IT WAS A GREAT afternoon for sailing. The waves of The Harbour were smooth as glass. I hadn’t been on a sailboat since Harry and I vacationed in Capri. But, this wasn’t Capri and I wasn’t with Harry. Not that I needed to remind myself who was steering this vessel.
I glanced over my shoulder sneaking a peek of Grady at the helm of the boat looking devastatingly handsome in a pair of grey shorts and a dark blue t-shirt. The wind tousled his brown hair and his baby blues were hidden behind a pair of aviators
Damn. My phone was vibrating like an unbalanced washing machine. That could only mean one thing—trouble.
Zanita: Harry had a presser today. He was asked point blank about your breakup.
Zanita: He played fantastically today, by the way.
Zanita: He was about to answer when . . . someone cleared their throat.
Zanita: His entire demeanor changed. He said, “It’s been a rough go of it personally, but I’m trudging on and determined to win this for England.”
Harlow: What the fuck? Is he being coached by his PR team and using our breakup to gain sympathy?
Zanita: Yes, I am afraid so. My sources tell me that Harry was actually at a private party with a number of people over the weekend and cozying up to a few women. Then, he played a round of golf yesterday at a private club.
Harlow: So, it seems that he’s not going to admit that he broke up with me? Fine. Fuck him.
Harlow: What are the tabloids saying about me now?
Zanita: The latest headline: Harry Brackman Crushed Over Grady James and Harlow Trembley—Lonely and Heartbroken. (Don’t read the comments.)
Harlow: Seriously?
At that point my blood was boiling. My fingers twirled the ends of my hair. Where the fuck was the post about Heather cheating on Grady? Now, it seemed as if I needed to get in the game and clear the air.
I was so engrossed in my text conversation with Zanita I barely registered that Grady had anchored the boat. Shoving my phone into my pocket I contemplated my next move. Or maybe it should be our next move.
Grady approached me bring up a bottle of wine and two glasses. “Ahoy there.”
“Hello, Captain.” I took the bottle of wine and the glasses from his hand as he dropped onto one of the many cushions that decorated the bow of the boat. He poured a hefty amount of wine into my glass and I wasted no time guzzling the contents.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking off his sunglasses and clipping them to his shirt.
“Huh?”
“I can tell there is something weighing on your mind.”
“How so?”
“You crossed and uncrossed your legs at least ten times that I counted, and you twirl the ends of your hair when something is bothering you. It’s your tell.”
Averting my eyes, I stared into the waters of The Harbour concentrating on the ripples. I swallowed the remnants of my glass. “You’re observant.”
“Talk to me, Harlow. Tell me anything, you want. Even if it’s, fuck off, I want to enjoy the view.”
I huffed a laugh, tracing the rim of the glass with my index finger. “Where should I begin—let’s see, my mother died a few months after I graduated college, after suffering a long battle with Alzheimer’s. My father dumped her in a nursing home, because he couldn’t handle watching her deteriorate from the disease. Personally, I think he did it because she was no longer the useful trophy wife he needed. Then my father dumped me and my brother, Nicholas—disowned I think is the proper term.” My fingers fluttered in the air.
“Ah, yes, the Daddy issues you mentioned.”
“He isn’t a good man. He wasn’t a great father in the least, but he was the only one I had.” I glanced at him. “Why didn’t you ask me about it that night? The night I mentioned it, I mean.”
“Everyone has a chapter they don’t read out loud.” He threaded his fingers with mine. “I knew that was a delicate moment and when you wanted to talk about it you’d let me know or give me an opening for the conversation. Besides that, I don’t think talking was really on your mind at that time.”
He wasn’t wrong. I appreciated not having the pressure to discuss the heavy stuff.
“And, do you remember that episode of Friends where Rachel asks Ross for some ill-advised sympathy sex?”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “Ross was all like, I treated you with respect and understanding. Rachel’s face—that’s so hot!”
“See if I hadn’t obliged, you would have been feeling embarrassed and mad at me.”
I tapped my finger to my wine glass. “You really can associate everyday life to an episode of Friends. Ross did so many things wrong.”
“So many.”
“I’m glad you are a fellow Friends fan. Where do you stand on the Ross and Rachel controversy? Were they on a break or not?”
“They were on a break and here’s why—because the next morning when Rachel shows up at Ross’ apartment, she asks him if she can be his girlfriend, again, which implies that she wasn’t his girlfriend previously. Case closed.”
“That’s a logical explanation. He still shouldn’t have slept with her though.”
“Uh, no, that was a terrible idea—that was never going to end well for Ross.”
Time drifted by, the sounds of birds, the hum of boats filled the spaces of silence. The tension that had been residing in my neck and shoulders no longer existed. “What is it about the ocean—is it the water itself—the sounds of waves lapping against your skin, the boat, the shore?” I breathed in the salt and sun, getting my fill and letting the calm wash over me.
Grady pulled me into his side. “Never underestimate the healing power of the ocean.”
“Is that why you love The Harbour? Why you bought a home here?”
“My parents had a home here. I spent many summers in East Harbour, even a few winters. Mom loved The Harbour in the fall and winter.”
“You parent’s had a home here, where do they live now?”
“My mom lives Fenwick, Connecticut. She sold their home here after my father died. I wished she’d kept it, but it was too hard.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that your father died. Was his death recent?”
