“Yes.” He slouched deeper into the chair, his chin almost on his chest, and stared at his feet stretched out before him.
“That’s what religion is for, Jake. It teaches us to live with mistakes we think we can’t live with.” She touched his arm. “That’s God’s grace.”
“Well, I’m no chaplain.” Jake sat silently watching the moonset, then finally levered himself from his chair and went inside.
Callie sat and watched the moon’s glow fade as it slipped lower and lower into the sea. When she heard him dialing the phone, she stepped in through the open door.
“This is Captain Grafton. Who am I talking to?”
She knew he must be on the phone to the beach duty officer at fleet landing.
“Okay, Mr. Mayer. I want you to get on the radio to the ship, talk to the OOD. Ready to copy? Have the senior chaplain aboard tonight go see Commander Majeska immediately. Tell the chaplain it is an urgent request from me. That’s it. Got it?” He listened a moment, muttered his thanks, then hung up.
“John Majeska?” she asked.
He nodded miserably and gathered her into his arms.
Judith Farrell was sitting in a corner of the hotel bar facing the door when Toad Tarkington walked in, saw her, and came her way. There were two couples seated at tables in the windowless, paneled room, and several men stood at the bar chatting with the bartender. An opera murmured from the radio on the ledge behind the bar.
“May I sit down?” Toad dropped into a chair before she could answer. “Listen, I owe you an apology. Several apologies, in fact. Tonight I was just trying to move you out so Captain Grafton and his wife could have some time alone together. Honest, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ve got two sisters who have fought like hell for decent jobs, so I know how hard it is for women to find them.”
“Did you come here just to say that to me?”
He nodded. “And to buy you a drink. Please, will you accept my apology?”
“Ah reckon,” she drawled thickly.
He leaned back and laughed. “Thanks. Maybe we should start over. I’m Toad Tarkington.” He stuck out his hand.
She took it, and he found her hand was dry, warm and firm. “I’m Judith Farrell, Mr. Tarkington.”
“Call me Toad. Everyone does.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Robert.”
“Why did you really come back to the hotel this evening, Robert?”
“To apologize. You’re a nice lady and I felt pretty miserable.”
“Oh. I was sitting here thinking you might have had a romantic motive.”
Tarkington flushed. “Well, I confess that the possibility of a little romance might have been lurking somewhere way back there amid the cobwebs in the attic. After all, if you were some ugly old matron with three chins, I would have been nicer to you in the first place and my conscience wouldn’t have squirmed and writhed and tortured me so.”
She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, and her eyes twinkled. “You impress me as a man who knows a lot of girls, but not many women.”
“I know one or two,” Toad said, well aware that he was on the defensive, yet unable to keep silent.
“You see them as girls. Soft, cuddly little things.”
It was true. He stared uncomfortably across the table. In the past, one or two of his female acquaintances had thrown down this gauntlet and he had walked away, unwilling to discuss his feelings. The urge to leave was there now, but there was something else, too. This Judith Farrell …
The bartender came to the table and they ordered.
Small talk, Toad thought, small talk. Chat with her, man. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything to say. She broke the silence. “How long have you been in the navy?”
He opened his mouth and his life story came pouring out. In a few minutes he realized he was making a fool of himself. He didn’t care. He gestured and tried to say witty things and kept his eyes on her as she smiled appropriately and watched his face.
The drinks came and he paid. By now she was talking and he found her comments deliciously humorous.
Judith Farrell was certainly no girl. She was a mature, adult woman, happy with life. Perhaps contented was the word. He found her enchanting.
Then, in the middle of a vignette about her family, she gathered her purse in her left hand and pushed her chair back a millimeter. She finished the tale with a flourish and as he laughed, stood up.
“Do you have to go?”
She nodded. “I’m glad we had a chance to get to know each other.”
“Could we see each other again?” Toad stood. “Listen, I …”
She reached out and her fingertips grazed his arm. “Goodbye, Robert.” Her high heels clicked on the polished floor as she walked away.
Toad watched her go, then sank back into his chair. She had scarcely touched her drink. His glass was empty. He waved at the barkeeper, and failed to notice the man in his early forties wearing a gray pinstripe suit who set his empty glass on the bar and strolled out, less than a minute behind Judith.
What had he said that struck her wrong? Dejected, he sat contemplating the chair where she had been.
15
The September haze obscured the sky, except for a pale, gauzy blue patch directly overhead. Here and there the tops of fluffy little clouds could be discerned embedded in the insubstantial whiteness. The haze completely obscured the peaks of the two islands that formed the gate to the Bay of Naples, Capri and Ischia. Looking toward the coast, one could make out the major features of the Naples estuary, but the coastline north and south merged into this gray-white late-summer mixture of moisture, smoke, and North African dust.
Toad Tarkington strolled along the flight deck of the
“Women!” he grumped to himself. Just when your life is flowing along like smooth old wine, a woman shows up.
Women are like cars, he told himself as he meandered along with his hands in his pockets, automatically weaving around the parked aircraft and their webs of tie-down chains, looking only at the gray steel deck in front of his shoes. There are the old sedans, he decided, dowdy and faded, the Chevys and Fords of the world that putter along and get you there for as long as you want to go, not too fast and not in style, but dependable. Then there are the racy Italian jobs that can rip up to warp three in a heartbeat, wring out your skinny little ass, and leave you broken and bleeding beside the road. And finally, there are the quality machines, the Mercedes of the world, the ones that go fast or slow in elegant style, that last forever, and you are exultantly happy with all of your days.
Judith Farrell was a Mercedes, he decided. His Ms. Farrell was not some cheap crackerjack hot rod for a flashy Saturday night date, but a quality piece of design, engineering, and workmanship. She had character, brains, wit, beauty, and grace. He thought about the way she moved, how her hips swayed slightly — but not too much — above her long, shapely legs, how her hair accented the perfect lines of her face, how her breasts rose and fell inside her blouse as she breathed. How her lips moved as she spoke. How she smiled. Just thinking about her was enough to make a man sweat.
And you dumped all over her, fool! Not just once, not just the first time you met her. Oh no. You did it twice. Providence gave you a second chance and you blew that too. You idiot!
He descended into the catwalk that surrounded the flight deck and leaned on the rail just above the forward starboard Phalanx mount. Immediately below him a barge lay tied to the side of the ship, but Toad took no notice.
