The Writer and The Word (02)

"Sumner?"

"Are you willing to consider that you are asking me the wrong question?"

And with that amorphous thought hanging in the air, he broke the connection.

+

Diane Westhoven struggled with conflicting jolts of indecision that wracked her spirit.

What had he meant, asking the wrong question? I must call him back! What did he mean by that? Why did he . . .?

Why was "Could you ever love me?" the wrong question?

She sat for hours, looking at the water in the river as it receded from her.

Was it receding? Or was she falling?

She couldn't tell anymore.

Her telephone was ringing and she rushed to grab it, hoping it would be Sumner, that he would come to her rescue . . . but it was the Greenbaum girl. Could she come over?

Certainly. I'll be looking forward to seeing you . . .

Why am I . . . so . . .lost? There were no more prayers to be said. She seemed to be falling toward some distant conclusion to her life.

+

British Airways flight 481 was on final approach, coming in low over Massachusetts Bay from the northeast. Angela White sat up now, looking out the window as the huge Boeing drifted in over the runway threshold and the main gears lightly touched down. The nose came down moments later, then the engines roared as reverse thrust was applied, and the spent feeling of a flight ended came over the passengers and crew as 481 taxied to Terminal E. The jet taxied and parked between airliners from France and Switzerland.

Angela was the first person off the plane, and she made her way through customs about as quickly as could be done these days, and she walked with butterflies dancing in her stomach out into the waiting area outside of the Custom's Hall. She walked ahead and could see -no one. Anxious, she walked ahead a few steps with uncertainty crowding out the anticipated greeting she had constructed in her mind's eye.

Then he was there beside her, and she hadn't the slightest clue how he had just popped up there right out of thin air. She stopped walking, and turned to look up at him with a puzzled look on her face. He had a slight smile bubbling away there, and he brought around a single white rose from behind his back and presented it to her.

"Miss White?" he said. "It is my miserable duty to inform you that you are my prisoner. You being British and all that nonsense, and itisthe Forth of July, and well, after all, itisBoston! I'm afraid you'll have to come with me. Now, now, don't put up a fight!"

"Bloody hell, the Forth of July!? I'd forgotten completely about that. Oh, my! How are conditions in your Colonial jails?"

"You'll find out soon enough. And here's the really bad news, I'm afraid. We're having dinner with Dad."

"Oh, indeed! The plot thickens!"

He took up her carry-on in his hand, preferring to carry it rather than roll it. He walked with her out the sliding doors and over to a waiting Range Rover; the driver got out of the big black SUV and opened the back door as they approached. The driver was wearing a black suit, but he wasn't the chauffeur type; there was a more distinctly military demeanor to the man.

"Good evening, Miss White," was all he said, and then he took her carry-on from Sumner and placed it in the back of the vehicle.

They drove only a short distance from the airport, and did not take any of the new tunnels into the city. Angela had been to Logan many times, and had stayed at the Hyatt on the harbor more than once, and the driver headed that way now. But he drove on past it, curiously, and wound through a little industrial area until they came to a sign that said "Boston Harbor Marina"; at the sign, the black Rover went down into the parking lot. Sumner got out with the driver, and they talked for a moment outside the Rover. The driver nodded, then went around to get Angela's bag, while Sumner moved to open her door.

Sumner walked her down a ramp toward the few boats that were docked in the marina at the bottom of the ramp, the driver not far behind, and then they walked over to a small navy blue launch that waited by the fuel dock. There was a man in a white uniform in the launch, apparently waiting for them. He was talking on a hand-held radio.

"Is that your Dad?" Angela said. Pretty small boat, she thought.

"Nope, 'fraid not. That's Brian, and he's much too distinctive to be dear ole Dad!"

Sumner hopped into the little boat and helped Angela get aboard, then took the bag from the driver, who then cast off the lines holding the launch to the dock.

Sumner took Angela's hand, and the man operating the launch - Brian - slipped the engine into gear and smoothly left the dock. They wound their way through the marina, then turned and entered the main ship channel. Brian turned to the right once they hit the channel, and downtown Boston was spread out before them like a vast tableau, along with about fifty thousand other boats milling about in the harbor, including the oldest boat in the U S Navy, the U.S.S. Constitution. Sumner explained that all of the boats were gathering for the annual Forth of July festivities, which included the Constitution's annual foray into the harbor, and that stunning spectacular of daring nautical prowess would be followed by a colossal fireworks display over the harbor as darkness fell.

