Angels All Over Town by Luanne Rice Read Free Book Online

want her to. And there’s no way the skipper’s going to let her go below to use the head.” He shrugged his wide shoulders. “I mean, pissin’s not all. It’s not the most important thing. Sure, there are some lady racers, but none you’d want to share your bunk with. You need muscles to sail, Una. It’s not like flapping around in a dinghy, you know.”
    “I know that,” I said solemnly. It was clear that Alastair considered his use of “lady” instead of “girl” a concession to my feminist sensibilities. As I have said, I had previously found comfort in Alastair’s and my banal conversation, but at that moment I felt that he was being used. By me. The way my father had accused me of being used by Alastair, the way I had accused Lily of being used by Bruno. It was a sad revelation. I sat in the shade and Alastair sat twelve inches away in the sun. Our hands touched. I felt fond of him, and even at that moment of disturbing insight, a growing desire. But I found myself sneaking glances around The Yard, just in case my father had come back. I felt dirtier as a user than I ever had felt during any moment of forbidden sex. The thing I despised most was manipulation.
    I was deep in dire thought when the two women who had been crying spotted Alastair.
    “When do
you
go south?” one of them asked.
    Alastair smiled. “Not till next week. Our stick needs work.”
    “Your stick?” the taller, darker woman asked.
    “Our mast. It’s that really big one over there.” He pointed at the massive silver mast, horizontal on The Yard’s blacktop, glinting in the sun. He winked at me. Alastair’s favorite gags were Monty Python silly walks and double entendres. I shrank farther into the shadow, but the tall woman saw me.
    “Oh, good God. Aren’t you Delilah Grant?”
    “Yes.”
    “I
love
your program.” She stepped closer to
Manaloa
and grasped the lifelines. “I haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks. Have you run off for good?”
    “No, only for the summer. I’ll be back.”
    “Will you marry Beck Vandeweghe?”
    “I’m not sure.” I leaned against a sail bag and smiled. Alastair puffed with pride, tucked his chin down to his chest, and grinned at me. In my billowing white garb and dark shades, I felt very glamorous, the way I almost never felt in New York. Classmates of mine from Juilliard and actors I knew from dance class were performing for pittances Off-Off-Broadway, burning with the sense that they were creating real art. The day I left Juilliard to accept the part of Delilah, I knew how lucky I was, but even then I had the slightly slimy feeling of selling out.
    “Well, we don’t want to intrude,” the tall woman said, still holding
Manaloa
’s lifeline. “Give my regards to that hunk of a father you have!”
    For a second my heart stopped, but then I realized that she was talking about Paul Grant, my soap father, not James Cavan. The women walked off the pier toward Thames Street, glancing as they went at me and the headland jutting into Newport Harbor that blocked their view of
Twister
, now doubtless taking a right turn into the Atlantic Ocean.
    One week later I stood in the spot where the women had stood waving to
Twister
while Alastair made final preparations to get under way. His fellow crewmates ran back and forth across the white fiberglass deck stowing provisions; checking sparkling stainless-steel winches, halyards, blocks, and cleats; waving goodbye to the gathering throng of women. I felt as if we should all be standing in cupolas or white gingerbread-decked widows’ walks atop the houses along Spring Street, waving farewell to our men with lace-trimmed hankies.
    “Sorry, baby, the season’s over,” Alastair said to me, leaning across
Manaloa
’s lifelines to give me a final embrace. I hugged his solid body, feeling the muscles on his back, furrowed as a rib cage. His lips tasted of salt and zinc oxide. “Write me a letter in Lauderdale?”
    “Of course. You have my