soft. “I think I can look out for myself.”

“With a blind man, you mean?”

“With any man! I’m old enough to manage my parents’ estate, to have a job, to live alone. Maybe I should worry about my reputation, but I don’t. Whoever I marry will just have to take my word for my purity. If he can’t, then I won’t have him.”

Charlie chuckled. “So, this is a test for future suitors?”

“No.” Her voice sounded odd. Uncomfortable. “I can’t say I’m thinking about future suitors. Only about the here and now.”

He suddenly remembered the feeling of her hand under the sand, and he lifted his hat to catch a breeze. “Perhaps you should be thinking of the future.” He heard the edge in his own voice but couldn’t seem to change it. “The here and now doesn’t show much promise.”

“I think that’s for me to say, don’t you?” Her voice was high and slanted to one side.

“Not if the future of the here and now is all doldrums and agony,” he said. “Oh, hell. Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?”

“Yes. We’re talking about you and me. Aren’t we?”

“We are.” He gave his head a quick shake. He didn’t mean to let his anger seep into his tone.

“And whether we have a future?” She paused. “I say we do.”

A thread of pain shot down his breastbone. Could he answer truthfully? Yes. It was the truth, so he could. “I say we don’t.”

“Why?” Her voice was full of anguish, and for once he was glad not to see her face.

“Because—imagine it. Whoever marries me will take on a burden no wife should bear. Constantly guiding me, leading me, taking me by the arm. Never to have the luxury of being the one who is led. Always having to be the eyes. Train stations, car lots, front stoops. I can’t manage any of these things on my own. I have to be treated like a child—having my face shaved, my hair combed. I can’t write for myself, can’t read for myself. In what way would a woman find an equal partner in me?”

He heard her breathing, discordant with the sound of the waves on the hull. “You’re being unfair. You’re being inaccurate!”

“How?”

“Even now you get around by yourself. Imagine how you’d do within your own house once you were used to it? And this has only just happened to you! Think how independent you might become. If you believe in yourself.” The sail began to luff. “If you have someone who believes in you.”

“If you’re saying I’m not doing enough for myself—”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Well. You may be right. But that doesn’t change the larger issue.”

“Don’t you see, though, I don’t mind walking beside you. Being the eyes. I don’t mind!”

He leaned across the tiller—it cut into his ribs. “But you would come to! It might be fine for a year. Two years. But when you’ve done it for ten years, don’t you think the resentment would build? It would start small, a little sigh, a little grumble in your heart. Then the bitterness would grow. And I would resent you, too!”

He shook his head, his eyes stinging. “It would kill me to feel that way toward you. Even so, I don’t see any way around it. The person who helps me, guides me, does everything for me. I would start off grateful, as I damn well should. But a person can only feel gratitude—feel dependent—for so long.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’d start to resent the very person I loved. And that is the deepest Hell I can imagine.”

She was silent, after that. He tried to straighten up, to feel his hand on the tiller once again, but his veins were full of acid. Violet made a small sound. He put a hand out in her general direction.

“Violet? Are you all right?”

A sniffle.

“Are you crying? Please, don’t cry. I’m hardly worth that.”

She caught his hand and held it tight. Her voice was so soft, he almost didn’t hear. “I think you might be,” she whispered.

“No, no. You deserve someone far finer than me.”

“How do you know you aren’t fine?” He set his jaw, about to respond with the obvious when she cut him off. “And, for pity’s sake, don’t say because you’re blind. You were wounded in war! A war you volunteered for so you could rescue other dying men from the battlefield.” Her voice dropped low, almost to a growl. “Your injury is an honorable one. When you act like it was rum luck—or imply that it was almost your own fault—you denigrate the men whose lives you were saving.”

He sat back. A hot vein throbbed in his neck. Was that true? Did whining about his injury blot the memories of the men who died? The panhandler—his smell, his voice—suddenly sprang to mind. That fellow hadn’t complained. Probably he felt lucky to be alive.

Maybe I need to cultivate more of that. And yet, I hate the darkness more at this moment than ever before. To not be able to see her face!

Still, he was glad he’d said what he said. He’d finally shared the truth with her, the truth of what married life with a man like him would be. It was painful to face it now, in the moment, but over the long haul this was the best course. Now she could be free to fall in love with the man she’d dreamed of. And he was free to…go back to his parents’ house in Baltimore and sink into a life of gin fizzes and solitude.

After a while, Violet spoke, her voice strained. “We might as well come about and head back. I don’t think either of us wants to be out here any longer.”

“No.” He regripped the tiller, nausea boiling in his belly. “Tell me where to steer, and I’ll do it.”

“Hold on a minute, there’s larger boat traffic going by. There may be swells. Here, let’s come into irons and just be ready.”

He put the tiller hard over until the sail luffed noisily. They waited while swells rocked the boat tip to toe. A sudden burst of wind hit Charlie hard in the face, and as it caught the sail, the tiller kicked from his grasp. The boat tipped wildly, pushed by the wind. There was a thud—a small cry—and a splash.

“Violet!” Charlie lunged for her side, the low side, and crashed into the tiller. He flailed, arms stretched as far as they would go, but he found nothing but polished wood. She was gone. Overboard? Had she hit her head? Should he dive in after her?

“Violet!”

His accidental push of the tiller had brought the boat into the wind, but the swell was still tremendous. Charlie pressed his body against the stern of the boat and stretched his arm as far into the water as he could. Nothing. He groped for an oar, bashing his fingers, banging his knees. At last, he got one free and was just heaving it out over the water when a sputtering sound reached him.