Angela looked on wide-eyed as the scale of the event unfolded before her. She held the single white rose to her face all the while.

The little launch slipped along smoothly through the crowd of boats and headed out toward the center of Boston Harbor. Soon it was apparent that they were headed toward one boat in particular.

Angela wasn't quite prepared mentally for what she saw. "Oh - my - God!" was all she managed to say.

She watched in awe as their little blue launch made for the side of a truly huge yacht, the length of which she guessed to be somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty feet long - maybe more - as she was no judge of such things. The hull was navy blue, but polished to a mirror bright sheen that looked almost like glass. The upper parts of the yacht were brilliant white set off by dazzling woodwork. There was a man standing on the deck waving down at them as they pulled up and alongside the yacht. The launch drifted to a smooth stop next to a boarding platform and the stairway that led up to the deck where the man stood.

"That's Dad," Sumner said.

"You weren't kidding about the PM, were you?" Angela asked hesitantly.

Sumner just stood there grinning.

+

Angela White walked up the gentle stairway that led up to Sumner's father standing on the deck above. As he came into view she saw a man perhaps in his late fifties, his hair pure silver, not too tall, and still very trim and muscular. She could immediately see the lineage in Sumner's face; they were almost clones of each other, simply separated by age. Thankfully, he wasn't dressed like a sea captain, either, but stood there in tan corduroys and white button down shirt, a navy blue cardigan sweater hanging loosely from his angular shoulders. He was not a big man, but she instantly saw that he was bigger than life.

"Dad, this is Miss Angela White. Angela, my father Bennett."

"I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Welles."

"God in heaven, Sum. You weren't just kidding about those eyes, were you?" Angela White once again demonstrated her incredible ability to turn deep purple at the drop of a . . . hat? "Oh, goodness, Miss White, that was spectacularly ungentlemanly of me. Do forgive me. Let's get you out of this breeze, what say you, Sumner? You two will to be staying on-board tonight?" The way he had asked that - almost - seemed like a question, but not quite. They walked toward the rear of the yacht on the breezy covered side deck, then into the large enclosed room that overlooked the sea at the yacht's stern.

It was like walking into the living room of a finely appointed home, only bigger, Angela thought. The room was spare, yet elegant, fine teak and mahogany furniture on deep woolen dove gray carpet; yet all around was the harbor, sitting there in pristine proximity. The effect was powerful; the room appeared to float above the sea, yet somehow it felt part of its surroundings. And it was warm inside! Angela had not considered that Boston could be cool in July, and she had only brought the most casual of clothes with her - no sweater, no coat!

"Miss White, could I get you something to drink?" Bennett Welles said. He seemed remarkably at ease in these surroundings, and his voice made her feel genuinely welcome. She had studied him as they walked into the room; Bennett Welles was obviously an immensely powerful man, and he had arrived at that station in life where he no longer had to prove himself to others. He exuded confidence, to be sure, but she sensed genuine curiosity and he had the ability to listen with attentive empathy. What a rare old bird this was!

"Something warm, Mr Welles?" she asked. She was almost shivering!

"Miss White, I'd much rather you called me Ben, and how about a little coffee with a little something extra to take the chill off?"

"That would be wonderful, sir, and do call me Angela."

"Fine, fine. Lee! Come on in here." A short oriental man came into the room, obviously the yacht's steward. "Lee, would you fix this young lady an Irish coffee? Sum, how about you, that sound good? Fine! Lee, make it three, and we'll take them in here, please." He turned back to Angela and continued. "Miss White, perhaps you'd like to settle in down below, get unpacked. By the way, how long can you stay?"

"I'd planned to return this Sunday," she said, puzzled at his question. "Why?"

"Fine. Well, Sum, take her below, would you, and show her around. Lee will take a few minutes with the coffee, so take your time."

