Pleasure Unbound

RED

I arrive in Charleston in mid-morning. There are so many more trees than I remembered, many of them adorned with beautiful gray moss. Water spreads out around the city like an obsidian plate of glass. The historic homes-Federal style, Queen Anne, Italianate-are painted in pastels, and arranged in neat rows along lamp-lit sidewalks. The day is overcast, with dark gray clouds like rain, so some of the lamps are already glowing.

I drive around, reacquainting myself with iron-gated cemeteries and sprawling plantation homes. Finally, at about 3:30 p. m., I stop at a little local produce store and ask about the Briar Bay boat dock, which I’m told is in a cove near Dill Creek, on the James Island side of Charleston Harbor. I head across the Ashley River, find a shrimp shack, and spend the next hour and a half eating and obsessively checking my phone. I fire off a quick e-mail telling Gertrude I’ll be the girl with long, red hair, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt.

When I got the call from my bank confirming that an anonymous donor had infused my account with new life, I renewed the lease on my apartment, but I didn’t have time to buy new furniture or clothes, so here I am, in my slightly baggy jeans and a Northwestern shirt I’ve had since… spring my junior year. So yeah, meeting grandma for the first time in a six-year-old t-shirt.

I refresh my red lipstick about twelve times before leaving the shrimp shack, then point my Camry toward the water.

The clouds are darker now, hanging low over the harbor. Gulls crisscross the sky, moving in frenzied zigzags. I follow the instructions of my GPS and pull into a parking lot that reaches the water’s edge, where there’s a long, wooden dock lined with boat slips. Mossy trees shade the deck and walkway, hanging over boats big and small. I run my eyes over the larger boats, wondering which one is my grandmother’s.

I pull my phone out of my cup holder and shoot off an e-mail. “I’m here.” Then I grab my duffel bag and purse, lean against my hood, and wait.

What will Gertrude look like? I watch the docked boats, serviced by fluttering figures, heads bowed against a swift but muggy breeze.

There’s a luxury boat, maybe fifty feet, with a pelican’s post on the top. I wonder if she’s wealthy enough to own that. I guess she probably is. I cast my gaze to a smaller boat, this one blue and white, with the name Dirty Sammy, scrawled across its back in cursive.

I’m holding my breath when my phone vibrates. ‘The boat’s name is Fog.’

My heart hammers. My mouth feels dry. I tuck my hair behind my ears, adjust the bag on my shoulder, and start toward the dock. The big, square wood deck adjoining the parking lot is dotted with a few benches and an abandoned fishing pole. I take a left onto one of the long planks that runs parallel to the shoreline. Boats bob all along it, settled into little, wood-framed slots.

I walk slowly, glancing at each boat for Fog. Double Trouble, Choppy Cass, Stupid Does, Great Escape. I think the big beige and crimson sailboat a few slots down looks like a Fog, and am disappointed to find its name is Rammer Jammer. I pass a few smaller boats, the kind you might ski behind, as well as a massive yacht that looks almost too big for its allotted docking space.

The wind blows my hair across my cheeks. A few strands stick to my lips.

I’m pushing at them with my fingertips, glancing down the dock for a woman with gray hair and my mother’s mouth, when I see him: a tall man blocking my path. He’s wearing a pair of loose, charcoal slacks and a battered-looking white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, so I can see his muscled forearms. His face is partially shaded by a baseball cap. And even so, I know he’s here for me.

My cheeks heat up as if I’ve been sunburned; my stomach aches; and, swear to god, my pussy clenches like it’s saying “Hey Hottie, right here.”

Then he takes a slow stride toward me, lifts his head a little, and I see his face.

Holy fucking wow. This man is brutally handsome.

He must be a fucking pirate. A short, scruffy black beard covers his face, begging for my fingers. His jaw is hard as if maybe he’s clenching it. He’s got Elvis Pressley cheekbones, and his mouth, which twists when he sees me, looks made for naughty words. And his eyes. Holy shit, those eyes. They’re dark brown-intense and long-lashed-but that’s not what gets me. There’s something about them… About the way, they sweep me up and down as if assessing me. Does he find me wanting? Find me satisfactory?

I can barely breathe. I forget to swallow and almost choke on my spit.

My eyes flit to his mouth again as my finger twitches. Oh, how I’d like to touch those full lips.

I want to take a step closer and yank off his Mets ball cap. I want to run my fingers through his hair.

I notice I’m breathing fast and shallow, like I’m recovering from a panic attack.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He steps toward me and I lick my lips.

“You’re Red.” His voice is so low, I can feel the timbre of it in between my legs.

“You’re…not my grandmother.”

His mouth presses into a tight line. “Red,” he says slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve got some sad news. Gertrude passed a few days ago.”

“She died?”

He nods once. “She did.”

He swipes his cap off his head, revealing short, black hair.

I stare at it as if it might help me comprehend. I waited a lifetime to meet my grandmother, longed for her since my mother died, and came this close to knowing her. How could she be gone?

My eyes water-from shock or disappointment? Maybe from the wind.

“When did she die?”

“Earlier in the week,” he says.

“So the money…? Is it an inheritance?”

His face twists. “So it was the money?”

“What?”

“You needed money.” His tone is harsh and judging.

“What does my financial situation have to do with anything?”

He makes a face that starts as a wince and turns into an angry smirk. “That’s how I got you here. Money grubber.”

My stomach tightens. “I’m not a money grubber. What do you mean ‘got me here?'” It hits me like a cannonball that I don’t even know who he is, this man who’s suddenly so angry with me. “Who the fuck are you?”

“My name is Race. I was Gertrude’s assistant.” He folds his arms in front of him, revealing thick forearms.

I look beyond him, down the dock, where a group of men are unloading fish into several large, white coolers. If I need to, I can run.

“You said you got me here with money. What does that mean?”

His eyebrows narrow. “I deposited thirty thousand dollars in your account. Gertrude didn’t leave you anything.”

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