A jovial old man with a yellow Ben Hogan cap, a weatherworn face, and tan hearing aids welcomed us warmly.
“Rodney Norcross,” he said, brushing dandruff off one shoulder of his brown sweater, “but everybody calls me Pop. Even the codgers who’ve been coming here since just after the war. That’s World War II, Harry S. Truman’s triumph, or his catastrophe, depending on how you look at it.” He inspected the registry log. “You must be . . . uh . . . Arthur Holmes,” he said to me.
“That’s me,” I replied. “Art Holmes, sir.”
“Thanks for the sir, son, but just Pop’ll do. Popadoodledoo.” He laughed a grab-your-suspenders laugh, showing well-made false teeth. Turning to Ginny, he asked, “And you are . . .”
“Watson,” Ginny offered, filling in the blank. “Ginny Watson.” Pop slapped the book and laughed again. “How ’bout that? Holmes and Watson. You two answer an ad in the personals?”
Pop winked at me. “I ’spect you’re gonna pay me in cash, Art, aren’t ya?”
“Yup,” I said, pulling out my wallet, sharing the laugh. It was hard not to like the old barnacle. I handed him a thousand dollars. “We don’t know how long we’ll be here, Pop. Will this get us going?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, taking the money. “I’ll hang on to it for ya. But what are you getting two places for anyway? Did you have an argument? Hell, I shouldn’t be asking. At least get a little closer while you’re here. How about Same Time and Next Year?”
“You named them after the movie?” I asked excitedly.
“What, you think I’m a dope?” Pop answered. “Course I did. Used to be one cabin, then I separated it down the middle. Now there’s two of ’em. One’s Same Time and the other’s Next Year. They’re adjoining. Real nice. Way off over there by themselves on the cliff overlooking the water, and they just happen to be vacant. Only four hundred a night each. For you, seven-fifty for both.”
Ginny gnawed her finger, waiting. She sidled six inches closer to me.
Pop threw me a grin. “She’s hooked,” he said. “You got no choice, Holmes.”
I agreed.
Pop slapped the register again. “I’m a born salesman,” he said to the world. “P. T. Barnum got nothing on me. Better heavy up the down payment, Mr. Holmes. Another grand ought to do it, just in case you stay a while or wreck the place. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“Which one?” I asked.
“Course you wouldn’t. We haven’t had trouble here since Baby Face Nelson hid out in the old cabin.”
Ginny’s eyes widened. “The gangster?”
“Oh, I was a rooster back in those days,” Pop said, reminiscing. “I let him hole up here for a while just for the fun of it. Hell, he couldn’t have set foot on the property without me knowing about it, though naturally I never said that to the buttons. Yep, this place is Fort Pops, all right, the whole thirty-seven acres of it.”
I handed him another thousand, which he fanned out like a card-sharp before stashing it with the other cash in his pocket.
“That’s two thousand down for Mr. Holmes,” he said, making a note in the book. “I’ll get your keys, not that you need ’em. Nobody disturbs anybody in my sphincter . . . I mean my sector,” he chortled. “Must have forgot to take my Metamucil with lunch.”
He escorted us to the front door, handed us a map with our adjoining cottages circled, tipped his hat, and wished us a very good night.
Ginny and I hopped in the Jag for the last time that day and slowly wound our way down the gravel driveway to our rooms; I gripped the wheel tighter than normal, feeling a much-heightened awareness of her presence next to me.
We extracted ourselves and our belongings from the car to the sound of pounding surf. The cottage was set among the trees, dividedin two, with weathered siding, a split-level roof, and brick chimneys on each side. An Abe Lincoln special, or a Cape Cod condo.
I’d left the headlights on so we could see what we were doing. A cool breeze rustled the foliage, blowing a wisp of hair across Ginny’s moist lips. The thin fabric of her dress clung to her, showing the outline of her hips. I imagined tossing the keys into the woods, tearing her clothes off, and ravaging her right there in the headlights till the battery went dead, or I did.
I extended my palm, both sets of keys in it. “Which will it be, Ginny,” I said as casually as I could, “Same Time or Next Year?”
Ginny covered my hand with hers, a question in her eyes.
I stepped back involuntarily. She closed the distance, sliding the fingers of her free hand into my pocket, pulling me closer to her. Her knuckles pressed against my hip. My pants felt too tight.
I raised my eyes skyward, saw moonlight, dappled leaves.
My eyes met Ginny’s.“No,” I uttered, pulling away.
Her face pinched down. Tears welled up in her beautiful eyes. She wiped them away.
“Give me Same Time,” she demanded, sticking a hand out. “I don’t know if I’ll be alive next year.”
I couldn’t breathe. Just stood there stonelike.
Silently, I let go of the key.