+

Sumner took Angela from the big room - the salon - where his father remained standing, looking at the harbor - and they walked forward through the dining room to the bridge, where two men in white uniform stood working on charts and going over notebooks as they kept an eye on the milling boats all around them. From the bridge, he took her to a stairway that led down to the lower deck. These stairs ended at a long narrow corridor that stretched fore and aft. Forward were the crews' quarters, and aft were his stateroom and his father's, as well as room for eight additional guests in four smaller staterooms. Sumner took Angela aft down the richly paneled corridor to the stateroom his father had wanted her to have and opened the door.

Her carry-on suitcase was already on a baggage stand by the foot of the bed; Sumner motioned her to enter and check out the stateroom. He remained outside the stateroom door. She entered, looked at the large double berth, the fine cabinetry, the huge window looking out on the sea, and walked into the private bathroom and shower. She came back out. "Sumner, it's really lovely. But . . . are you going to stand out there in the hall all day?"

"Angela, I didn't want to presume . . ."

Angela was taken aback by that. She simply wasn't used to gentlemen anymore, they seemed an endangered species in this era of hip-hop rappers and speedy greed merchants.

"Sumner, would you please come in, and do shut the door, hum?" He walked into the - her - room and shut the door almost completely, but not quite. She walked over to him and took both of his hands in hers, stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I hope you know all this is a little overwhelming," she said, indicating the yacht and his father by spreading her hands and motioning all around. Then she met his gaze, looked at him standing there. "So, changed your mind yet? Want to take me back to the airport?"

"Dear God in Heaven! Angela, when I saw you walk out of customs I was stunned, I almost lost my balance."

"Sorry?" she asked, indicating with her voice that she wasn't sure if she had understood him correctly.

"I don't really know how to say this. When I saw you walk into that, well, oh God, how do I say this - you took my breath away. And I don't mean that in some metaphoric way . . . I mean I got light headed . . . you were so incredibly beautiful standing there; even now when I look at you I can't believe you're, that you're really here. And I can't believe how completely disoriented you make me . . . I can't even speak intelligibly anymore?!"

"I'm here, Sum, and I'm real. Are you really sure you want me here?"

"More than anything in the world. And you?"

She kissed him again. This time not so lightly. It was the answer he had dreamed of.

+

When they returned to the big aft salon, Sumner's father sat with a strikingly handsome older woman and another couple. Bennett Welles introduced Angela to his girlfriend Suzanne Collins, and to his secretary, Jean, and her husband Patrick. Lee brought in their coffees, and they took a seat back by the aft facing windows. The Sun was beginning to set behind the downtown skyscrapers, and the number of boats in the harbor was almost daunting in its variety and ever- shifting shape.

The Constitution was returning to it's berth under Bunker Hill, and boats full of merry-makers were now skewing about wildly, blowing all manner of horns and whistles, some folks shooting small fireworks from their little decks. Coast Guard and Harbor Patrol vessels were keeping people away from the barges where, presumably, the fireworks would be launched, but they were otherwise leaving everyone pretty much alone.

The launch Angela and Sumner had arrived on earlier was now dropping off several more guests, and just as quickly as it had arrived, it was off to bring more guests out to the yacht. Lee and another woman finished placing snacks and dips on the various little tables around the room. Yet another woman was attending the small bar at the forward end of the large salon.

Angela felt a bit self-conscious; she hadn't come prepared to socialize in this rarefied atmosphere, indeed, these were hardly the types she suspected she would ever socialize with. Too much money seemed to float around the room as Bennett's guests arrived, and though the people seemed - remarkably - casually dressed for the occasion, the sleek women were adorned in overwhelmingly expensive jewelry and the men oozed wealth with their Vacheron Constantine equipped wrists and bronzed complected Polo-shirt physiques.

But things weren't as uptight as she'd first presumed. The men and women to a one all came over to Sumner and chatted amiably, Sumner introduced her to them all in turn, and they embraced her as a friend of the family - literally. Almost everyone on the yacht was, it seemed, part of the Welles clan. And Sumner was amazing, she thought. He stood beside her as he made introductions, telling his friends and family that Angela was "a very special friend" visiting from England. Everyone seemed to appreciate Sumner's emphasis on "special", and looked at her with heightened interest.

