The Education of Sebastian (19 page)

I gazed over my shoulder at Sebastian, trying to play seductive. His presence alone made me feel sexy. His expression immediately heated and suddenly the confines of the changing room seemed unbearably hot. He pulled up the zipper with aching slowness, brushing a soft kiss over my bare shoulder.

“You look beautiful, baby,” he said quietly.

Suddenly we weren’t playing anymore. The assistant coughed, embarrassed.

“How’s the size, ma’am?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“It’s perfect,” said Sebastian in a low tone.

I wandered out of the shop in a daze. Sebastian insisted on carrying the bag and wrapped his free hand around my limp fingers.

“You want to get some lunch?”

“Sebastian, it’s only 11.15
AM
!”

“Yeah, well I’m hungry.”

“You never stop eating. You’re going to be enormous when you get older.”

“Nah. I’ll have you to keep me fit.”

Dear God: I hoped I was up to the challenge. A few hours with Sebastian was yoga, Pilates and aerobics all rolled into one, delicious work-out.

“Donna said I should get Mitch to teach me to surf,” I commented slyly.

Sebastian wasn’t pleased.

“I can teach you! You don’t need him.”

“Are you pouting at me?” I laughed. “You are! You’re pouting.”

I brought our twined hands up to my mouth and kissed his fingers.

“I’m just teasing you.”

He still looked hurt and I rather regretted trying to make him jealous. I suppose it was a childish tit-for-tat: that sales assistant had upset me more than I was willing to admit. But it wasn’t fair to take it out on Sebastian. It wasn’t his fault girls were throwing themselves at him.

“Come on: I’ll buy you coffee and a Danish.”

He settled on pastrami, lettuce and tomato on ciabatta bread; a regular black coffee with two sugars; and a Danish pastry, as promised. I had a large espresso and watched him wolf down the food. Our grocery bill in New York was going to be huge.

“Where else in Europe would you like to go?”

He swallowed his mouthful and drank some coffee while he thought.

“Well, everywhere, but I’d really like to go to Southern Spain – see all the Moorish stuff. I saw a picture of the Alhambra palace once – it looked, I don’t know, like ‘One Thousand and One Nights’.”

I was surprised and I realized how little I knew of him, his hopes and dreams. The more I learned, the more fascinated I became.

“You’ve read ‘Arabian Nights’?”

He cocked his head to look at me. “You don’t remember, do you?”

I was confused. “Remember what?”

“You gave me the book to read – when I was a kid. I must have read it a hundred times. I used to think you were Scheherazade.”

Scheherazade: the princess who told a different story every night to keep the king from beheading her. I wasn’t very keen on the comparison. Except then he fell in love with her and married her.

“Just because you were such an amazing storyteller,” Sebastian said, intuiting my reaction. “I guess I’m not surprised you became a writer.”

I smiled gamely. “I’m trying to become a writer.”

“You will,” he said, certainty coloring his voice. “You are.”

I struggled to hold back the tears that threatened to betray me. His encouragement, his certainty that I had the ability to achieve my dream; it meant more to me than I could ever express.

“What about you?” I said, trying to speak naturally. “After our road trip…”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Mom and dad always expected me to go the military route.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

I managed to suppress a shudder at the thought of being pulled back towards living on military bases.

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, parts of it would be great – but I’d like to travel.”

“Traveling isn’t a job,” I laughed. “Unless you want to work on a cruise ship.”

“Maybe,” he said smiling. “You could be a travel writer and I’ll… carry your bags.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

He leaned over and kissed me so I could feel the smile on his lips.

This kiss was different somehow: more relaxed, less desperate – just sweet and loving. I stroked his cheek and he sighed happily, leaning into my hand.

“I know,” he said, suddenly sitting up. “I’m going to take you surfing. You said you wanted to learn…”

“No, no! It was Donna who said I should...”

“Are you chicken?”

“Yes! The water’s too cold.”

He laughed. “They’ve invented wetsuits. You’ll be fine. I know a place just north of La Jolla where we can rent some gear. Come on! We’ve got a couple of hours. You can drop me off at work on the way back. We’ve got time.”