“No, Dad’s been gone about ten years now. He died in his sleep—massive heart attack. It was Fourth of July weekend, I’ll never forget because I’d just played in the Stars and Stripes Polo Challenge. They left after the trophy presentation and I’d gone out to Castle Hill to celebrate with Ridge and some of the guys. My mother and sister left the house to pick up last minute essentials for the cocktail party that evening. The day had caught up to him, I guess my father had been up late the previous evening writing his latest novel and he went to take a nap. When they came home, he was already gone.”
I reached for his hand and squeezed. “That must have been a complete shock.”
“It was a difficult time.” He kissed the top of my head. “My father, he never saw me act. I’m not sure if he was ever proud of my career choices. He never said outright, but I don’t think he was happy with my modeling. It started out as a way to pay the bills during college.”
I could relate to Grady’s story; my mother never saw any of my modeling work. She passed away shortly after I earned my degree.
“I didn’t know that you went to college. I mean I assumed as much, but . . .”
He chuckled. “I get it believe me, I get it. I have a degree in English from Brown University.”
I pulled back, shifting to face him. “Did you want to become a writer like your father?”
“I gave it the old college try for sure,” he said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve written several short stories and I started a novel, but I never showed him. I’ve always felt like I was kind of a disappointment.”
Saying nothing I grasped his hand, once more, I listened as Grady talked about his father and his summers here. He kind of had the all-American family experience, those were things that I dreamed about as a kid before the realization that my father was just not into a family experience.
“Don’t get me wrong. I had a wonderful relationship with my father. He taught me how to sail, and ride a horse. I took up polo because of his encouragement and he never missed a match.”
“This is going to sound silly, but what are some of the books your dad published?”
He paused for a moment, and a small smile tugged the corners of his mouth. “His name was Ian Reed.”
My mouth dropped open. “Ian Reed is your father? Ian Reed, the famous novelist?”
“One in the same.”
“But, your last name is James.”
“What? You’re kidding,” he mused.
I tossed a pillow in his direction, and he caught it, and then tossed it right back onto my lap.
“My father was born Ian Reed James. He was advised to drop James, and go with Reed. Apparently, it was more marketable, since James is such a common name.”
“And Reed isn’t?”
He laughed, before taking a drink of wine. “What’s in a name anyway?”
That was something we’d shared. My father’s last name was Sinclair and after he disowned Nicholas and me, I started the process to legally change my last name. Luckily for me it all came together when I started my modeling career. Trembley was my mother’s maiden name and Constance was pleased when she found out I was changing my name. She said that it had an air of sophistication. I didn’t know about all that, but I’m pretty sure she was trying to be supportive.
The boat rocked gently over the waves. Another boat anchored about fifty feet away from us and I wondered if it was the paparazzi.
Folding my legs beneath me, I inhaled a deep breath. “My mother died not knowing about my career. She wasn’t lucid when I graduated from NYU and her conditioned worsened over the summer. She passed away that fall, just before the Nadia’s Dream Fashion Show was televised.”
The images of my mother fading away in the expensive nursing home came into view. Armed with a cosmetics bag and her favorite magazines—Town & Country, Real Simple and Vanity Fair, I’d visit my mom. I spent time reading articles that I thought would be of interest to her and sometimes I’d have to read them twice in a visit. Other times she’d change her mind and want to walk in the garden or listen to the Beach Boys. On occasion when she was feeling extra sparkly, we’d paint our nails and she’d tell me stories, mostly about her youth. Mom loved to talk about my father and how he loved playing golf. I could hardly stomach listening to her ramble on about Monty Sinclair, the greatest love of her life. Some days she remembered they were divorced, other days she asked when Monty was coming home for dinner and proceeded to ask me to make her a vodka martini.
“I’d taken a job as an assistant with Bella Magazine. I’d been there about seven weeks, and one morning I was asked to help with a shoot. Constance Kimball happened to be there that day. Fifteen minutes in, she stood up yelling for everyone to get the fuck out and then directed the photographer to start shooting me. Constance signed me to her agency on the spot, and told my boss that I was quitting effective immediately. Everything passed in a blur—I couldn’t believe how my life shifted after that day. She took me under her wing, and taught me every aspect of the business. My first modeling job was Miami Swim Week. It was sensational. I only wished my mom could have been there.”
“Some days are harder than others, huh?” he asked, refilling my glass.
“Yeah.” I bobbed my head.
We sat in a comfortable silence watching the boats drift along the water. It was refreshing to know that we didn’t have to resort to idle chit chat. I liked that—it was a welcomed relief that when I’d shared my sad story, instead of feeling terrified Grady would run the other way our conversation somehow provided a sense of recognition. Even though our stories were completely different we had an understanding.
The two of us knew what rock bottom looked like and we were determined to crawl from beneath the rubble and not let it destroy us. Despite our failed relationships or our family struggles, we knew it didn’t define us, we had to keep going.
“Apparently, we’ve killed the mood once again,” I joked.
“No, but we have killed this bottle of wine. Should I grab another or do you want to head back in?”
My stomach rumbled and I knew that I should eat before I drank anything more.
“Let’s head back in, I’m starving. We should maybe work on that good eats list of mine.”
“That sounds like a very good idea.”