Angela had talked with some of the guests when Sumner had been pulled aside into private discussions, and everyone wanted to know where she and Sumner had met - how long they had know each other. Not one person raised an eyebrow when she had told them that this was really their very first date. One Madeleine Welles, a close cousin of Sumner's, filled Angela in on some of the blank spots that were emerging as this Welles family portrait was drawn into sharper relief.

Sumner had always been, according to Madeleine, a very serious young man, and had rarely dated either in boarding school or at Harvard. Of course, Madeleine knew so little of him that she had not the slightest inkling that Sumner was a student there; she nodded understanding as these bits and pieces fell into place, and listened ever more intently.

Sumner would, Madeleine said, finish Harvard this fall, take the Spring off, then start Law School next year. His intentions were, indeed always had been for as long as anyone could remember, to join the State Department and spend his life in public service. His father was resigned to Sumner's career choice, but thought it a waste, and had made clear his wishes that Sumner should help out with family concerns after school.

Angela was more interested in Sumner's -well, social life, and steered Madeleine toward talking about Sumner'sotherout of school interests. And Madeleine knew exactly where to takethatconversation. She had then carefully pulled Angela out of the stream of traffic, and told herthestory about Sumner that she had to know, and this story was, Madeleine knew,theone that Sumner wouldnevertalk about.

Sumner had been in love before, but only once, Madeleine began. He had interned in a US Senators office over the summer after his second year at Harvard, and had fallen for one of the Senator's senior staff members very quickly, and deeply. She had been in her thirties, was very sophisticated, very brainy, and while not terribly beautiful by any means, she was a very cute and vivacious woman. He had continued seeing her after school resumed last fall, and everyone was sure that the relationship was going to become very serious.

Madeleine grew pensive as this narrative progressed; perhaps she had reconsidered telling this story to Angela, was having second thoughts.

"What is her name, Madeleine?" asked Angela.

"Her name was Rebecca, Rebecca Dassault. And, I . . ."

"Her name 'was'?"

"She was diagnosed with breast cancer last fall, November, I think it was. Sumner took the winter term off, spent it with her in New York, at Sloan-Kettering. He was truly devoted to her."

"I take it she didn't make it?"

"No, she," and Madeleine seemed more upset as she thought about the incident, "she passed away in, I think it was March. Angela, Sumner and I have always been very close - more like brother and sister, really. I live in Manhattan, he stayed with me when he wasn't with her at the hospital. We talked. A lot." She paused, took a strong pull on her Martini, gathering strength. "Well, to make a long story short, I was very surprised to see him here tonight with you. I wasn't sure he was going to make it there, for a while. You must be a very special lady, indeed."

Angela seemed lost as the contours of this part of Sumner's life came to her. Sensing this, Madeleine leaned forward very close and took Angela's hand in hers as she whispered in her ear.

"He really is the most special man, Angela. Good luck."

Angela wasn't sure why, but she leaned forward and hugged Sumner's cousin, thanked her for the trust she had shown.

So, she thought, he lost the woman he loved, and I lost my father. At about the same time.

'Oh my dear God in Heaven,' she thought.

+

As darkness fell, patriotic music began playing from a striking white tented structure on the south side of the harbor. Bennett Welles motioned his guests to move up onto the yacht's flying bridge deck, and the twenty five or so guests made their way into the chilly evening air. A Sousa March was winding down, and as the National Anthem began filling the air around the boats, fireworks arced into the air and exploded over the harbor.

Sumner and Angela walked to the forward edge of the deck. Angela made her way to the rail, and Sumner came up behind her, moved close to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. A cool breeze washed over the harbor, and Sumner felt Angela tremble as the cool air chilled her; he took off his jacket, placed it over her shoulders.

"Put your arms around me, Sumner," she said.

Her arms were crossed inside the draped coat; Sumner took his arms and he folded her into his embrace. They stood in silence, watching the fiery arcs wing into the sky, expand into the night like exploding stars, and dissipate on their fall from the sky into the waiting embrace of the sea. There was a pronounced height difference between Angela and Sumner; she came up to, barely, his shoulders. She tilted her head back as far as she dared, could just make out his face above hers. He was looking up into the sky.