I really had no desire to immerse myself in chilly Pacific waters but his enthusiasm was contagious. Maybe it was his recklessness that was catching, his unbreachable zest for life. Maybe I was just no longer afraid to live.

“Okay, let’s go!”

We abandoned the car next to a shabby-looking surf shack that perched precariously above a small, secluded cove. The water was turquoise; I imagined it to be the color of the Mediterranean and wondered if that was something I’d ever see – the ocean my dear papa had lived by as a small child.

“Hey, man,” said the owner of the shack. “Long time no see.”

I immediately felt anxious: it hadn’t occurred to me that Sebastian would take me somewhere he was known. My eyes flickered to him nervously and he squeezed my hand reassuringly.

“Yeah, can we get a couple of shorties, rash vests and a spongey board?”

“Sure, man. Come on through.”

Sebastian let the owner go ahead then whispered in my ear.

“Don’t worry: he says that to everyone. He hasn’t got a clue who I am. It’s cool.”

I tried to relax but the shot of adrenaline was still working its way through my body: I smiled wanly.

The owner sized us up expertly and handed over a couple of cropped wetsuits, silky rash vests to wear under the neoprene and a large, heavy foam-covered surfboard. I was glad that Sebastian tucked it under his arm: it was too wide for me to be able to carry easily.

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” drawled the owner.

Before I could stop him, Sebastian pulled out his wallet and handed the man a couple of bills.

“And I’ll need a credit card for surety, dude.”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered uncertainly to me. I knew he didn’t have a credit card and I wasn’t really keen on the idea of handing one over that described me as ‘Mrs. Carolina M. Wilson’.

“How about we give you our car keys?” said Sebastian, thinking quickly. “We’re parked right over there.”

He pointed at my old Ford.

“Dude, that piece of shit isn’t gonna pay for anything!”

“Ah, come on! What are we going to do? Go running down the highway carrying a spongey?”

The owner held up his hands in defeat. “Okay, okay, but only because your girlfriend has such a cute smile, man!”

I thanked him quickly as I dragged a suddenly angry Sebastian out of the door.

“He was hitting on you,” he grumbled.

“Hardly!”

“He was.”

I shook my head. “Are you going to teach me to surf, or what?”

Sebastian grinned. It really didn’t take much to put him in a good mood – how very different from David.

Neither of us had swim gear. I just pulled on the wetsuit over my panties and unhooked my bra when I’d pulled on the rash vest, so I was half-dressed. Sebastian watched in fascination. I didn’t think it warranted
that
close a scrutiny. He caught my expression and winked, pulling his borrowed wetsuit over a pair of tight-fitting grey briefs that soon had my mind wandering.

He carried the board down to the sand and gave me a quick lesson on how to pop up using a rocking motion. He made it look easy – probably something to do with his well-developed upper body strength.

The heavy beginner’s board was covered in soft foam to help prevent injuries amongst the uninitiated, but it was also impregnated with sand and the palms of my hands soon began to feel sore.

“You’re getting it,” said Sebastian encouragingly. “Let’s try you on a few waves: I’ll push you onto them and tell you when to pop up.”

The waves in the cove were small and well ordered: perfect for learning on. I lay face down on the board and felt the cold water splash around me.

“Get ready! Paddle, paddle, paddle. Now!”

Sebastian pushed me onto a small wave and as the board began to tip down onto the green-water, I popped up, wobbled for a few feet then fell off sideways. I managed to close my mouth but felt seawater gush up my nose. My head broke water as I coughed and rubbed my eyes. My long hair hung like seaweed over my face.

Sebastian was laughing but he looked at me proudly.

“Wow, Caro! You just rode your first wave! That was awesome!”

He kissed my salty face and hugged me tightly as the water rippled around our waists.

“Try again!”

We spent another hour playing in the ocean and, by the end, I’d managed to ride a wave for several seconds and even put in a small turn.

Sebastian hadn’t got bored or shouted at me or shown any signs of impatience. I was slightly in shock, but elated, too.

“So, how do you like being a surfer dude?” he said, smiling at me proudly.

