Dolly All the Time(50)

We pull up to the club and Michael is there to greet us. “Mr. Whitfield. Dolly,” he says. “Do you have bags?”

“No, we’re all set, thanks,” Stewart says. He takes my hand and leads me through the clubhouse, out through the back deck, toward the docks. I love being in public with Stewart because of the hand-holding and casual touches. As soon as we’re on that boat, there will be no reason for it.

“Well, hello, Dolly,” says Grant, at the head of a table for eight. If I had a nickel.

Stewart stops but does not drop my hand. “We’re headed out on the boat,” he says to the table. “We’ll catch up with you guys on our way back.” I wave and we’re walking again.

I follow all the orders, and we motor out into the open water. He drops the anchor, and we scoot back onto the bench seat behind the hull. We’ve kicked off our shoes and our feet are propped up together.

“If we were going to add hours to the day, I’d add this one a dozen times,” he says, handing me a glass of Chablis.

“Same,” I say.

“How was dinner?” he asks.

“Good. I broiled salmon, and Gus cut up a bunch of salami and cheese and made an appetizer tower for Christopher. Christopher loves stuff like that. Food that’s fun.”

“Your family is so easy, why is that?”

I’m quiet for a bit because I’ve never considered this. My family is just the air I breathe, I don’t think much about what they’re like. My mom leaving made things anything but easy, but I know what he means. “It might be because of Christopher. We’re not too precious about things because anything can happen. He doesn’t always show up for dinner in pants.”

Stewart laughs.

“When Patsy’s home it’s not as easy. She’s not part of the routine and doesn’t know how to be. But that’s the price of being out of the loop, I think.”

“Oscar feels that way about the company, I think. Like it’s too late to jump in so he does everything he can to show how little interest he has in it. I’ve always wondered if the whole playboy thing was to make himself unhireable in the family’s eyes.”

“Well, everyone can’t be the perfect, long-suffering firstborn,” I say, and we drink to that.

The sun makes a spectacle of itself as it falls into the water. The entire sky is pink and orange in fleshy layers over the horizon. I want Stewart to put his arm around me right now. We are not a couple, and there’s no one around to impress, but it feels strange to sit this close to him without some kind of touch, his fingers scraping the inside of mine.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

“A little,” I lie, thinking he’ll put his arm around me.

“I’ll get a blanket.” He gets up and heads down the ladder into the living area of the boat. I wrap my arms around my bare legs even though I’m not cold at all. Stewart Whitfield has gone to fetch me a blanket, for my comfort. I repeat that three times, a whisper to the sunset.

After a few minutes the sun is completely gone, and Stewart isn’t back. I feel bad that he’s searching for a blanket for a woman who just wants to be touched, so I get up and follow him below. He’s standing in the middle of a tiny galley kitchen, filling the entire space, and waiting for a kettle to boil.

He looks up at me, halfway down the ladder. “I thought you might want tea too.” There’s a green wool blanket on the counter.

The ceiling is low, and the walls and cabinetry are a dark wood. I step into the tiny kitchen that was certainly made for a single tiny chef and run a hand along the paneling. He’s facing me, back to the stove. He is so close, a fist’s distance between us. I take a step backward.

“It’s teak,” he says, stepping toward me.

I look up at him and see everything I’m feeling reflected in his eyes. I am not imagining this; I saw him take a step forward. I clock the distance between him and the stove to prove it to myself. When I look back up at him, he’s biting his bottom lip.

“What are you worried about?” I ask.

“How do you know I’m worried?”

“You bite your bottom lip, just barely, when you’re unsure.”

“You’ve known me for three weeks.”

“I guess,” I say. Something about Stewart makes me feel like I’ve always known him.

“What would happen if I kissed you?” he asks.

My eyes dip to his mouth. “I don’t know.” I say it so quietly, maybe because it’s a lie. I do know. I would kiss him back and fall even more deeply under his spell.

“I really like you, obviously. And I don’t want to take advantage of you. But lately I think about kissing you all the time.” He says it like it’s a confession. Like he’s in church and might have to repent. His eyes dart from mine to my mouth. “This has never happened to me. When we were sitting up there just now, I couldn’t figure out how to sit without touching you. It’s my strongest instinct.”

“So you want to get it out of your system.”

“Maybe,” he says, and leans in a little closer.

“I don’t think that’s how kissing works,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. He reaches out and takes my hand. He raises it to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he says. “You’re disarming. And sexy.”