“Glory!”

All the blood drained out of Charlie’s body through the soles of his feet. She was alive. His arms, holding the oar, began to tremble.

“Where are you?” he asked. “Can you catch the oar?”

He felt her weight on the oar’s far end and pulled, then dropped it into the boat so he could grasp her hands as they caught the transom.

“My God.” He was nearly hyperventilating. “Are you all right?”

“Cold!” Here teeth were chattering.

“Let’s get you in. May I?” He slid his hands under her arms. “On three?”

At the count of three, she kicked, he hoisted, and she emerged in a rush of water. Wet fabric flopped onto Charlie’s trousers and soaked them instantly. He eased her down onto the seat, fending off the boom with his body. The little boat was heeling badly with both of them on the same side, but he couldn’t bring himself to move one inch away from her. He pulled off his jacket.

“Do you want to lie down? Or—let’s put this on you. You must be freezing.”

Her teeth were still chattering. “Oh,” she said in a small voice, “I’ve lost my hat.”

Charlie exhaled and tried to lower his shoulders. She would be okay. No one on death’s door worried about losing their hat, did they? He tucked his jacket around her shoulders. “We must get you back. Why don’t you sit in the bottom, out of the wind? If you tell me what to do, I’ll try to get us going.” He fumbled his way to the other side of the tiller, feeling the boat come into balance.

“Okay,” she said a moment later. “I’ve got the lines. How about two o’clock.”

In seconds, the boat pushed forward on a reach and all nautical chaos was brought into line. Charlie leaned down, feeling for Violet’s shoulder.

“How are you doing?”

“Cold. Feeling foolish. Hit by the boom like a greenhorn!”

“Never mind that,” he said, snugging the jacket more tightly around her. “You could have died. If you’d been knocked unconscious—”

“I wasn’t.”

“But this just proves my point.” His voice pinched. “A seeing man could have dived in to save you. A seeing man would be able to sail this boat back without your guidance. A seeing man—”

“Hogwash! A man who couldn’t swim couldn’t dive in. A man who can’t sail can’t sail. What, do you expect me to marry some Greek god who can part the waves? I don’t! I hope to marry a flesh and blood man. And that last time I checked, they all have flaws!”

“Not fatal flaws,” he said, teeth clenched tight. She was still shivering, and he leaned down to press his arms on either side of hers. “Most men wouldn’t let you drown when they could do something about.”

“Neither did you! Besides, I can take care of myself. I enjoy taking care of myself. I want a husband for a partner, an ally. I’m not going to keep some burly fellow around just in case I ever fall out of a boat.”

He exhaled, hard. She was being unreasonable. But she did just nearly die. Charlie rubbed his hands up and down her arms. Good God, he had almost died. What would have become of him if she’d never come up for air? He’d have sliced out his own heart and tossed it to the waves. Never mind being stranded in a sailboat alone with no idea which way to sail. His entire sense of self would have disintegrated as he stood there debating whether to dive in. Inside, he was still debating it.

“I should have gone in,” he blurted. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he wiped them on his shirtsleeve. “I should have gone in after you.”

“Why? I can swim.”

“You might have been knocked out cold.”

“But I wasn’t! Stop it! Stop reliving the moment. It’s over and done. I’m fine. We’re both fine. I’m just wet and embarrassed. Good grief, please don’t tell Sadie. She’ll never let me live it down. Hit with the boom, really.”

Her words had plenty of spark in them, but she was shivering badly. He felt, once again, like he was about to vomit. “Is it much farther back?”

“Not too much.”

“Will you handle the tiller as we come in?”

“No, I think you should.” She sounded determined.

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Of course, you can. Don’t be silly. It’s no different from when we went out.”

“Yes, it is!” His mind was slipping, trying to run on black ice. “Everything’s different. You nearly died, and I could do nothing.”

“You did do something! You extended the oar that brought me in.” She caught his hand and held it tight, her voice fierce as an Amazon’s. “We all feel impotent sometimes. I’m sorry you were shaken, but nothing bad actually happened. I’m a strong swimmer.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I should come back after I leave tomorrow. I don’t— I can’t—”

This was far more than feeling impotent. That hellish moment had been an allegory for his future. He would never be able to grasp her hand when she needed it.
Would never catch her when she toppled. What was a husband for if not to provide an arm to lean on, a rescuing hand?

No, this had shown him how his life must be. Solitary. Far from anyone he cared about since he would never be able to spot them in the frothing waves.

–

Violet was bone cold by the time they reached the Breakers. The wind had cut through her wet cotton waist wherever it wasn’t covered by Charlie’s jacket. Worse still, Charlie asked the steward to take her arm through the yacht club and out to the waiting car, while he followed the man with a hand on his shoulder. That chilled her more than the water had.

They rode home in silence. She alternated between glaring out the window and looking across at Charlie, whose face was bowed toward his hands in his lap. Well, if he wasn’t speaking to her, she didn’t need to speak to him. It was so like a man to be hung up on his ability to rescue a woman from peril. Really, what kind of dainty fairy did he think she was? He was looking for an excuse to crawl into his shell, she told herself. Looking for a reason to not carry on with her. He was a fool. An idiot.

He was frightened.

Her heart sighed. That might be true, but it didn’t make her any less angry with him.

When they arrived at the house, she pushed her way inside and hurried upstairs, only pausing to ask a maid if she could have supper on a tray in her room. A hot bath would put her body back together again. The rest of her needed a balm she didn’t know how to find.