The summer was almost over by the time Victor made it to Coulter Point to visit Marilyn. Out on the point, it was already growing cold at nights, cold enough for jackets and slacks, cold enough perhaps to even wear socks with your loafers. It was plenty cold enough for bonfires out on the beachfront when the sun went down.
As much as he had tried to deny it, Victor had grown cold toward the idea of going out to see her. Things in New York had been…well…more interesting for him. Victor liked the city. It was good to him, and it gave him the excitement he craved.
But Marilyn had written to say that it was okay if he didn’t come down—fine, actually—and something about the word fine set him in motion. He packed a suitcase, threw a sweater around his neck, and drove down.
When he arrived at the point several hours later, dusk was falling at the Inn. He grabbed his bags and went inside. The gentleman at the front desk greeted him. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Salarino.”
“Welcome, Mr. Salarino,” the clerk said. “I see you’ll be joining us for two nights?”
Victor paused, turning over the idea of staying the entire weekend in his mind. He hadn’t told Marilyn he was making the trip down.
“I think two nights will be more than enough.”
The porter delivered Victor and his luggage to one of the Inn’s more ample rooms at the end of the east wing. There was a sitting area and a small bar for mixing drinks, and the bedroom was separate. The suite had its own bathroom. Victor handed the gentleman a dollar, and as he turned to leave, asked him where he could find Marilyn Coolidge.
“Ms. Coolidge, who works at the restaurant?” the porter asked.
Victor couldn’t summon a response other than laughter.
As much as he had tried to deny it, Victor had grown cold toward the idea of going out to see her. Things in New York had been…well…more interesting for him. Victor liked the city. It was good to him, and it gave him the excitement he craved.
But Marilyn had written to say that it was okay if he didn’t come down—fine, actually—and something about the word fine set him in motion. He packed a suitcase, threw a sweater around his neck, and drove down.
When he arrived at the point several hours later, dusk was falling at the Inn. He grabbed his bags and went inside. The gentleman at the front desk greeted him. “Checking in?”
“Yes,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Salarino.”
“Welcome, Mr. Salarino,” the clerk said. “I see you’ll be joining us for two nights?”
Victor paused, turning over the idea of staying the entire weekend in his mind. He hadn’t told Marilyn he was making the trip down.
“I think two nights will be more than enough.”
The porter delivered Victor and his luggage to one of the Inn’s more ample rooms at the end of the east wing. There was a sitting area and a small bar for mixing drinks, and the bedroom was separate. The suite had its own bathroom. Victor handed the gentleman a dollar, and as he turned to leave, asked him where he could find Marilyn Coolidge.
“Ms. Coolidge, who works at the restaurant?” the porter asked.
Victor couldn’t summon a response other than laughter.
***
Victor parked his convertible outside of the single-story restaurant down the block from the hotel. He could see her through the windows. She wore a simple black dress. Her skin was deeply tanned, so much so that when she laughed, the white of her teeth contrasted startlingly with the bronze of her face. He climbed out of the car and walked through the door. At first, she didn’t notice him.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said quickly. “I hope you have a table ready for me.”
She glanced up at him, her stare enough to make Victor momentarily wonder if she even remembered him. “I certainly hope you have a reservation,” she deadpanned.
“I’m sorry to say I don’t,” he said. “Perhaps you could make an exception, though. Surely you must know who I am.”
She paused, eyeing him from head to toe. “Nope,” she said, spinning around on one heel. She left him standing alone at the front of the restaurant.
“Just a minute!” he called loudly across the restaurant, maneuvering around tables to catch up with her. “I really ought to apologize for just coming out like this, but I felt rotten for not having visited, and after your last letter, I thought I needed to make it up to you and—“
She spun back around, this time, with a boyish grin on her face. “Did you say you needed a table?”
Victor liked the gleam in her eye. “Yes. I’m famished.”
Marilyn stepped toward him, stopped short, and took his hand softly into hers. She looked up at him, and quietly led him to the back of the restaurant, through the kitchen door, and past the cook. She gathered a basket, a small brick of cheese, and a bottle of red wine that was corked beside the stove. She handed them all to Victor.
“Mr. Moscow,” she called across the kitchen, “I am quitting for the weekend.”
Her manager eyed the picnic basket. “Well then. Don’t forget the salami.”
***
Victor watched the entire scene unfold in great fascination. Marilyn had taken complete control of a situation—a situation he’d planned on controlling. Now, he was following her down to the cold sand, clutching tightly to their dinner. She paused at the edge of the beach to take off her shoes, and then they walked out twenty yards or so.
He offered to build a fire, and she unpacked their goods while he set about the task. Soon he had a small pit filled with several sticks of driftwood ablaze. “I am so impressed,” Marilyn remarked. “That’s quite a fire for a city boy.”
“And that’s quite a picnic for the girl who works the front of the house,” he said. “Do you normally just quit jobs like that?”
She dug out a small knife and peeled the rind back on the cheese, slicing off a chunk and handing it to him. “Mr. Moscow doesn’t really think I work there anyway, so I doubt it’s much of a loss for him.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, each staring deeply into the fire. Already, it was beginning to burn down to embers.
Finally, Marilyn spoke up. “I’d mostly given up on you, Victor.”
He began to say something, but she cut him off. “I’d mostly given up on you, and that was fine by me. I’d just assumed that the distance and the problems with my parents and the fact that I’m not going back to New York would put an end to all of this. And that was fine.”
“There are plenty of boys here and Alice and I have had plenty of fun running around with them. I just figured that was that. We had a lot of fun, and I understand. It’s fine.”
“I have to admit I felt the same way,” Victor said. “You know my life. It’s busy when I want it to be. I’d let it get busy again. And then I got your last letter, and it was the ‘fine’ part that got to me.”
Marilyn laughed, deep and full. Victor smiled, not anticipating how sentimental he’d suddenly feel about hearing her laugh in person once more. “All I wrote in the letter, and it was the word ‘fine’ that made you think twice?” she giggled.
“Yes! It was. Look, I like you an awful lot,” he said. “And I knew you were down here playing around with all the point boys—“
“—And I knew you were off picking up girls in hotel bars,” Marilyn cut in.
“Well, then it’s mutual.”
“Maybe.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?” she said, grinning.
“See, that’s just it—fine.”
“I’m cold,” she said. “I’m moving over next to you.”
“Fine is such a terrible word,” he said. “Fine sounds like you’re giving up, like you’re resigned to whatever comes next.”
He threw the last piece of driftwood onto the fire. “And I was there in the city thinking about you and how much I liked you, and how much it hurt me to think of you settling for whatever ‘fine’ meant.”
She laughed again. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s just that your letter set off some kind of strange, weird, possessive feeling in me,” he said, wrinkling his brow in frustration with himself. “I don’t know. It’s not something I might deserve to feel, but I do know that when we spent time together in the city, I wanted you to feel like my girl, like you were treated well.”
“You did treat me well,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“And none of these boys here can treat you the way I want to treat you.”
“No, they really can’t,” she said, her arm falling across his chest.
“And what I’m saying is that I really like treating you well.”
She reached her hand to his face, turning him toward her. “You’re going nowhere with this stupid soliloquy,” she said. “You ought to shut up and kiss me.”
So they kissed there by the fire, under the stars, the chilly breeze blowing in from the water. Victor was overwhelmed with feeling for her. His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and his feet began to grow cold. She pushed him down until they were lying there on the sand, the smell of salt pressing against them, her leg over his, their bodies twined together warmly.
When Marilyn woke up the next morning wearing only the long shirt Victor had given her the night before, she knew exactly what she was doing.
