“Everything all right here?” A voice pushes into her rage. Mr. Shipyard is elbowed up to the bar, a faded plaid shirt buttoned haphazardly, hair darkening his already deeply tanned chest. He looks at the beer bottle whose neck she’s wringing and smiles cautiously, like someone who’s trying to befriend a feral cat.
Cece tells herself to release her grip, but she finds herself unable. “Hi” is all she manages.
“You’re Lorraine’s friend, right? I’ve seen you on our block,” he says, and points to Cece’s beer when the bartender comes over.
“No,” Cece blurts out, “not a friend. I’m just renting her pool house.” She needs to put as much distance as she can between her and the resident crazy. “It’s a temporary arrangement.”
If he’s dissatisfied with the vague answer, Mr. Shipyard doesn’t show it, asking if she’s waiting for someone.
Just you, Cece wants to say, but instead she takes a long swig of her beer and shakes her head. At the moment, she’s got the power, the high ground, or at least that’s how she feels, and she’d like to hold on to that feeling, a feeling she’d nearly forgotten, for as long as possible. Be cool; be aloof, pretend this wasn’t exactly what she was hoping for when she drove downtown. “You live around here?”
Mr. Shipyard reaches over the bar and snags a handful of paper napkins. His arms are somehow even larger up close. He rubs the top of his beer clean. “I’m a few houses up from you. The Cape. Currently under construction. A real eyesore, I know.”
Cece orders another beer and a water. She needs to keep her head clear. They touch glasses. The bar’s emptied out, Waits replaced by the Yankees game, which is tied up in the eighth. Mr. Shipyard doesn’t glance at the television, which Cece appreciates, even though she’s not in any kind of position to care. The old-timers nearby are arguing about whether Aaron Judge is Black.“The kid is White—just look at his skin.” “Yeah, but what about the hair?” If he hears them, Mr. Shipyard doesn’t let on. With his salt-and-pepper beard and deep tan, it’s hard to tell, but something about the subtle flatness of his nose and almost-wavy hair makes Cece wonder about his background.
“So, you’re teaching up at the college?” he asks, giving his beard a scratch.
Cece can’t help but stare at his hands, calloused and roughed up every which way. “Do I really look that snobby?”
Mr. Shipyard laughs, a single howl, light catching his smile, teeth askew and imperfect in the most charming way. “Not what I meant,” he says. “You just…Never mind.”
“What?”
He shakes his head, like he’s scolding himself. “It’s nothing bad. You’re just nice-looking. I assumed you worked at the college. Not much around here for gainful employment. You’re either working at the hospital, building subs, or teaching up on the hill.”
Cece wants to linger on thenice-looking, but she’s doing her best to stay levelheaded. The beers aren’t helping. Desire flickers. How long has it been since she’s flirted with someone? When was the last time she’d elicited intrigue and curiosity? “Is that what you work on? Submarines?”
“What? I can’t be a radiologist at the hospital?”
Now it’s Cece’s turn to apologize, but Mr. Shipyard is already waving her off. Letting her know it’s all in jest. “Neither, actually. I work down at the boatyard at the bottom of our street.” He extends a big hand. “I’m Morgan.”
Cece takes it, shocked by its warmth, and reminds herself to say her name.
“Nice to meet you, Cece,” he says. “That short for something?”
“Claire,” she says, “but only family call me that, and even then, I hate it.”
The bartender makes her way toward them, but Morgan shakes her off. “I’ve got a one-drink maximum at this place,” he says. “Never a good idea to get too comfortable at the bar within walking distance of your house.”
“Right. Totally,” Cece says, trying to hide her disappointment, which is odd, considering she doesn’t even know what she’s doing at this bar, talking to a man she barely knows but couldgive a 99 percent accurate police sketch of his face if asked. And why not? She’s studied it nearly every day at exactly 5:30 p.m. for the last two weeks from her front porch. Morgan. Mr. Shipyard. Mr. Forearms like Artillery Shells. Mr. Laugh That Turns Her Knees into Tapioca Pudding.
Stool pushed back, Morgan stands and leans into Cece, his voice like nearing thunder, like railroad stakes thumped into the hard earth. “Could always do a nightcap at my place or yours,” he says.
While Morgan slipsinto his house to make two of his “signature cocktails”—he won’t tell Cece what they are—she stops off at her place and gets Bernard. No lights on in Lorraine’s house, thankfully. One less question Cece will need to answer in the morning.
Their nightcap has gone mobile for the sake of the dog’s bladder. Cece doesn’t trust herself to make good decisions (whatever those are) around Morgan. Weren’t these urges supposed to fade by adulthood? If Cece’s being honest with herself—something she’s trying to do more of lately—it’s the perfect rebound. There doesn’t seem to be a better way of forgetting about Jonathan than slipping into Morgan’s bed. How easy it would be!
On their walk down uneven sidewalks bathed in living-room light spilled across water-parched lawns, Cece feels giddy, juvenile. Now that the moment’s here, some knowable, rippling energy between her and Morgan, she remembers how lacking things were with Jonathan toward the end.
Bernard, usually belligerent, seems happy to walk at their pace. Not looking at each other, seven and sevens in hand, the neighborhood muted and hushed around them—it’s easier to take in the silence. Cece is wary of saying too much, ruining this good thing with talk and understanding. Down the tree-lined hill, passing lifted junkers on cinder blocks and half-filled kiddie pools, they make their way to the water, where the wind gusts and the oppressive mugginess lifts up to a near full moon, fanciful and garish. They slow, then pause, Bernard zeroed in on a stop sign. Cece asks Morgan how close they are to the boatyard and what exactly it is he does there. Something like a frown passes over his face to her question.
“A little bit of everything. Jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none type of thing.”
“Did you always want to work on boats?”
“Can’t say I have,” Morgan says, hand scratching his ropy forearms in the half dark. “Huffing epoxy and diesel fumes isn’t exactly what I had in mind growing up.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
