children.
They raced each other across the sheltered inlet, then dove under the surface and did all sorts of underwater acrobatics. Out in the center of the pool they surfaced, coughing and laughing and spitting water.
Mary Ellen squealed loudly when Clay caught her by her hair as it lay spread out on the water’s surface like a shimmering golden fan. She slapped his hand away and twisted free, then lunged forward, put her hands atop his dark head, and dunked him, laughing. He tugged on her waist and drew her under the water with him. He pulled her all the way down to the sandy bottom. And kissed her. Both got water in their mouths.
They shot to the surface and kissed again. Mary Ellen looped her arms around Clay’s neck. He drew her slender legs around his waist and clasped his wrists beneath her bottom.
When they got out of the water, they hurried to the spread red-and-white cloth and flung themselves onto their backs. Holding hands, they lay there and let the hot June sun dry their dripping wet bodies.
They stayed all afternoon in their private little hideaway. They sampled the array of foods from the wicker basket, laughing as they fed each other figs and grapes and sugared strawberries. Full and happy, they napped in the sunny peaceful silence of that golden summer day, two beautiful, healthy young animals, naked and unashamed in paradise.
Everything was perfect.
But while they slept the sky above them changed.
Dark clouds formed in the clear blue heavens, and the hot sun disappeared.
Clay awakened with a start as an ominous chill skipped down his naked spine.
“What is it?” Mary Ellen asked, roused by the shuddering of his slim brown body against hers.
Clay didn’t answer. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around her extra tightly, feeling strangely uneasy. He was frightened and didn’t know why or what of. He crushed Mary Ellen to him as if she might somehow be torn from his arms.
“What is it, Clay?” she asked, feeling his heart race against her bare breasts. “Tell me.”
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just I love you so much it scares me.”
8
I T ARRIVED THE VERY next day.
Overnight, the dispatch came upriver. Shortly before sunrise on Monday morning, a messenger knocked loudly on the front door of the frame house where Clay and his mother, Anna, lived.
Clay awoke immediately. He lunged out of bed and pulled on his trousers anxiously, his heart hammering in his naked chest. Running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair, he grabbed a shirt and hurried into the parlor.
Anna Knight, tying the sash of her peach dressing robe, was there ahead of him. They exchanged worried looks. She brushed her long braid of hair over her shoulder, drew a breath, and opened the front door.
The messenger nodded, handed her the envelope, and departed. The envelope was addressed to her: Mrs. Anna Tigart Knight. She handed it to her tall son. Clay ripped it open and read aloud:
Mrs. Knight:
Regret to inform that your beloved father, Commodore Clayton L. Tigart, died peacefully in his sleep at nine o’clock this evening. Admiral Tigart suffered a fatal…
Clay handed the message to his mother and slowly shook his dark head. The passing of his maternal grandfather was no great tragedy in and of itself. The commodore had reached his eighty-third birthday. The old gentleman had remained alert and independent to the end. He had insisted on staying on in the Pass Christian Seaman’s Boarding House he’d called home for the last decade, refusing repeated offers to come to Memphis and live with his only daughter and grandson.
The real tragedy of the old man’s death, Clay thought guiltily, was that his own only hope of an appointment to the Naval Academy died with his grandfather.
Tears filling her pale eyes, Anna Knight put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Clay, I’m so sorry. I’ve prayed every night that Papa would live long enough to help get you an appointment to Annapolis.”
“It’s all right,
They raced each other across the sheltered inlet, then dove under the surface and did all sorts of underwater acrobatics. Out in the center of the pool they surfaced, coughing and laughing and spitting water.
Mary Ellen squealed loudly when Clay caught her by her hair as it lay spread out on the water’s surface like a shimmering golden fan. She slapped his hand away and twisted free, then lunged forward, put her hands atop his dark head, and dunked him, laughing. He tugged on her waist and drew her under the water with him. He pulled her all the way down to the sandy bottom. And kissed her. Both got water in their mouths.
They shot to the surface and kissed again. Mary Ellen looped her arms around Clay’s neck. He drew her slender legs around his waist and clasped his wrists beneath her bottom.
When they got out of the water, they hurried to the spread red-and-white cloth and flung themselves onto their backs. Holding hands, they lay there and let the hot June sun dry their dripping wet bodies.
They stayed all afternoon in their private little hideaway. They sampled the array of foods from the wicker basket, laughing as they fed each other figs and grapes and sugared strawberries. Full and happy, they napped in the sunny peaceful silence of that golden summer day, two beautiful, healthy young animals, naked and unashamed in paradise.
Everything was perfect.
But while they slept the sky above them changed.
Dark clouds formed in the clear blue heavens, and the hot sun disappeared.
Clay awakened with a start as an ominous chill skipped down his naked spine.
“What is it?” Mary Ellen asked, roused by the shuddering of his slim brown body against hers.
Clay didn’t answer. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around her extra tightly, feeling strangely uneasy. He was frightened and didn’t know why or what of. He crushed Mary Ellen to him as if she might somehow be torn from his arms.
“What is it, Clay?” she asked, feeling his heart race against her bare breasts. “Tell me.”
“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just I love you so much it scares me.”
8
I T ARRIVED THE VERY next day.
Overnight, the dispatch came upriver. Shortly before sunrise on Monday morning, a messenger knocked loudly on the front door of the frame house where Clay and his mother, Anna, lived.
Clay awoke immediately. He lunged out of bed and pulled on his trousers anxiously, his heart hammering in his naked chest. Running a hand through his dark, disheveled hair, he grabbed a shirt and hurried into the parlor.
Anna Knight, tying the sash of her peach dressing robe, was there ahead of him. They exchanged worried looks. She brushed her long braid of hair over her shoulder, drew a breath, and opened the front door.
The messenger nodded, handed her the envelope, and departed. The envelope was addressed to her: Mrs. Anna Tigart Knight. She handed it to her tall son. Clay ripped it open and read aloud:
Mrs. Knight:
Regret to inform that your beloved father, Commodore Clayton L. Tigart, died peacefully in his sleep at nine o’clock this evening. Admiral Tigart suffered a fatal…
Clay handed the message to his mother and slowly shook his dark head. The passing of his maternal grandfather was no great tragedy in and of itself. The commodore had reached his eighty-third birthday. The old gentleman had remained alert and independent to the end. He had insisted on staying on in the Pass Christian Seaman’s Boarding House he’d called home for the last decade, refusing repeated offers to come to Memphis and live with his only daughter and grandson.
The real tragedy of the old man’s death, Clay thought guiltily, was that his own only hope of an appointment to the Naval Academy died with his grandfather.
Tears filling her pale eyes, Anna Knight put a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Clay, I’m so sorry. I’ve prayed every night that Papa would live long enough to help get you an appointment to Annapolis.”
“It’s all right,
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