“I love it, but I’m exhausted. It’s almost as tiring as spending the night with you,” I teased him.

He laughed happily then sighed. “I’d like to do that again, but we can’t, can we? Not for a while.” He frowned and squinted at the sun. “I have to get to work soon: we’d better head back.”

We hadn’t planned the surf trip so I didn’t have a towel in the car. Instead we had to pull our clothes back on over damp, salty bodies and my hair dripped chilly drops of water down my shoulders.

It was easier for me to dress as I was wearing a skirt, but I enjoyed my private ogling as Sebastian pulled off his boxer briefs, only partially hidden by the car door and grabbed his jeans. I loved watching the flex and ripple of his muscles under his golden tan, the way his jeans dropped down from his waist to hang on his hips, and the way two tiny lines appeared between his eyebrows when he was concentrating on something.

He grinned as he saw me watching him and with deliberate slowness pulled his T-shirt over his damp chest, so the washed-out fabric clung to him.

I really wanted to pull it off him again but he had to get to work and I wanted to spend a couple of hours working on my next City Beat story.

I’d decided to write about what it was like for military families to move around the country from base to base. I had some experience of that and I knew that Donna had lived in at least three other states and, with Johan, had been stationed overseas twice already with the possibility of another stint in Germany on the horizon.

“Time to get back to the real world,” Sebastian said wistfully. “Maybe I’ll see you tonight?”

“I rather hope not,” I said truthfully.

Sebastian looked hurt.

“It’s too hard to act normal when you’re there,” I explained softly.

He nodded slowly. “I know what you mean… but I’d still like to see you.”

I sighed and shook my head.

“Well, can I come to your house tomorrow?”

“Sebastian, I don’t think so. You know what people are like around here: all it would take would be for you to be seen coming in or leaving. Or if someone came to the door because they’d seen my car in the driveway and I… we…”

He knew what I was saying and he knew as well as I did which risks were acceptable and which weren’t. We were making up the rules as we went along, but there were still rules.

“When
can
I see you?” he said sulkily.

“I’m still free tomorrow. Maybe we could go surfing again?”

“I want to make love to you, Caro,” he muttered, gazing at my fingers as he squeezed them gently.

I took a deep breath as the familiar flickering tongues of love and lust swept through me.

“We could find a motel,” I said softly.

He looked up, his eyes wide.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” I said. “I want to be with you, too.”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, a glorious smile spreading across his face.

He pulled me into a hug and leaned his head into my neck. I reached up and stroked his hair, which was nearly dry already.

I dropped him off at the end of the long driveway leading to the country club and watched as he waved once, then jogged along the avenue and out of sight.

I drove home with the sun beating down and all my car windows open. A brief glance in the mirror told me I looked like a cavewoman, with wild, salty hair hanging in clumps. I don’t know how Sebastian managed not to laugh at me.

I showered quickly and sat in my robe to tap out the first few hundred words of my article, keeping one eye open for David’s return.

As soon as I heard his car in the driveway, I snapped the laptop shut and headed to the bedroom to at least look like I was spending time getting ready. David imagined that all women took hours doing their hair and make-up before going out: it was one of his favorite stereotypes. It came in useful when I wanted an extra half-hour of peace and quiet.

I slipped on the new dress, remembering Sebastian’s scorching look as he’d zipped it up. It was a soft chiffon hung over a fitted bustier top and clinging skirt; so plain, it was almost severe, but also elegant and sophisticated.

I dug out my simple, gold necklace that my father had given me and matched it with a pair of plain, gold hoop earrings.

I was just sweeping my hair back to pin it up when David walked into the bedroom.

He stopped and did a double take.

“Is that it?”

“My new dress? Yes.”

“We’re going out to dinner, Caroline, not attending a funeral.”

Once his words would have hurt me; that evening I just stared at him impassively in the mirror.

“It’s a classic little black dress, David.”

“It’s dull.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

He scowled.

“For fuck’s sake, Caroline. Do I have to supervise everything you do? You can’t even buy a fucking dress that’s appropriate for dinner.”